The soothsayer told of this night. When the ashen grey orange sky would conceal the promise of a blood red moon like the tidal warnings before dead fish float belly up. Smiling heads rolled down the palace steps for fear of this night. A nocturnal blood letting. The owls keep their wits about them tirelessly scanning 360 while clamped to branches of trees in quiet woods. Not here too much construction, the cranes towering and lit up festivities, the crowds roaring, the owls flee for fear of burst ear drums, of course the city does not care and will progress beyond your needs and desires regardless if they are satiated or listened to. The owl wants silence for peaceful reverie. Mournful train whistle wants a concave surface to bounce off. The irregularities of an acoustic triangulated cement block horse shoe half circle, then the three sisters, the embarrassed flattened top of one who had the shortest temper, trees have not grown back in certain faux snow regions melted down and turned to timber for the paper stock in which the green peace records are kept in filing cabinets made out of blue whale esophagus, the spears twirling through the air like barbaric rituals that everyone is gullible to believe happen elsewhere like the savage world that can exist within dreams, that unflattering naked Freud all hunched over his wife with a quizzical expression because although sex he is tackling his own spiritual desires… otherwise known as a bad kisser. the reputation worn like a coat that shrinks if worn too long, becomes a second skin. so many layers like graffiti painted over old graffiti until the wall is too thick and the city must remove layers with non toxic solution and scrubbing labor workers with particulate masks to protect pink lungs from becoming green, purple, black, orange.
The moon up there is implied. Animals all run away from the East and burrow when the bloody moon arcs its lonely parabolic expression into the space immediately above their furry heads, the zenith, like that lofty ambition to travel to Europe with a few extra arms, a waterproof camera and documentary, the Italian dance music scene, with orchestration like that of a feel good soundtrack. Wagner made it with minor keys. Einstein made it relatively. Adventure enticed them into heights of spectral navigation the likes of which I’ve only glimpsed. The cloud shadow of a darkly implied blood moon. Oh the desire to see to soak and bask and dance in my own red cells glimmering out of my pores like a flushed shameful friend admitting the rumor mill produced a rare truth, like the churning up of old conventional method, the pouring out of mulch from the fruit stand rot, the lemonade stand time stamp and highway sign clock, fifty cents at our humble stop due to the danger of our exposed backs. Red grey clouds cover the impressed beauty. A veil, a gossamer veil, concealing the truth like a summer dress. Those intricate floral twists and turns to distract the eyes of passersby from the shapely young maiden beneath, who keeps to herself on cloudy days and glares unremittingly on anyone deemed unnecessarily loud on the tram, the max, the metro, the taxi cab blaring honk tunes to the nausea of tone deff conductors with ambidextrous show off orchestral pits, masked up and glorified Joyce, I feel your pity in the nape of my neck like a sharpened training collar meant to pierce me through and through as in a glorified altar state, with the iconic little glasses and cornea issues proud and recurrent like a naive medical student who faints at the sight of an opened up chest, but the bible says, the bible says that to open your heart is a beautiful flooding valley and the cries are not cries of apocalyptic fear but of joyful rapture, sucked up into the red blood sky moon, raptured like a good pious vacuum, those sins warned superstitious and exiled from the impulsive nature of the self of man before named man and women before men named all men men in history texts instead of gender neutrality which is not even the point to begin with. Forget it. All is lost. The moon is flushed with an angry passion. Like Dad when he is frustrated out of his whits in second attempt to fix the VCR. When those existed and the speed of technology no longer sold whiplash xanax dramamine anti-suicide pills to our sleeping and corrugated flesh. our stained flesh. with weighted florid heights and a lack of mutual respect. It must be because I have a window and sit naked in the illumined sphere above pretending to float.