The night sky was faintly white with the white of
the moon shining dimly down like a dying flashlight -
one small opossum stuttered with albino eyes and giant
rat tail before sauntering off to his dirty hole behind
the air-conditioner. Birds rustle the leaves and awaken
the silence of the night - the eerie silence in the city
one can catch at certain undisclosed times awakened like
a meadow at noon by the quiet songs of birds with
undisclosed names. The wind is artificial in this
brief flash of night time mercy stirred by the fans
on the porch, artificial but still comforting on the hot
night air. It's past the time of crickets and their
string section accompaniment of the percussion of frogs
and the winds of chimes and cardinals. The squeeze-box
sound of cicadas eludes me too this soft August night -
how many sounds do I not hear because I'm not listening
closely enough? What is the sound of the beetle tapping
its hard feet on the wet brick? Does the belly of the
snail rub itself against the concrete like a washboard?
No? We can imagine. He may create a layer of silver
film between himself and the ground he slides over like a
wet banana slide in the wet yard. The sound of the cars
passing over the bridge on the interstate annoys most moments
with its loud noise-machine white roar, but tonight the
distant waterfall sound is nostalgic in its own ancient way.
The renaissance is around the corner but scoffed at by the
stoned local intellectuals; the flibbertigibbets of our
bored apathetic been-there done that it has no meaning or
influence in my life X generation. The label is not a
misnomer though maybe due to the predestination problem.
Did the label cause itself to not be a misnomer, or was
it actually originally accurate? Yeah, who cares. Jack Bauer
doesn't concern himself with the past only how to move
forward. I'm stuck in a ditch outside staring at the
white light of the moon watching slugs wriggle down my
nose wondering how I got here - so I can get back -
oblivious to the exit sign on my right of my daughter's
ocean eyes and my son's gaping grin and my wife's sober
hand held out reaching through the muck like through a
dirty lake...
5.25.09
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