Gontiti is roasting in a coconut on the beach. That beach is close to me, close to the paintings of roaring 1920s Manhattan that go right along those of the beach houses and classy one-piece bathing suit bathing beauties.
That guy is cool in his tight-fitting black polo shirt. Look at that guy stride in his khaki shorts and short-sleeved over shirt, hair blown back on edge. Down the escalator in front a man with hands trenched in the front pouch of his hoodie. Pay no mind to the security guard except when he gives that look, telltale of a unique traveler somewhere in our midst.
She leapt; her tight fist the fulcrum on the smudgy chrome guardrail. Her face was an electric anxiety, concentrated as her acrobatic arc. She was the chased, but her passion was self-burst fulmination self-contained – she herself, and only her, gave reason for this Olympian intensity. The Race was hers, her flow on the cusp of the indefinite. Starless hair waft up with the drag of her drop - she freely fell into another picture, the sky blue of her top away from view.
An engine of great resonance, with five increments. Call it the ceremony drum, priming the empty mind for a launch. One hum, it roots into your spine. Two hums, spirit limbs hug the body to the neck. Three hums, it unites with the air that inflates your lungs. Four hums, it affixes your eyes to Alpha Centauri. Five hums, Renaissance tenfold.
No comments:
Post a Comment