Sparks

The sirens and the horns howled like wild electric wolves running down from the mountains to mate and feed.

A pigeon sat in a red traffic light on a sunny winter day in East Hollywood and nearly nobody noticed the beauty and the art of her silhouette. It ran in my mind like vines on an old brick house, slowly pulling away the mortar. Until the only thing standing was a memory, like long strands of DNA going back generation after generation and—for now—still stronger than computer code.

Rhythmically tapping, the fuzz and the rattle of the collective sings in my head, turning sparks into emotions and emotions into postures and postures into stories that release themselves back into the universal mind to be heard again like a distant radio station that’s not quite strong enough.

I sit on the floor in a room of furniture knowing, if all else fails, we can hide in the wind.

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1 Comment

  1. Cara said,

    March 3, 2015 at 12:15 pm

    I like this


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