A Level Light Of Burgundy

…the Christmas Westmont and Bob exchanged gifts, and he gave Bob a small porch-sized grill, before he moved down to Calusi, when Satch and Bob went down to visit, driving by the Legs Pullinger Field, getting wasted and Satch of course the magic man behind the wheel wanting to drive all the way back to Rolanacio that night, but Lando’s not a system, he’s a man, dammit Jim, he’s a man not a brick layer, and a brick layer’s shoulders ache by the end of the day, creating warmth with a trowel and dried mud, furnaces and water heaters ridge the lightning into the coolest things ever invented by homo sapiens-sapiens, and cookies are not far behind, for Bob’s behind was filled with cookies, chocolate chip, peanut butter and sadness, for every cookie is sad, and every unfair treatment of the dead backspaced like a typo, like a small margin of error in a day without walking, or having to be shaven like an old man dying of cancer

… wild Canada geese in the morning, a pumpkin scone and descent into the Blackhawk River Valley from the West Muskedo prairie …

in a hospital bed, dying sure, but still needing a shave, and immediately thinking of cashews, damn the salted cashews, they were the death of Bob and the dearth of his diet, and it was not quiet, it was as loud as an atomic dog that is walking on the moon, and the beauty of a scattered trumpet and all-American songs for the folks in the crowd, surfing the channels and bragging to friends of the falling leaves, photos of a week on the trails, from West Muskedo to Gloria on foot, past the leaves and towers of power, past All Grains and the smell of a candy factory, the St. Nicholas airport, and wild Canada geese in the morning, a pumpkin scone and descent into the Blackhawk River Valley from the West Muskedo prairie, working out the legs and lungs, winter soon to descend upon Bob and his brick building high in the clouds and canopy of leaves, bathed in a level light of burgundy and yellow, the colors of his regret that he did not reach out sooner for his estranged and dead friend Barnaldo, the turmoil and demons, his own sympathetic and voicing concerns, the sight of his mother speaking softly to him as he lay in the casket, not able to answer, the hugs and the goodbyes, if only he had waited another week he would have known that Black Sabbath would reunite and tour in another year and give him reason to hold on, but the wash, wear and the quickness of time in his world went by too fast and took him with, winged eagles and pitchforks from hands and goat heads, clear and present dangers, the dangers of life on the face of the Earth until the face becomes trademarked and then no one will be able to see it shine for free, someone making a buck and transferring power, and the sun went down capping an angry Saturday of anticipated rain and clouds…

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