Monday, July 28, 2014


Before and after a thunderstorm
are the best moments, aesthetically.
The colors emitted from the sky
and upon the Earth's surface
-just the day before, only pleasant,
but generally mundane-
glow in the air and on the ground
like some ecstasy of light and color,
their source seeming from an alien place.
A rainbow is not necessary,
but if a rainbow appears in this firmament
all the better.
It is a lovely contrast,
those light and lighter blues,
those subtle and profound pinks
whites, peaches, oranges.
They are set so far out
in that nearly unfathomable distance,
behind the darkening green
of July's terra firma and flora
over growing in this giving abode.

The sound of yelping country folk
egging on the illegal roar of street racing.
Atop that growl of revving engines,
a drain pipe drizzles with a staccato resonance.
A muffled hoot.
A muffled holler in the distance to the east
and just what are those unknown voices racing for?
"Six laps in counting!"
The thunderstorm riled them up
like dogs and they need to taste a little danger.
"The summer is here
and the time is right
for racing in the street."
Do not say the Boss never gave you something.
In the waning light of this post-storm sunset
the revving of engines grows louder.
The howls of the half feral speed men
become more pronounced and guttural.
There is a show tonight that will begin soon
and the show is sure to be a full moon show.

"Woo!" they yell.
"Woo hoo!" loud and proud
as the racers press hard their gas pedal
on the straight away of the race course.
Some in the crowd,
others listening, secretly,
wish for one of them to crash
and immerse their soul
in a fiery automobile baptism.
All the while, the rain gutter continues to dribble.
Then moments of mass hysteria
bleed into the consciousness
of the surrounding sound
of noise pollution.
Cars barrel down the streets
of the neighborhood
like a gospel call and response
to the sounds of the race,
so far, but still so distant from them.
The spotlights on the track kick on
after the sun finally and so completely
rests its glowing head beneath the western horizon.
(Hello, you beautiful beings so distant from me,
but still close to my heart. The sun is only yours, now.)
Soon enough, we'll move on to demolition derbies.

Aaron C. Molden

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