some spring days may turn out cool

this town makes aritists of us all.

there's a subtle dropping by a a subtle note left in the air that all of us can read. it changes our lives.

we've all spent too much time with our noses in notebooks white and black design on the front makes us think of basketball diaries and we keep scribbling them full.

we grew up to cobain and morrison we all wanted we all needed to have something to say.

a thousand dead voices that couldn't spral out long enough left withering in the cemeteries of time with pistols to heads and ropes around necks.

this town makes artists of us all.

we can walk slow stroll down the lane down any lane in town and know that somewhere behind the windows they're writing music and painting on long white canvases. everyone wants to make records, write novels, be spoken voice of poetry, paint pictures to rival any horizon line.

so we lay about, shiftless, marking notes in our minds, drawing the line of a friends hips and matching it to the skyline and pulling it all back into the madness of our glares.

we live here and go abiout things in the way we only know how the only way we know how.

and i can feel it. pulsing in the breeze. ten thousand sonnetts written under this tree with it's leaves fallen longsince and two hundred paintings left outdoors to dry in the sun when you could fry an egg on the sidewalk. you could fry an egg on our minds.

so we're here. and waiting. hoping nothing will be left behind afterwards nothing wil be left out of the storybooks written for children.

there's nothing here that cannot be found retold a hundred ways by a hundred hands and voices and brushstrokes.

this town makes artists of us all. and i'm smiling now at the way it all goes under us above us around us and life falls into our stories. ray bradbury eat your heart out.

2003-01-01 | 3:23 p.m.
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