Tiny Purple Alien Lights
A bare bulb hangs down.
Hangs down. Hangs down.
The world watches from
somewhere nearby.
The city views the scene unfolding from beneath heavy oppressive eyes.
The crowd surrenders
their gaze as well.
The girl is alone with the
light bulb.
That is bare and hanging.
Somewhere the Universe
stops to sigh.
It's all connected.
You see.
But the song of indebted
melancholy under the burden of synchronized sorrow is not lifted from the girl who does not know.
The Son watches. He is Sun now. He whispers her anvils into existence.
In the somewhere else, a daughter, who is not yet even close to becoming a sun; somewhere a daughter; somehow a mother. Somewhy.
A resonant aching gravels through the heliosphere.
Somewhere a girl chooses Life.
Somewhere else, a light gets snuffed out.
In the somewhat, a girl restarts the Universe from the pause generated.
Somehow, the light bulb knows its bareness is complete.
Somehow, a world is so much more than the way it seems.
The reality it keeps.
Remember Love.
The girl weeps.
(written in Los Angeles, California, circa 2020-21 by the train station on La Ciénega.)