"Revelations Manifest Themselves"

                         I've been raised to love a good gasoline rainbow spread out against gritty oil-slicked street-curbs. Cement city sidewalks align public-transit intersections; lit up in fluorescent midday populace. Residential boulevards of late Summer: the decline of bloom among the dying cypresses; welcoming a rebirth of Autumn. Bicycling down county hillside pathways that surface layered auburn dirt; faded with each genuine season: an urban bred-rose breathes it's way up through the paved concrete: burnt through the radiant ultraviolet-sun that pours down afternoon fragments upon automobile windshields.
                        Local township schoolyards; the sweet sleeping honeybees of late-September. Anticipated death and abrupt misery in darkened November. Let the semi-morbid countdown to eternity begin; icicle-in-hand, while we wait in vacated commercial cemeteries filled with lucrative assorted floral arrangements and assorted coffin corpses: exhibiting an abandoned tombstone demeanor.  My generation died with the passing of the last century. Strolling down these village walkways at night; I come across an unkempt young man from the Salvation Army (who goes by the name of Phil.) Phil was my roommate at the Eagleville Psych-ward in June. Phil sees me but doesn't remember me; it turns out that I'm doing much better than he is (for now.)
                       Let my unmet spoiled mistress rest easily tonight with her routine thoughts upon her pale thwarted mattress filled with fluffy feathered pillow cushioning; a dull wooden headboard soiled with hair-grease and self-obsessed misfortune. My love is for the endless restfulness I am yet to encounter in this pensive lifetime. I can now madly cackle at the sordid mistrials and mistakes I subjected myself to thus far. It is the springtime of passion and desire for me while the oval earth broadly turns upon it's dull axis. I've experienced a wide array of non-sturdy emotional foundations, looking for acceptance in all the wrong places; and this is okay too.
                        Park pavilion children grimace at the perspiring evening, while it dwindles down to dusk. The lakeside teenagers make their way home to their parents households; speaking thug-like dialect, possessing biblical names: and residing in residential suburbia. Swamp flies pervade our diseased porous flesh in dense August humidity. Blood scab Mosquito bites itch and swelter: the death of a brief putrid summer. The refrigerator's freezer was amid the hearth of dry-July when it ran out of ice-cubes; blame it all upon the unfilled ice trays.
                      Dissolved in ashtray coffee table accumulation, the petite den window that looks grimly out onto my adolescent wonderland has been boarded up with hollow antique shutters and dreary velvet drapery. I shall decorate this weathered screen window with myriad flickering light-bulbs of seasonal imagery. Red and green; the night shall allude to a comfortable death that knows no timeline.