the sky bleeds cornflower blue perfectly like that crayola color. we wait in waiting; we sit and fall sleepy in fall-fever season. smoking cigarettes against our better judgment there’s a thought of calm anticipation, like one or both of us has a dream or many and it’s just a matter of time until the new moon comes up in the right sign or an anonymous benefactor dotes on us or we reach the perfect threshold of substances, laughter, or musing.
the sky is puffing indigo and the question comes up of joint fire or double-helix power and captain planet makes me chuckle. the crickets really begin to speak now at twilight and although their song makes perfect sense, it’s not of our language and the tragedy is that like all other beauty in this world the translation is transitory. forgotten as soon as the babel fish bloops it out.
now the sky is seething, floating in royal blue and although the silence and breathing is lapping over and under there’s a dis-settlement, as though we aren’t meant to be here under the blue but instead under the red, fire sky, scratched up by black obsidian, a different breed of locust calling out not to us at all, laughing and scoffing at that gall of ours to sing back.
it would be the same there too.