There are some exceptionally pallid evenings just after the big hot egg yolk above has been done for hours flinging parabolically and is ready to settle down as if with a good, good book, or in a billowing hammock of the western mountains, or a quiet sojourn after a large meal, and is solaced with light streaks of beet roots and in some cloudier parts of the sky marbled with dollops of pink bubblegum, as if being chewed ever so slowly.
And then there is this utmost frightful silence–palpable, like the taste of a wooden stick on the back of your tongue, and God is telling you to open up and say ahhh–and the only extraordinarily vain thought that is allowed to enter your paralysed circuit board is how lovely the smell of bitter juniper and spruce, such a beautiful eyesore that amiable Jackson Pollock sky. These all combine to mirror the moment that the universe was seethed, and how it must have racked its silent brain cave as to how it would like to present itself in front of its dusty progenies, each eve, for eternity and onward–this resurgence of fire against the cooling east–and yet we still have the audacity to compare this one to that one, to retouch the red sky that melts to brown like chemicals in a gutter. We’re little pettifoggers with our own distinct pair of reflectors and our hearts strung up like little toy airplanes on a mobile.
It is only our shift to watch over the long teal eastern, with clouds as easy riders, clouds as spindrifters, clouds as a glass of spilled milk.
This is only our first and certainly most ungraceful dance to the best fucking jazz we’ve ever heard.