Years Of Light

Flash prose

Years of light and a morning sky that sings for the next drink we know we won’t hold.

The hands were stubborn bones with fingertips that reject the frost along the rim and jagged handle.

Smoothe nails memorized circles of matter.

The liquid lacked our color. A sudsy glass washed by a tired, winded sheet.

A tavern half asleep and unserious to any clean reflection to pour over.

Unaware of our allergy to cedar.

Dancers made offerings in love, burning their old coins and full bottles before us, but we would not dare remove their masks.

Yet none followed to the empty home we borrowed. The meal you refused any memory to cooking, how the Quarter was on fire, Woman!

The humid dawn prayed for us as it spied, spitting out the last minutes of skills to learn well, in a room, dark as an expert.

The tub leaked as it ran but the bed still shook as it should. Remember the shadow that taught us to smoke rings in the blue rains like a neon dream of jazz?

Jazz from a balcony that melts away any other music but birdsong.

I spotted a wide eyed albatross residing on the lines along…my God how the street names fade after so many clocks have died of old age.

We whistled by it unmoored, before our talks to befall, London and Tokyo.

The lamps were nervous grandfathers awaiting poor news, and we stood, wrapped together like palish shells in a southern tide, foaming, as the last trumpets hidden in the brick bled quietly, to death.

Before a blush sun, I barely captured the image and movement.

A slow flash of you clever, too quick for the click of cameras.

How ancient video looks now among the science that has strangled art so strenuous, a fortissimo rodeo.

Celestial studio’s consumate performance and you would destroy it all for me to laugh at your saddest stories.

The sky asks to be alone and sing to itself. A back of stars turn from our bright eyes. We would eat them all.

To comply to the great witch, shocked in audio, the cathedral full of masks, cries like a spoiled child.

This ride will meet our capacity. We rush in hungry, offering thousands of quick thoughts paid hysteric.

Nocturne and the tax of worship, bound in midnight stereo.

Potent and smoking, we get vampiric.