Bare Trees

09.07.08

I end up then in the early light, and walk underneath arcs of ice and lay down on sheets of moving air. This crisp cold morn. smells of sunken watermelon and the lament of unproven prophecies. Under golden arches of arboreal grand boulevards I scuff or walk. Into the crowd ahead with all the bombers in bed then I look up a bit. The blast is true as the sun breaks the clouds and the movement scatters as light across violent purple water. I duck into the doorway of ruin and leave at the slight hint of pepper. It's where I come from that seeps the ever rising flood of nothing and my hands bleed from buildin up on the levee. And so with my spangled stars of vacuumed thought I talk to an Arab who walks with a cane. Talkin bout the dream. Talkin' bout the dream and how you've got to keep dreaming it even when you wake up. An imposs'ble ritual of silence that calls out our names. Who'd be crazy enough to play the game, to walk straight out into the storm with just shoes on. The look in the Arabs eyes is as if he'd walked a thousand miles to get to that very spot. He walks away and I see that his shoes are filled with blood. His own. A brass wind blows down from the sky as I turn my head to the rim of the expressionless towers. A scraggly sea of leaves falls to the street. And they shake and they twist before they hit. They hit my shoes and my head. They create a whirlpool above the manhole and the trees light up along the boulevard forever and ever in the distance as far as there are trees. There's something in the way around here. It can't be seen or heard. It just follows me and it never stops. Behind me I hear a loud thud. Breath stops. I turn round with a weak and unbelievable smile t' see. I just jumped out of the window. Everyone kinda just walks by.