Not the steady red blink at land’s tip letting the plastic sea-men know the lines they must hull between only,

Not the coughed-up cloud intertwixt the trees, who frowns with doughy cheeks and eyes empty, juiced and lonely,

Not the primal drum landslide preluding the cartwheel of the thunderstorm’s tumbling dance, which stirs the wet-faced people below between their rusted and silver stone cars,

Not a purple-gold urchin spherically jetting into eight simultaneous corners of space, letting the sea-blackness glitter with life that beats once then fades to feed the sidewalk stars,

Not a lost-and-found mother exploding once at the sight of her grown-up failure blooming, twice at the reprise of love that strikes her from behind on the road to a new escape, flips her dusty fender right around and shoves her headfirst into the sun, too quickly to grab a fresh carton of youth in the hair care aisle,

None of the above

But a cold wind and a party over the city that doesn’t end.

Image credit:

By Holger.Ellgaard – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0,


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