City streets interweave, create vivid spiderwebs of intersections. funneled in directions, passengers hum to their car stereos, windows tight-avoid eye contact at red lights.
The greenery, planted by hand-pruned,picked,groomed to tasteful lengths and shapes.
Rawness of life has been sucked from pavement to mall to simple interaction. Characters, loud and boisterous, display themselves like spectacles, Godless.
Faint whispers faint connections, draw themselves between two ilands, and the heart reaches out one bare pinky, to test the connection.
A woman without a land, a home, walking empty handed with a frail purpose of a destination bumps into strangers, flustered, holding back her desire to mumble. Navigating situation like a deer, looking for shadows to step to. Soulmate, where are you in this destitute place, full of pilgrims, rebellions, and carnivorous snakes? Hand dropping clumsy from her pocket, woman wipes the remnants of her cold on her sleeve yet absentmindedly wonders what the depth and breadth of love is. She wanders back to her vehicle in a crowd of everyone going somewhere, and presses the skip button on the radio repeatedly. Dissatisfied and aware of the pain of strangers- her vision too blurry to see the crispness of summer explosions of color. She drives for the next best thing to fill the place between herself and everything she hopes to be. Finds herself at a house she has a key to and invites herself in. dirty plates like rustled feathers, old lifeless items lacking memory, and a guitar that is missing a string. At the sight she breathes, run to where the sun glows brighter, where the night is full of harmonious belly laughs. The thought leaves her glassy eyed in a wondrous stare.
“That’s where the money is.” said the poet to the mason, who repeated those same words to a cargo loader, who told a fish, who carried those same words to an isle 3 oceans away, where it was over heard by a musician with too many children and a bad case of gout. They all came swarming like a troublesome band, yet the gayest sort, patting each other on the back and bellowing notes of celebration. Kissing ladies as they passed by, they arrived, wide eyed with expectancy- willing to lay down their tools, their peasant life, for a more esteemed way. Harps were exchanged for suit ties, craft tools for 401ks, fishing poles for bank accounts. An exchange was an upgrade, of status, of pleasure, of taste. Time waxed on. Fluorescent lights burnt out and were replaced, paper clips were reordered, and computers upgraded. Numbed by power, and clocks, and scheduled spare time, swiping of cards, and BMWs, the musician, mason, and cargo loader were swept into the sea of Jones vs. Jones. Outlived by their forgotten friends carpenter, painter, and country cook, who all lived by a strict yet simple philosophy. They were always especially certain to dance with their wives before going about their daily duties, counted what they had-caring little for what they had not, took their sweet time, and always said amen.
Tis more than a likely tale.