by HP

The sky is smoothest in the minutes just before sundown. Sitting on the porch for hours at a time, sipping green tea, or vodka depending on the day’s torments & proclivities, reading poetry as if it mattered, we called it “the golden hour.”


By way of warming up, I scribble a simple pattern; this helps generate a smooth flow from the  laser before the real work begins

We feigned renewed surprise each time the light shifted, each time a raccoon or a skunk came waltzing into our frame of reference from a treetop or sewer grate. Part time jobs sustained us, allowing us ample leisure time in which to wonder where the world was headed, and why it didn’t seem to include us in its plans.


To fear deeply, and yet to do everything in one’s power to bring about the alien intoxication

Our hearts were growing more accustomed to each others peculiar rhythms, and each time the golden hour approached we always seemed to find ourselves together on the porch. Sometimes one of us would bring a guest, some new girl to wonder helplessly alongside us, or else an admirer of the musical compositions some of us felt compelled to cobble together once the city was dark and still.


Some lights stayed on all night, even during the energy-scarce summer months

After a few seasons carrying on in this aimless manner, we dispersed. Back then the sadness never left me, but of course now that those days are long past I miss them dreadfully. What is this riddle of pathos, this contradiction of abstraction & lived experience, in which memory must possess the favored status, regardless of the fundamental pain or error of the circumstances it represents?

We drew abstract patterns in the sky with music.


The compositions were simple, but filled with the sincerity of pure hearts