be leave. real leaf.
symphony silence.
a city of sounds blocked out by green and grey sights.
a beautiful old television show playing muddy for me.
without audible werds.
not too crowded, still efficient, green as far as the environment goes.
tapping in rythmic breaks up and down hills.
I took a bus there.
to the place where it always smells like it is just about to rain.
or it just has
(But whenever I go there water is never actually falling from the sky).
the gnats and the pigeons have all left recently.
only the elderly red-breasted robins remain.
renting worms from the soil.
oblivious to me.
I read a few chapters of a novella called 'Lucinella'.
under an old tree.
I'd like to call it an Oak.
but in truth I don't know what the hell.
I flag the tiny trees with used kneck ties stolen from thift shops.
dressing their trunks up like businessmen.
I even put a blazer on one tree once.
it had arms like a David.
my new shoes got mad muddy.
holy mud will find its way back to my room-to-rent.
there is so much silence.
like this place's volume has been turned down.
so love low.
I take off my top hat and drink some whiskey.
soon, the leaves tell me to leave.
I find the fountain compass, goodbye another Tuesday, and go.
low and behold, the bus chariot is tick-tocking for an hour.
just for my day.