blackeyesunrise

May 05-06 Reeling from a dullish throb at The Basement, I step out seeking freshness and am accosted by a yarning poet, a wandering bum. For blocks we navigate through the downtown corridors, accompanied only by the silver rustle of weathered sheets and words. My hands shook, heavy with applause, and I slip a little green prayer for a life heavy with art. Perhaps my days were once filled with fire as well.