Lyric atmospheric
Posted: December 6th, 2008, 3:11 pm
Crest and watch buff rock lay out, longsuffering lyric of atmosphere, each strain, rift and current a potential defining storm in a calm super cell. Deep time. Read space, measure its measureless face against something known, a road sign punctured by buckshot on glow, spinning under blue and then black and no breath. Ear-shattering quiet... "AUSTIN-- 149 MI". Potential runs to a thin ribbon and peace reclines on a leaning sign ruined by a shotgun.
Sun is spray-painted, must be dust. Why is a country mile long? You see them end to end plain as day unless dust is up that day. A city mile is long. Empires occupy mere blocks and crossing them may take years off your life. Look for the right storm without a sky and vertical canyons of religion. The wrong door could mean a hundred years, and that's longer than a country mile. You can't run to strata, you have obligations, and the desert shrinks anyway, spreading over fresh blacktop foothills. I must be home.
Odd, the switch from one side of a ridge to the other, on the last dry-boned spine I stumbled up. I may have drifted too far west and the mountain is nearly gone. Light storms press down and no one can withstand that intensity, arid-pure, though it eases into a roundscape descending vague and soft on my right, as here appears from there. I see myth curving down. On my left I see speckles on a valley floor. Someone keeps a light on. I must be home, dead mountain and living rock, lyric atmospheric.
Sun is spray-painted, must be dust. Why is a country mile long? You see them end to end plain as day unless dust is up that day. A city mile is long. Empires occupy mere blocks and crossing them may take years off your life. Look for the right storm without a sky and vertical canyons of religion. The wrong door could mean a hundred years, and that's longer than a country mile. You can't run to strata, you have obligations, and the desert shrinks anyway, spreading over fresh blacktop foothills. I must be home.
Odd, the switch from one side of a ridge to the other, on the last dry-boned spine I stumbled up. I may have drifted too far west and the mountain is nearly gone. Light storms press down and no one can withstand that intensity, arid-pure, though it eases into a roundscape descending vague and soft on my right, as here appears from there. I see myth curving down. On my left I see speckles on a valley floor. Someone keeps a light on. I must be home, dead mountain and living rock, lyric atmospheric.