The sky spreads its blankets in the river and after a while the river washes it all away. And itself away. This just happens. In spite of its best intentions. I've always held the sky in awe. A blue and white house of God. A fiction that rubs itself against my fear. Fondles my fear and jerks it off.
But the sky too is afraid, searching. And wants to fall in love and stay in love-- sipping champagne and nibbling cherries for eternity. The sky. The river. Fate. The blue and white condo-block in which the phantom angels sleep. It's all the same. Like a grape squeezed in your fist. A juiceless color-bled fist heavy with the love of dead skies and rivers. And crying out to God and Nothing (God-Nothing) as it dies.
(note: "Blanket" is the nickname of Michael Jackson's youngest son, Prince Michael II. According to his father "blanket" was a word he used with "his employees and family." As in, we should "blanket" him.)
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