It's the first time in months I've been out after dark, when all the cars have headlights on. It's the first time I've noticed how many LED headlights there are now. They are piercing. So I had my eyes stabbed several times, and came home remembering how pale headlights once were, and how they once had a warm, yellowish glow to them. But once the streetlights got mercury in them and turned blue, I guess it was only a matter of time before all the lights got changed. Now the blue streetlights are themselves gone, replaced by those orange sodium things. All the streets look strange to me, but the moon floats above them, changing only when the content of the air changes, but always returning to its enduring shade once wind comes and blows the sky clean. I'm grateful for the moon.
by Marvin Bell
He believes the tar pits hold bones but preserve no emotions, and he believes space is matter. He still thinks a kiss with full lips transformative, the hope of a country boy with an uncultivated heart, from the era of doo-wop and secret sex, when the music was corny, cliched and desperate like teenage love. Who now will admit that poetry got its start there, in the loneliness that made love from a song on red wax, from falsetto nonsense. Who does not know that time passing passes on sadness? A splinter of a song lyric triggers shards of memory and knots in his gut. He regrets he was lashed to the mast when the sirens called. He believes the sea is not what sank or what washes up. There are nights the moon scares him.