Jackson, Wyoming.
Bawdy neons strike at your most immediate sense: sight. Here we are. Absolute. Full of the daily terrors that keep us from remaining stationary too long. With flags dead at the tops of their poles, I troll the town in search of. Every color combines to dye the sky; night descends completely, a trick we are loathe to clap for since beginningless time . All is swallowed slick and marvelous by God, his open chest heaving out nothing but inky, flotsam blacks. Light chances to reflect off all glass windows — those invented funhouse mirrors of this adult life. The brightness mails out hollow, elliptical notes of the empty. I stand gawking at everything but myself, holy compliance for ignorance a requisite for sight. Sun, rockets, and saints rain invisible down the throats of my eyes. My god! I can see glory! Sunday evening and, minus my dancing iris’s, this place appears a stale tomb. I’ve only these gaseous signs for company, aging pillars of the west that they are. There is nothing but waiting catastrophe this high in the Rockies. In the meantime, I’ll take this burning refuge as ridiculous hope.