Impressions on January 12, 2011

Walking home in dark the lamps through skeletal branches, silhouetted on snow, all turned pink and orange with light pollution, the pink and orange covers up the gray snow of weeks and salt, where the six and seventeen swing by, spilling people into the streets.  But it feels like walking in sand, twisting limbs slipping through the biting night-cold.

Over the hill and far away I see the signs, the lights of food and beauty and medicine and entertainment, where they flow in like Romero's animated remains, where I always want to poke the people sleeping on benches to see if they're alive.

And I make pilgrimages too, here to the shiny place of buying, and I leave feeling satisfied and dirty, dirty and satisfied with the strange ecstasy of release, the ecstasy of acquisition too, arms weighed down with goods, and bads, and sometimes uglies.  Bam! Bam! western showdown's made of money and so much flammable celluloid.

So I come home to old wood, old books (poems, chiefly lyric) coffee AND tea, to unload all of my treasures, conquests, beauties, finds and bargains. Tell myself next time no I said no I won't no, and know that it's a lie, burning to take in just a bit more.