By Coach Light

Cliff faces bled into Superior, cozy Scandinavian architecture clung to tree roots and mountain hollows, main street undulates between nature’s skyline and an inherent need to find home. The sun conceded to blue colossus becoming barely visible old bookshops and pottery dens dissipated the remaining light-a softened glow settled about the city like a comforting fog. A kaleidoscope fell in carefree pattern dancing seemingly to the beat of Michigan folding into Autumn, of the work week folding into Saturday evening.
We wandered as aimless as the leaves prolapsing to concrete, exchanging water vapor for purpose in search of continued adventure or fresh brew. Balsam firs slipped from heavenly precipice between our hands like pens or pipes held to mouth in a moment of meditation. Gradually isolation retreated becoming again, encompassed by a feeling of collective presence. Shuttling down narrow streets, sloped avenues everything was fervent, the city was enveloped, now by newborn constellations fluttering excitedly. Music could be heard faintly, not violins or brass horns but jangly guitars and gritty bass lines just as magnificent and soaring as Jean’s Symphony in E Flat. Entirely entranced we followed the beautiful soundscape, to dead ends, dive bars, our feet wrote in cursive as we navigated and traced it to the source- double doors brimming of color and youth in the vein of Dr. Seuss, covered in the hand-prints of children laughing with skinned knees. The doors opened like a theater curtain, revealing a whimsical world of Paleozoic flora clashing seamlessly with exaggerated organs- small parts becoming massive structures sprawling across the ceiling.

Crossing a train bridge, a voice screamed desperately giving a dying exclamation for change. The room was narrow with an ambulance bursting part way through the wall, a cluster of young adults began to dissipate with the growing chant of “Smoke break?”-they were like the seagulls of Nemo, the floor was checkered black and white, we stood on a chessboard or anxiously in a kitchen. In the absence of an audience a trumpet broke out mournfully singing scotch jazz, a walking cello faded in and everything began to erupt once more. Stationary dump trucks came alive, engines roaring with the buzzing lips of college students, painted turtles bathing under fluorescent lamps were named and included in games of hide-and-seek and tag, the bones of dinosaurs were re-imagined as breathing creatures chasing fashionable cavemen. All was frantic yet increasingly harmonious, alive with reverie hidden conspicuously in a two-story building on Baraga Avenue. A knee shaking guitar solo came forth drawing on the prismatic colors enveloping a glistening community. Brass breathed fire yet again and the words were spoken so casually in contrast: “I drink whiskey cuz my baby left me” and we all were there intoxicated on everything happening.

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Author: Montana Svoboda

I'm a genderless poet currently living in Central Michigan where I attend college for Environmental Science and English. Nature's some cool shit, frisbee's a neat activity, fountain pens are best pens, Latakia for life, coffee and tea keep these gears turning.

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