Accusations Of The Wind

…the reason for the organ was that church was in session, overlooking Devonbridge, facing west and to the north and south as well, clouds rolling in, but that’s all that was happening there in the steeple, the Presidio, opera of city sounds, thoughts of Barnaldo, wanting to hold on to them, keep them since Bob would not be able to apologize until he saw him again, hoping he would rest in peace instead of pieces, wanting peace but seeking violence, Rasta Man Bob Marley would take it way easy mon, the sounds of rustling leaves on trees dried to a November brown, worrying the full moon in Scorpio and the dying grass, still green from autumn rain, following a snowstorm and grauple, twigs of the sky, the man in the orange ski cap and green sweater riding by, Bob wishing he were in the mountains, looking out over a cliff, dreaming of television and

… dreaming of an old trail through central Tennessee listening to Workingman’s Dead in the summer of ’95, riding that train with Uncle John’s Band …

computers instead of the other way round, but thank the maker for blues and boogie ‘cause it’s all that woogie when she shakes that thing, the woogie gets derailed so easy, the train that never stops, Bob would catch it at the platform above Parkstoke, just pay the conductor when boarding that train with ol’ Casey Jones, dreaming of an old trail through central Tennessee listening to Workingman’s Dead in the summer of ’95, riding that train with Uncle John’s Band, through the greenery and kudzu, like you-dew, like the dew between her legs that smelled of a Stephanne Grappelli fiddle song, that dew that forms a bud, that grows into a pasture beyond some imagined future trip to Provence or Tuscany, for then it was only in books and images, to stand in the cathedrals of the Old World, or roll like a fucking dog in the lavender fields with a baguette and sausage jammed up his butt, drinking French wine, waving to French girls, eating French fries and telling lies over a milkshake dinner the night before the Apocalypse, the nightmare of clash and clatter, the run and drum of people not happy, fair enough, drawn and flayed enough, spoken through rains of falling yellow leaves, leaves that fell only once a year, and once in their entire life, the poor goddamn leaves, why were there no street protests to prevent the dying of leaves, and the dying of color, the whitewash and the dark nights, the frogs in hibernation and the wind working toward liberation, the brick that was so inviting in winter, inviting the accusations of the wind to tear down its rough façade, like the Christmas tear down, like Bob’s neighbor who already had her Christmas tree up in the first week of November, but maybe that was the only opportunity she had, but no, Bob’s downstairs neighbors hung what appeared to be a small Yule wreath on their back door in September, but who was Bob to talk since he had his tree lit up for seven, count ‘em seven months from ’90-’91…

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