The monolith and the monster ballad


Is it hard to love? The long road on which there shall
be no parking at anytime also cannot define gravity
albeit denser and more shallow and also spattered with
lights. Even in Einstein sitting quietly is distance
and sitting louder against the woods is some miles
more. Filters can pill those bitter arid notes on a
guitar. Though sometimes at night you come upon that
curve behind thickening trees where broadway's video
pollution bends to your heels shuffling elyria ave
pebbles ahead of you for breadcrumbs. Life's most
magnificent wonder is god's mercy it says. Sure but i
never want to be perfect. Leave me alone you'd say
i'll just die and everyone would be better off would
go the outer shirt but where would i put my cigarettes
i think i'm being crushed. Would it be hard to evolve?
That night it dipped below 40. You saunter through the
curl behind sheffield centre. Dips in the road studded
with neon delicate and jutting fold your shadow into
curbs to protect it from these cannibal streetlights
in which your mother's silences listen as you silk
past the mill undetected but for this. The skunk pads
swiftly across your path. That might be how neal
cassady died. Just dropped in to see what condition my
condition was in. Oh, the yellow placards denoting wet
floor the soundtrack with the gain all the way down
the islets of shadows trees make on the sidewalk after
midnight after midnight the down the street the down
on all four! It threatened rain both of those days but
it never did and now it's clear to everyone breathing
the same old exhaust you look up from walking held to
earth and some lawns unowned are allowed to grow wild.
I'm just relieved to be able to crack my knuckles
again. Two deer chasing safety under streetlights
pothol'd with silk lisps and empty aftermidnight
concrete through which these veins of stress and
trembling run. One day our core will cool. Do you find
it difficult to stripe across pavement that way? A
woody smear of burn turns onto reid ave a wallowing in
learnedness where birdhouses look like pallid floating
faces in the dark. There you're humming a monster love
ballad for the universe. The highs wash over you
swallow the walls and shit light back at the moon the
lows traul o'neil blvd for wombs to angel and crave
vertices to the pit of their mantles. You'll fracture
your hands pouncing and skimming through dense grasses
trying to grasp what has always and ever been void.
And on those nights clouds crazed the sky like a
history of pressure pressed in rock? Then the
headlights trouble you the newest churches calmly
sleep as you pass by.


Lewis LaCook
Director of Web Development
Abstract Outlooks Media

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