Sooths

I saw the Saturday Evening Ghost. She plays the cello for a band called Iso Principle.

I learned that an airplane that has slowed down in it's assent does not cease to fly.

balls of fire burning in the blackspace

Imagine for a second a river of fire.
You've probably thought of something like a river a lava. That's not what I want exactly. That's really just a river of rock. Really hot rock, and it is sometimes on fire, but it's not quite a river of fire.
Now, imagine a river of fire. A river of flames. It rushes and roars like a jet engine. Buffeted from side to side by the rocks. The torrent of fire rushes along the winding floor of the canyon. Wide curves seem to be straining to hold the fire in it's path while sharper corners violently deflect and redirect the river int a new direction. From above, the chared rock and soot that extend halfway up the canyon walls make the canyon look deeper than it really is. The river is brilliant red against the black backdrop, but in the sunlight it seems to flicker. The smell of burning permeates everything, and the breeze dose not drive it away. At night, though, the wind shifts, bringing sweet. The dirtiness of the soot is invisible in the black of the night and the clouds all around are lit by a red glow from below. The river is a ribbon of violent red weaving through the canyon bellow and eventually out of sight around a bend. Whatever the river does not illuminate is pure darkness.

The Riddle

I got two strong arms.
Blessings of Babylon time to carry on
and try for sins and false alarms
so to American the brave wise man save.

Near a tree by a river there's a hole in the ground.
Where an old man of iron goes around and around.
And his mind is a beacon in the veil of the night.
For a strange kind of fashion there's a wrong and a right
But he'll never never fight over you.

I got time to kill.
Sly looks in corridors without a plan of yours.
A blackbird sings on bluebird hill.
Thanks to the calling of the wild
wise mens child.

I got plans for us
Nights in the scullery
And days instead of me
I only know what to discuss
Oh, for anything but light
Wise men fighting over you

It's not me you see.
Pieces of valentine
And just a song of mine.
To keep from burning history
Seasons of gasoline and gold
Wise men fold.

Near a tree by a river there's a hole in the ground.
Where an old man of iron goes around and around.
And his mind is a beacon in the veil of the night.
For a strange kind of fashion there's a wrong and a right
But he'll never never fight over you.

I got time to kill.
Sly looks in corridors without a plan of yours.
A blackbird sings on bluebird hill.
Thanks to the calling of the wild
wise mens child.

The View from Aloft

It's all about the mountain. I always said it was. Beside the mountain there is nothing. It doesn't matter if you go up, live there, or dig caves into it where bears live. The mountain is all that there ever was. And all that will remain after. I have always said that. There is nothing that compares to it, nothing that can take it's place, and nothing more important. If I say so, why is it that I do not go up? Character.

The world's your oyster shell, so what's that funny smell. You eat the bivalve anyway, you're sick with salmonella. Get your PhD, how happy you will be when you get a job at Wendy's and are honored with employee of the month.

Ripe with things to say, but the words rot and fall away.