8.2 Miles

78/436

Speckled spackle freckles, space travel with an apple, an orange eyed heckler rests his case from a milk crate pulpit, “I rather prefer grovestand.” The small brown dots on your face look like the sort of place a spider I once knew chose to lay her eggs, blobs, like peeled seedless grapes, purple not green, but with at least eight hairy legs and no vertebrate. These whereabouts are vague, but look not to a graveyard as a landmark.

77/425

A pair of cemeteries marks the bounds of our game, with stairs to the east and a bay that slowly stretches sideways to invade the parade ground. I can barely hear the sound of my stream start and stop over nearby construction, which may well cause my reluctance. Instructed to keep moving by the breeze, the time, the trees and other things I begin to see where money lives and lies with thieves. The bane of civilization.

69/412

Fashion a mansion from a mountain of bricks and expensive seclusion, where solely roots intrude, where wind rings truest, and traditional trails sprawl more than down trodden. Two leashed Great Danes restrained from showing my unwelcome on Private, Hidden Lane. Pictures in my mind of a cross street sign, marking the way I came. Only those who make great strides and try to hide, only the owners, are afraid.

67/434

We had seen these streets in different cities through distant eyes but at the same time. Belligerence teems, pitilessly, belittling everything it seems we came to stand by. Even the curbs breathe suburban, the peace punctuated by remodeling yearns for the gritty churning of honest earning, shoddies, and trials. Trade fair weather fiends for judge jury and exhibitionist only to find that, unfortunately, there’s no voyeur here.