pollution

 

the breaks in the violin that climb fret over fret to reach the top, they are haunting, they are shrill and bare, needy, not beautiful, no. but why beauty anyway, life is real, life is earnest, life is full and reflected on the broken fields of unrest, they want, they must, they need, they will, march pasts of detonated soldiers ticking along without a care. would you throw in bait into the mix or simply run away run away. when the sun rise shoots up expectantly into an unwary sky, dragging denatured spirits two feet alongside, hauled up, examined and found wanting in every way, but wanted, still wanted, what greater paradox than sunrise and sunset, with all those breaths in between, dispersed evenly on roads, houses, buildings, narcotics and tears. A breath of wind swirls it all up and flings them labors of love around, like poison into eternity, like painting black on black, if you believe in sunrise, you must watch it set every day until it is beaten out of you. some are smart enough to set quietly in a few evenings, some struggle uphill for years swinging from side to side, insensible to the autism that puddles around the arc, searching, foothill to foothold to fool's gold, its midday and getting oh so hot in here, maybe air conditioning is the answer to everything