Author: Nicholas Viglietti
We ain’t so important. Hopefully, that eases our flow; beneath the torrid blasts of the vainglorious Sun-God – always shows up, always brash to prove its status: boss. Strong heat grows – just a regular blaze away, kind-of summer day.
The scorch can leave us haggard. No reprieve, and it’s not out of the ordinary, for the mess of soul-scrapin’ stress in the capital city – the chasm of chill – but there’s a spot to alleviate the rot. All the baked brains in town know where to stop – let it roll off, no resort, but all relaxation mode.
It ain’t far, nothin’ but the rip of a few blocks east, out on the fringe, of grid-laced streets. Over, where the water erodes the land under your feet. Ferocious flame spray coerces temporary sweat to take a cool dip in the frosty hunk of a flow – the great, American river.
The aqua in the wide trench of our nation’s most patriotic river – true title, and I’m sure it’s been printed in some publication, and, I can attest, that it’s been confirmed by many wise-winos; the kind that out-live orders from doctors – gets referred to as the sweet water.
It runs fresh, straight off infamous slopes of cannibalistic mountains. It rolls like the slow prominence of a Pacific-Union cargo train – on the move, totally correct in its swift run, so watch-out!
“There ain’t no harm intended, you see, but it’ll swallow you, if need be,” advised the Mayor of Goose Town – he’s a valley vagabond, a real river rover, and a sage from older days.
We stood at the rippling shoreline. Then, joy engulfed my perception, and I leapt into the icy drift of uncertainty – that soulful cleanse on earth. Insignificant actions, some move on all the things I can’t escape.
I swam with the slide, and against the pull of downstream. I was deep, and a seal’s rubbery coated skull popped out of the water. It shot me a smile and headed up-stream. I smiled back. We were nothing but passing parallel entities in the groove of intertwined infinity.
Huge hits of too-hot sizzle the hang of my shoulders. It’s a languid current, aimed at the ocean – it spits out, next to that city by the bay — long way of a float to go, but then again, so do we….
On the slim margin of sand, engraved on the contour of the river’s glitzy slither. I’m amazed at the smoke end of a psychedelic pipe; getting singed on the superficially exposed layer of my skin – everything decays, we all meander off into eternity.
Beyond the view of the sunset, in the dying light of the westward horizon line. Neon shades, over my bleary boozed eyes, can see the details in the eternal fade – clarity of faith more than accuracy, I reckon – it might just be a Wednesday, but, for whatever reason, it sips like heaven.