At the intersection of 40th and Locust, I found myself at
an intersection. It is the intersection of 40th and Locust.
Where have I found myself here before? Surely, I’ve seen it
in a dream. With grey signs in the night sky, cold mosquitos itching
at my skin, I took my hand out of my pocket and reached for
It fell on my lap, like I could willed the fall of the sky. And here,
I was presented with the decision to control the sky.
I could let it fall, like it befell me, or I could lift it up, like Atlas
guiding me towards revenge. The choice was too tempting
to forget about the sky, but the sky stared starry-eyed
at my face. Even when I wasn’t looking, it continued to stare
at me like an antelope slurping up water from a lake.
I never saw the color of its pupils; I only saw the color
of clay. It is red, like loom, fruity like coffee from the tropics.
What keeps us alive? Is it the warm sensation of rain
dripping down our backs? Is it the locution reminding us
that we are surrounded by others, that eventually we would
find someone that makes takes the other out of another?
It seems so strange that the world was built this way. Another
color the world could have been was red.
I want a red world, but I found myself on a blue marble.
It hurts to watch the sky ask me for forgiveness, just as
it was to watch the sky exist at all. Why is the sky blue?
It would be so much easier to view it as a void. I prefer a
black space to a blue sky. It seems far more appropriate.
If the night sky was an absence of light, wouldn’t it
be more prettier,
be more precious
if it found itself another home?