Architecture of Cities: The Sounds We Never Hear

I saw the smoke travel a few distances afar: Across the backdrop of an entire silhouetted city: Colors arose as did the sunlight: It was impossible to enjoy the palette with the unmistakable fraught and fright: With the rising sun you could move your eyes genuinely with appreciative glances: The imagined sounds were much louder than the real unnatural sounds: A jarring nightmare never dissipates:

The known universe hailed: My imagination is better: The convergence of emergency transportation reeled and riled:The smoke did not float as if piggybacking bilious clouds: The temperature inversion merely tattooed the meaning of horror atop almost 200 hundred known countries: The smokes constant merely inspired an entire world to grieve: I imagined; 7 billion known: People looked in the mirror.

The mirror is  never about self reflection: The mirror has way too many suggestive meanings: Precisely, the mirror is about a crime scene: What did you see when is what the history books retain: What did you see when is what your heirs hopefully will remember.

There is another type of sound:

My Ted Turner is about different sounds and pictures-my pictures in a box:  He opened the door to his Ford 150 pick up truck: We didn’t have a lot of words for each other: The  morning until we arrived was deafening: Silence breathed so many stories: I felt like the writer Jim Harrison hitching a ride with with Walden’s Thoreau and Teddy Roosevelt: I never imagined the Rough Riders until that morning AM.

Ted took aim at the bare life: Clearing the land, a pose before death: If only I could share the details: I cannot: The blast heard from near Ted’s eyes, was just near: Championing the natural land: Issues about up keep and imaginable privilege of landscape to behold: The morning silence pounded: Nary a soul: Unnerving is not known by most: We, two bona fide strangers stretched across the brook to be sure: We walked not hand in hand: He postured: The ensuing sound deafening and a mere more: Understanding  a caven heart only increases the possibility of confusions.

The sounds rule:

The  sounds that rule our days are irrevocable: Memories live: Passionate rivers near by were unceremoniously unleashed: Sounds of electrical signals are converted: A constant heart beats: In the distant, Fly fishing reels rigorous volumes like streaks of clothes lines playing house to collective flies: Quietude is simulated amidst the seen silence: A state of affairs most will never hear:

The lure’s lonely flight captures my attention momentarily and forever: The appeal continues as a mere crest of a river moistens my eyes lashes: A must to be close: The near currents wave action:

What lies beneath the rivers tips and tops  has an endless appeal even if never seen; What might be above: A dream from top to bottom as the British Harrier hovers: Everything genius may be presupposed: Sound is silence: My camera hears from the north and the south:

Wilderness is where I stand every day: The urban and rural remain calm: Something spectacular has occurred in my ends: When my heart stops my eyes still remember: It is as if in my bedtime sleep the impossible is never whispered: “To sleep, perchance to dream. At, there’s the rub,/ For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,/…Must give us pause”.

Two sounds not comparable in anyway; yet.

I stand atop two separate spheres of our abyss: Two sounds continue to reverberate: I am in constant reruns of stories scene sounds I am desperate to forget and inclusively remember:  When my heart stops my eyes still remember.