I lie in bed watching a house burn down, a wooden victorian occupied by squatters.
what a fate, flames leap up; the fire trucks have not arrived, the smoke is black, the news anchors ad lib.
strolling down durant: stone spires on an art deco garage, once a fancy car dealer now a buddhist bookstore. those are not hell-flames licking the sky but cool frozen ice-cream cones, pink against blue heaven.
Alastair Johnston is a printer and author living in Berkeley, California. He is trying to realize Oliver Cromwell’s dictum: a man never rises so high as when he doesn’t know where he is going. www.poltroonpress.com