In the city that I live in there is a firework school. This means that sometimes you turn your head and everything is dark. It is so dark that flashes of light flare up from the streetcars as they make their ever less frequent stops to the houses by the woods, to the abandoned factories that serve as party warehouses, to the basement where nobody saw it coming. These flashes are so brief that you do not notice them among the orgy of light that is suddenly ravishing the sky, in shades of violet prepubescent enough that you do not suspect the incendiary shock it sends to nightgazers whose eyes have just dimmed (a recovery from addiction to nocturnal explosions.)
In the city that I live in there is local pride for a peculiar kind of graffiti named after the impossible plural of a vegetable which has nothing to do with blue, red, or the bodies in the street.
In the city that I live in there is a girl who was 23 years old. She had long blonde hair and eyes that earned her the nickname “mooneyes” from only Marvin.
In the city that I live in we like parades. Every Monday we have a parade. It goes right past the theater that I worked in up until last June. Sometimes I would go, and sometimes I would rush home past the parade so that I could still get the streetcar when it was running.
The streetcar runs across a bridge. When the parade gets too celebratory, the police close this bridge. It is for the safety of everyone involved.
In the parade no tic-er-tape is thrown because people care about the environment. People care about the environment more than a lot of things here.
In the parade people hold crosses. Someone explained to me that it’s not really a Christian thing since people have no history of it in this city, it is just a tradition, and it belongs mainly to the dead.
In this city there is a way of saying that you don’t go to the parade on Monday. The way of saying it is to not say anything at all mostly.
It is such a beautiful silence. In this silence I suspend myself from a string and lilt idly between air and water. It is terrible to imagine the element that is anathema to both, so instead I imagine the ways in which strong teeth can slowly grind anything to dust.
In this silence I see the moon, but normally it is blue or red this time of year, they say.
In this city the firework students are praised not only for the breadth, height, and duration of their creations, but also for the context, the scope, and the ramifications of their sis!boom!ba!s. For instance a white firework that swallows a thousand subdued spectra: the perceived illumination through blindness is equal to the fall-out of subsequent coupon dividends per gratis you could say
For instance it is so dark that the flares that cry up in the night that are swallowed by an indifferent night do not even register on the registrar’s inventory.
In the parade there are many different people, but most of them are angry. They come together to celebrate this anger, and adopt the signs that used to belong to the dead. Some of these are crosses and some are broken, and the police form careful circles around them in order not to disturb the antidote for theater.
In this city are many bridges, and one of them is old. Its buckling blue frame bows to the river below in stoic solidarity with a wonder now nomenclature. Every part of its besieged girth serves to support the monotony of traffic and ill-fated dreams.
The streetcar bisects these dreams into coastal transmissions, sometimes blurring the present with the slow cross-over from yellow to black which shuttles the people home with their heads helplessly rotating over all looped telephone circuits.
In the black there is a light, and it is 23 years falling from the moon.
In this city there are those who say that they will not go to the parade. They say that the silence is beautiful but still they would like to press together deflated wheels and screech out a dying melody about the man who rode
The streetcar stood in static ceremony as he spoke to no one other than the motherland that would not accept the tongue that identified the enemy and how it came in flexible rubber and how he would show her and without shame he would because he knew where it came from the thin partition of black and yellow he knew that it rode the same waves as so many unlucky boats and how who would hit shore if not he and he would have no shame because she the whore that separated would rather role in the rockbed of what came to split the back of his throat was not the word erect it was they who could not look on but he had no shame as he spoke to no one through the thin partition of glass between the streetcar andthe black there of shipwreck coastal transmissions do not reach across to tell who is flaring up a blaze that will be swallowed by the indifferent nightgazer who has a local pride for not being able to tell to the sky that the water is and it is a pride that extends over the ocean to everything because everyone can turn their head and he has no shame if he could he would fuck her in front of all the apologizers because he alone has the balls to pound his oh god he asks and he asks and
who can look him in the eyes
who can look him in the eyes
who can look him in the eyes
and I couldnot look as the moon fell to earth and not off a bridge but a roof and no one said it was falling
She was 23, and she had long blond hair and eyes that
and only Marvin said
you are 26, and you have half long blond hair but you shaved half off because your eyes seeing the potential energy forgiven its trajectory found that heat could flare up at any time given the
suicide of the one true astronaut.
In this city there is a new bridge, that some people screamed against, but not enough. It tore its way across what was not only sky but water and it flares up so brightly that no bat in the dark would dare to tear it assunder. They deflect and are gone, as the bridge comforts itself in its red, there it lies, the blue, and o god there lie the ***
in the parade there was a firework school and they
cared about the environment more than the soft thud of empty lifevests bleached white and sterile through washing against the now bone-denier coathanger and just tell me if they
can look him in the *
(in this city
that I live in I want to get to across the bridge but it has been closed by the police and I am 26 and your blood
is all over my hands)
In this city there is a music dissonant and bright, but its prebubescence precludes the speed at which all other things rush to the darknestleyourteeth in the heat dust of the fire brigade will be here to dampen what we will forever pretend can not be distinguished from myth.