By Will Bulka
I lit the moonlight lamps along side the ocean's curve as dying light was resurrected by poets on fire, burning love down and dancing with God. Who is that? Who is that down from the heat, holding hands with shadows alone by the tide? It's my friend, Jonathan Running Sun, standing inside the color between purple and blue with a match, waiting for the graveyard dancer and his new priesthood to arrive.
Listen for the instability of this moment. The tuning of the ivory is only to midnight and the twilight tones. Nocturnes written in F# sweeping minors gently lull me to sleep, carry me through time across the colonization of consciousness over the wishing wells and the casting of spells on dreams of others beneath, barely breathing on the ground.
There, sprawled about beneath the music is Lisa the contagious. Next to her lay our after school specials, her ripped bra, and in her pocket, an envelope. An envelope with a letter addressed to me that I lost in a portage long before the colors eclipsed each other and long before the evenings turned to Inisfire. I remember the nights spent with the trains, their dependency on the humming of the tracks, the vibration of the sidewalk chalk and the homeless men who recall when they were me and I was too young to understand what paradigm meant.
Warmth, death, through the theatre she crept. This is the theologian's thicket of thought. Shyly, insecurities dress up in blue wigs and walk on sticks made of fables. The procession of thought has no conductor and we have to wash this to get it back to white.
Ink from the pools of childhood that gave color to emotion that brushed the memory whose mist I can now feel dampening my skin. Goodnight man with stones, goodnight notes on Christmas trees, goodnight scary furnaces, goodnight Clear Lake, goodnight Dorothy, goodnight empty buildings, goodnight light.
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