good mourning to right angles

Right angles dominate stone, composing city blocks, casting aspersions toward gutters afflicted with hunchbacks, cracked windows and double glass, smothered in a milky sheen, giving the impression steam is always present. 

Archways challenge flat rooftops for rain collection. Flat-tops halt the water, collect it to form oblong puddles and in the morning sun, reflect tree tops and right angles, holding court over dog walkers, joggers, amphetamine aficionados and young AM baristas, shuffling off their hangover to serve those fending off their hangovers too. 

The bird’s orchestra, cued up by their fetishes, in hunger and sex rituals, control the soundscape and are drowned out when a car wooshes along, or the bus lowers it suspension and casts its huff as patrons exit and step out onto the right angles aligning the sidewalk. 

A fly confuses a window screen for an open space and collides with the mesh pattern, several times before acknowledging the blockade, and flies away to real open spaces. 

Alleyways seek an equilibrium in their luminescence. Shadows offset their dominance, follow back doors swinging their A/C gusts, sending the janitorial staff to finish their shift by depositing the office trash in the locked dumpster.  

A food wrapper stained with mustard juts out from a tear in the bag’s bottom. It catches a gale and slips away, skips along and settles before a lawyer’s toes, housed in fine leather. He thinks, ‘humanity has gotten lazy.’ 

Events provide namesakes to distinguish the progression of time.

It’s not enough to measure sunsets.

Cellular decay abbreviates age.

The wholesale experience is expiration. 

Tomorrow begins the real events, real right angles.

Published by akcola

AK Cola is a pop-culture war veteran.

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