Thursday, September 13, 2012

Writing Home

fifty two.

Here's the thing about it Daddy,

I watch from high up on
The mean red mountain that peers over the skyline,
To watch the city.
I watch the city from there and

This heart beats heavy over the bridge
I see her mean red
Sunset lit skin 
Rise up behind a lego skyline.

The whole city expand and contract and cave in on her self
And throw her head back and show me her naked chest
Thick and knotted up with street veins pumping taxis 
To the time of that beet red beat.

On the edge of the divide,
I throw some perfectly good things into the water
I hardly know why. 

I throw inanimate objects or an inanimate friend or an animate one
Or something similar
Into the water
Until my pockets are empty, and my hands
Catch a little of that red light bouncing off the city.

Then the fresh start:
I collect other things from this place, things somebody else let go.
Because they're sad sitting there in the water and they probably think they're flying.

I think I'm not yet like a person who's got a home.

Then the other thing is
I'm the air daddy,
I'm the hot thick summer air 
Growing through all these tight uncomfortable streets
And the people look like melted gold

I collect them streets like little toys up out the water
In the way that I lose them as I go

And between the houses and around the corners I'm running from them
Running like mad, invisible
Strangling them as I go
Make sure everybody got to swim or float
More so then fly

I hate that hateful air, daddy.
She thinks she own the red road
She thinks she can just wait out everybody with her angry hot stench
That makes people glow
That makes the city this sleek slick oil

But she's me or a part of me somehow.
And sometimes she thinks there isn't a soul in this place got a home,

Just a timber building front
On the ghost town set of a new frontier. 

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