Still Life With Motion

The Sun burst open. it was 6:00 am

nature held itself in a limbo of grace

earthly objects took on an otherworldly sort of poise. 

the boughs curved to protect their sky. The skies curved in turn, to protect the boughs that framed them

the colors of the city had names all their own. mauve became towers, shadow became faun, sky became parades, grass became known, and trees became shift and switch and suede. tiny playthings of homes swooned to the harmony of their own artificial being  

the sun shone as if through a prism. But it was only eyes, bloodshot corona, white light showing itself for what it was

fractioned white, the sun's crown. the blades beam under the beams with pride

the light had already begun to change. the little people lived their little lives. the blades twitched, the microscopic ornaments churned the earth so we could marvel and stir at the way the green stands in dirt like a moving ocean. the cosmos played its part in our game of what we choose to see

human beings basked in the luxuriousness of their own confusion

"A little poison now and then: that makes for agreeable dreams. And much poison in the end, for agreeable death. " - Nietzsche

the city stood proud of itself. nature lent its hand, and the city gave it back. at least as far as the eye and the lens are concerned

even darkness when it fractured the light had something to say, in its own way, it greeted the day as the day turned dusk and the golds yellowed and the greens greyed. The dark did not swallow the day, it is summer after all, even in San Francisco, and the strange musings of the night do not rob the day of its light, but lend a hand to its preternaturalness, in which we so take part and joy

monuments, pictures seen again and again, somehow shown in a different light. because the light was different, and even those stupid famous houses shined

 attempting to affect the dimension of things, to reach in and screw the ontological bolts and buttons of the scales amount to no more than semblance, and seemed to have no effect but to increase the sublimity.

"He's a survival artist, an expert in disguise and deception. He commanded his own agents and organized and carried out his own operations." 

and then for a time, the sublime reigned, and the pieces rested where they knew they fit best, where they knew they would never be quite so well again. dance of sunbeams, transportation of words combined, blue moon in a bottle with smattering of red gone leathered and green gone gold. light unbounded except by what makes it more creative. identity unrestrained

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