Sidewalks

In blissful, acute awareness,

All the colors seemed kaleidoscope-bright,

Everything like a snapshot

From things I do not know.

In illuminated Friday nights,

I bask.

The soft after-glow

Of the faint neon

And orange-streetlamps,

That beautiful feeling

Of pure contentedness.

I devour all can grab onto.

Every moment with these people

Is a moment I will never regret.

Every night I am in this town,

Out.

Amongst the small clumps of people,

I am free.

And for every drunken man on the sidewalk

(Eh, bloody hell!)

That we converse with in broken British accents,

I am oddly warmed.

When I walk the streets with my angry squid

Called Lily by any other name,

I am flying.

Few times do I feel bird-like,

But when I am high on chocolate espresso beans,

In the brisk February chill,

I feel so much like a bird.

A starling, a jay.

A bluebird.

Perhaps a swallow.

I love owls.

Wise and inquisitive,

With beautiful calls into the night.

I love going to my grandmother's in the summer,

When you can hear the owls call to each other in the trees,

Through the windows that are always open.

These people.

These places.

Times.

Are what I am living for.

Currently,

My heart swells with the emotion love,

For these things.

And nothing may change that.

Nobody will take my sunshine away.

I do love that song.

That little children's song.

It is so perfect.

So clean.

Pure.

Also,

The song

"After Hours"

By We Are Scientists

(Also the Nico/VU one, completely different though)

Come to mind on nights like these.

And looking at art.

Pondering art

And philosophy,

With these people,

Is marvelous.

Art.

Is something peculiar.

We've been through this, I know.

But, it's a recurring theme.

I feel a little like...

An art whore,

If you will.

So far, I've yet to find any substantial amount of art that I don't like

Enjoy.

I feel a little too open to the art.

(Not musically- I'm a music snob)

But poetically and visually.

I have very few things I dislike.

I have an opinion

(I think)

But,

What makes people like certain art forms?

Certain styles?

What makes one prone to impressionism?

And another cubism?

Surrealism?

Realism?

I like them all.

I don't know why.

Poetry?

Very few poets I can't stand.

Dickinson

Is one of them.

And, currently, the only one I can think of.

Strange.

Why?

Oh,

I do so love this ecstatic feeling

That comes with an electric Friday night.

If only everyday carried the happiness placed in Friday.

Goodnight,

Adieu.

I love you.

(You are perfect)