Refracted Neurons

I want to open my arms wide and spin, until the skyscrapers blur into a halo of i beams, steel, and reinforced concrete; and in this dizziness, the wash of voices and acrid wafts of smoke swirl into streamers, each thread more vivid than that look in your eye, when you close your hand around a spark of light. ------------------------------------- I've finally put all my urban themed poems in one place: City Poems for City People If you are not a city person, these poems are still for you. Ultimately, they are about finding beauty in unexpected places, silence amidst noise, and self standing in a crowd.

You know how gossip works, right?  If you don't, go play a game of Telephone and then come back and talk to me.  Or better yet, talk about me to someone else. I had one of those moments last week when someone said to me, "I've heard you're good at finding people." My response was, "Well, that's not entirely correct.  I'm good at finding dead people."  Here's the thing about dead people: they don't move, they don't marry, and they technically don't divorce.  (Don't think about that last one for too long, it will just make watching The Sound of Music awkward.)  There are also protections around the identities of live people that there aren't around the dead. Obligatory image of a graveyard. So I expected to get no where. I first started using search engines in a time before Google . . . a time when dinosaurs were terraforming the earth and human kind was living underground - Sorry, got a little off topic th

He was, by the accounts of others, an impractical young man.  “Well, he is the son of a tailor,” they would whisper, as if that somehow accounted for him walking into a cow, a puddle, or, like today, the large glass window in front of the bakery. “He’s probably dreaming up something to top that lace shirt,” laughed the baker, wiping her hands on her apron.  She rapped on the window to get his attention. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Mobley,” he said as he opened the door, “I’ll clean the smear off.” “How is your mother, Midas?” Mrs. Mobley handed him a cloth. Midas just shook his head and took the cloth.  He didn’t want to cry in front of her.   She followed him outside, “Thais has good doctors.”   The walk to Thais was a two-day trek through a heavily wooded area known only as “the forest.”  He rubbed the window forcefully, “I’m going there now.” “Watch out for robbers,” Mrs. Mobley held out her hand for the cloth, “Travel only by day.”  Her forehead creased, “Will