"Come to us
in the Season of Peaches."
The call was clear and, like swallows,
We flew off to California,
tired and searching for open light.
Into the branches probed our searching fingers,
Until touching the fuzz on the orb, and
Tasting the first fresh seasonal peach -- in full glory.
Then, dribble on my chin,
I could smile again.
This is square-block streets and and square-frame windows going ever-up, buildings consuming the sky. Horns, sirens, horns, and voices in the concrete labyrinth. Rush of rubber on rock, screech n' crunch of pig-squealing brakes and millions of millions of millions of people, peopling the sidewalks (so that) you push through them, jostling, jumbling, weave-swerving as if grope-swimming against a tidal sea.
This is Morgan Freeman in wax, three stories of Toys R Us with a ferris wheel inside or walls and walls and walls of Hot Wheels stacked up to the ceiling, only steps from the lingering presence of a horrific dinosaur, clawing at Superman who doesn't notice, his arms stretched backwards to stop the collision of an on-rushing eighteen-wheel truck.
This is New York City, where youth-faced filmmakers will gather to screen their movie-works and reach for the stars.
This is the top of my sky-scraper moments, when, in the darkened bus, sludging through non-moving traffic, Benjamin said, "I'm glad you came with me."
