vittore

The stars are disintegrating from the sky and landing in loose powder on my lashes.
I was walking to a gas station earlier this evening, and everything was blotted out in white,
like God had seen the error of his ways in creating Minnesota and was trying to cover his ass with the snowflake version of White-Out.

Everyone who lives in a place that is idealized as a wonderland, or a paradise, knows it's not heaven all the time. Sometimes, though, it comes back and we're little kids again, slack jawed and feeling so goddamn lucky to be alive, lucky to be able to catch jewels on our tongues, and see the sky turn to crystals and dust.

I watch some entity push the 'mute' button over this land, and I drive for hours, past silos and abandoned houses and barns. There's the electrical drone of the power lines, and the Coca-Cola factory like a castle in the distance, with more lights than the Disney Palace.

The roads are icy, and the wheels aren't gripping right.
They play a game of slip'n'slide, and I don't want to turn around.