”The path to Stony Creek is so obscure that when I show you how to get there, you'll be the first person who has stood there since the turn of the 20th century. The bottles are weathering into the sides.”

.

All the pigeons are in the sun. All the assembled pigeons on the wall. The shattered glass of the bubble enclosing the escalator down to the subway looks like sun glinting on water, and the buildings are shining tall. All the feathers of the pigeons are puffed and the birds are huddled. The birds know where to be for now.

.

becomingunparallel (or Don't Cross Me, Love)

River trail, train track, river --
parallel, parallel, parallel.
The consequence of becomingunparallel
would be shattering.

-------------

Not Quite

"Uh, we need two tickets. How much is it?"
"Where you going?"
"Oh, East Market."
"Market East?"
"Yeah, Market East."
"One way?"
"Yeah, two ways."

Someone made a thing that does nothing but spin when the wind is channeled along curved copper blades. It spins all day long on the corner by the kitsch shop and grinds no grain and moves no water and butterfly-effects nothing in the world that I know of. That I know of. In the world that I know of.

A mural at Market East Station that you go so slowly by on the escalator calls up images of coal miners with their lunches and their boots. It's of passengers standing with their boots near the floor where the first bricks and mortar were stacked long ago.

I'm trying to type "Accustaffing interview" into the calendar in my phone, and predictive text causes me to type "Skywriting interview." Do I have the constitution to fly in the face of that suggestion?

Finally I can stand, eye-level with the signs, in a second-floor window in an old part of the city, where the streets are narrow and the neon leans toward the neon and the walls lean toward the walls. The glass alone seems flat and upright.

The orange and silver train from my premonition of seven years past waits to draw me over rust and iron bridge across the wide river and under the sky glittering with birds and through the suburbs to a new job in the city. I reject a row of things to tell him. "Every kiss is like the first" falls like a target spun by a bb gun. "You make me happy ( Read more... )

I spent half my salary to not work there anymore. This is my receipt: It's Sunday and I want Chinese, but my companion is asleep, so I doze in a chair by the window, letting the sunshine cause orange light to bloom behind my eyelids, parsing the difference among craving szechuan, imagining how szechuan tastes and tasting szechuan. The difference in ( Read more... )

I've brainstormed all morning on my financial situation and come up with this: I'm going to live on oatmeal and green beans. [beat] Yeah, I'm going to have to grab the oatmeal and green beans and run really fast, though.