2017-05-07

sundays, cosmic suburban

Wind blown from a blue sky. Voice of my dead father cutting through static over a transistor radio. I woke up early to comb through dust and old light of an abandoned air force hangar. I collected crumbling comic books and jazz LP's, searching for a perfectly-preserved spacesuit. I got drunk with the spiders, followed the echo of bird wings. I felt the heat of brown weeds and crumbling tarmac through the palm of my hand.