Louisville:
Smoky Summer Mornings. Thinly veiled. Riding into a ball of fire.
Reminded of:
Florida is on fire. Driving down from Macon to the nether regions of Georgia, the border was ever aflame. The woods were always burning.
Louisville again:
Smouldering summer days. Heat builds
and rises. The air thickens and grows hot. Heat builds and rises through the thickening air. Muscular clouds on summer evenings. All sound and fury--often signifying nothing--just as the bard said.
Louisvillle, Saturday Morning:
Hanging in the air. Suspended from ghostly hands. Yesterday you went free, wherever the wind blew. Today you lie dying in a ditch as the sun rises and your body begins to dry out and the little monsters come...
Webbed, but worldwide no more...
From Lexington KY:
The day drew down like a dying ember. A white streak on the horizon at dusk. Jet contrail streaking across the rim of the sky like a match struck on the hard edge of the day. Leaving a trail of sparks.
Wringing the last bit of light out of a cold clear sky. The day recedes. Dusk arose. Night fell.
Trip Notes
Slipping past the pyramid in Memphis at dawn. Moving toward the full moon as the quiet dark waters of the Mississippi rush underneath my wheels.
Why were Wee Willie`s Weenies Whack! (After too many hours of driving ;-}) Perhaps none desire free caps and T-shirts declaring the owner to be a big Weenie....
Rising through the air with the dawn in the Oregon Mountains. The pine tree terraced hills veiled by fog like a coy exotic dancer. The sun, her lover, piercing one veil after another, first with warmth--then with heat. Till at last as we descend through the veils to the forest floor wherein she is revealed, shiny and rough as a rocky river. The cold air grabs you like a rough lover leaving you delighted and breathless all at the same time. (in Oregon the man said I could be fined $500 for pumping my own gas...)
OLD SCHOOL....
Commuting on the Metro over the Potomac
23 July
Dancing light on crinkled water. Like paper balled up and smoothed out again. The dingy yellow light spreads a small stain on the rippled waters.
24 July
Crinkled like fine creases in smooth paper. A disturbance, wave upon wavelet. A larger movement imposes itself upon the restless waters.
25 July
Muddy swells. The wake of a long gone, passing boat trails like spittle. Dullard day. Not bright at all. A spot of floating trash presages the flotsam and jetsam to come
28 July
Early morning. At sunrise, the water is smooth as glass. A jet airplane rises throught the morning air.
30 July
The river: it sparkles near and lazes far.
1 August
Thick, ropy glass gives way to finely textured water. A street light floating in the water like a tethered star. In the morning, the water is liquid light. Fold upon fold: wave upon wave.
4 August
The glass was smoother today. More reflective. Throwing the morning sky up and back at it. The sculls pull over glassy smooth water as an indifferent sun powers its way through weak, spotty clouds.
Beware the false reflection. Mirrored shadows fade and break up. Objects tangled and jagged in the wake of things unseen.
5 August
In the half light of the coming dawn, the smoothly rippled wave—laminar flow—across the wooden bridge pilings to become frill rippled afterward. The reflections are blurred today. More like shadows then dopplegangers.
11 August
The sun is cast in molten orange. The river lies like a ribbon of silver.
15 August
A gray day. The river matches the sky. Morning mist crowded the hills. Agray, slippery sky. A day suffused with gray.
4 September
She arched her back over the rushing river, a bridge, a load bearing member, a truth.
12 September
Dawn came in ragged patches. Scattered like bits of orange glass on the gray water. Have a cup of sky, the river said. The land like an upraised palm. The river like a crease.
16 September
Slipping past the bridge at dawn. River quiet as a pool. Throwing dawn’s gray face back at it. A blood moon set . Dawn trickles orange across the light gray skies.
17 September
Daggers of light like knives slicing the water.
18 September
Impenetrable dawn, blunt as a dull knife. Blue, gray water as silent as death.
26 September
Crushed rose petals on the rim of the day. The sky comes from blood. The sea from glass. A kayaker skims across the water.
23 October
They crawl in darkness across the gun metal blue surface. Like bugs—water skeeters approaching the split lipped sky. Scullers rowing toward morning. Crew pushing toward the dawn.
31 October
It was a gauzy morning. The indifferent haze hung between the commuter train and the city. The river was glass as usual. With clear air above, the river becomes a looking glass—throwing up the reflection of the rushing train and the scurrying commuters.
18 November
Dawn came like a bruise. Where the river meets the sky at the horizon, the day is born. A wonder. Morning purple as a crushed rose. The river as calm as glass. Quiet as sleep. The sky and her twin, the river, run toward the horizon.
Where the river touches the sky, she blushes and the dawn comes.
26 November
Dawn, and the dark lip of the world is tinged with crimson.
2 December
Cracked china dawn. Colors oozing at the edges, fading to light.
You may reach me at ebonynov_69@hotmail.com
Michael Skinner
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