It's some kind of garden, up from potholes and ruts, up from ruinations and beauty slots, up from the danger storm lids, up from the unhidden power grids, what kind of garden is it we have been born to?
This here, now, is our season. Reason it, angel or devil, rationale of pure distilled spirit. When I walk the city I walk as a radio receiver. Some kind of osmosis being. My pores inhale what I see. I hear what I see. I hear the music of the painted alley. Pure kinetic skeleton, I hear the painted love messages, anonymous, deeply felt.
On the door of the painted alley hidden, there might be a private message of love, for you.
What is this osmosis garden we inhabit?
Every old love affair returns to the atmosphere in autumn, falling like found doorway paint.
(What is flesh, what is kindness, what is connection?)
This here now is our season. Reason it not, we are made of the bones of moments.
(Photo by Susan)