Blue/Orange intriguing play we saw in London years ago and grabbing drink at the pub before a different show across the street (the theaters so close at hand) I see the actor from that play run down the street amid the cars five minute til the curtain call and yell at him "you're great" he waves his hand not turning back to look but scurries on, I guess he's late.
...but mostly dark and shining blue upon the TV screen. It fascinates attracts but setting sun compels - I follow out to big round porch and open air and watch amazing skies immensely trailing clouds like plumes and yet there's something more so vast. There's always more - O'Neill says we are never satisfied. And so I leave, get gloves and coat, it's chilly out, get on my bad motor scooter and ride.
(It's just a bicycle) but all the world before me as I chase the setting sun along it's westward way. Past cars and shops and Burger King smells grand of frying food beside the Lutheran Church all filled with cars. Joanne's not there but she's a saint in heaven now just like she was on earth if that's much comfort to the ones she left behind, I guess that's all of us.
I look for alleys and passageways where cars do not exist. The little nooks that only bicycles traverse. A giant loop I travel far away then nearly home but want to see what's yond the Catholic Church and schoolyard parking lot. Across the street the vacant lot where that young priest was gardening the years away and further down the small Italianate white brick a hundred years ago and someone living there behind the sign that says for sale.
So down the crick trail way beside the schoolyard always gaining speed along the creek beneath the bridges underpass it goes by quick. And up to street again, and down an alleyway I hear the girls at play at dusk I'm like a kid again. Playing late along the streets in Michigan. I haven't thought of that in sixty years almost.That feeling, playing late and having to go home.
All cool and sweaty out of breath and running home in darkening autumn air as Tommy's mother yells for him to come and signals all of us to go so Tommy's not the only one who has to leave the yards where children play. I don't even know who those kids were or if they're still around. And nearly there as if a warp in Bill Electric/Serling ever changing space and time around us like an envelope that folds and never ends.
I'm home now and dismounting in the driveway there's a shower of feathers like a snow. The yellow cat I saw the other day, great feral beast he likes to hang around cuz no one's here. He must have kilt a bird up in the tree, I look but no, a hawk there in the yard.
He's standing there on top his kill, a smaller bird, and stabbing at it ripping bits of flesh into his beak as feathers fly about. Amazing thing, his legs so stout and sturdy like an owl almost they're white with little specks of grey. I've never seen one this up close before. If I were Native it might be a sign. So what's it mean Tom (Crowhorse) is it good or evil, is it nothing but a day in time. A hawk dismantling its prey before my eyes and setting sun.
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