It’s easy to make a Sunday. All you need is faith, the desire to explore the invisible geometry
and the forced matrimony between stages of light. In an old box, either Rollei or cardboard Brownie, daylight and sunlight are not the same thing. Sunlight is worshipped. Daylight cast up into the lake of brightness. Show box of poems under the bed, thou aren’t as lit as thy recipe of tools. Thy original duality, thinking and feeling. We cannot live without the sun, but the daylight cannot live without us. That place, after the artificial light of dinner, where our dreams go no different than the layer of tiramisu that resembles darkness. All nutrition, soil and solar, is reciprocal. Like a hymn book of pictures, one reflects the other so forgive the refraction and the bits and pieces of spiritual repentance, please, my unevenly framed choir rocking from side-to-side in robes more loyal to the heavens than the bottom of clouds is but an impression left on a face by grandma’s corduroy sofa.
And even if the sheet of paper behind the sky shook, the miracles inside old box (where there should be intestines) are not dry yet so I have come to make a bargain with the lazy one, the Lazarus of warmth, not his lazy son of metaphors. East to West, mid pulpit, the wounded hands make a flash. Save the sermon for Monday. No need to confront the chimera, no need to pull a rib from the Polaroid, not here, Dear Pinellas, not now. Old Box has set a trap for the climate. A fiery gospel of atmospheric blaze, the governance of the shutter by sorrow. Human perspiration is the only beverage capable of satisfying the High Source. It makes for weather pageantry. A city planted the same way the skyline transplants a tree, seedless produce, grove of pines. Limbs that become lens, mechanical lawless prisms, a ritual memorialized by the bright colors of advertising that cannot help but clash with photosynthesis, the eye garden. My head is full of sunshine plumbing. Sunshine roofing elevates my briar patch. And the coast, where the sun’s margins are born, has become a credit union. Through the park, I walk the walk of the soul of orbits, molecular sky clock ahead, thrice frisking a twelve like a green light of meteors.
Blood above a door, so many homes encode the sun. Great fires, flares, flames. Show me a house that isn’t a disguised temple and I’ll send you a bouquet of ashcans, all burnt to the tempo of the drum circle’s black and tan fantasy. Religion used to be the texture of architecture or was it the other way around? Pores like pinholes, thirst quenched skin, the aperture of humidity. In the name of community, let the whole porch say “Amen” not just the elders. Camera against eye, eclipsing vision. If it blocks light, it’s a silhouette. If it is blocked by light, it is the abyss chained in darkness. Cynical awakening. The Day-glow bruises of photography, a full spa of nudes by noon, angelic white towels. Another coming storm, camera-ready, another huge spray day. Soon Central Avenue will be heliocentric again but for now it’s an equator of timelines, an arcade of pews, sun-dialed, waiting for a compliment from a T-square to complete the counseling, this adventure in design, where salvage becomes salvation or better yet: the street team’s manifesto of hope.
A ray of surrendered prayer. All it takes is a “nothing and not much” (says Italo) to boost the complete cosmicomics of the stars. O, earthly day you are but a minute to the sun. O, earthly year, a day. As it is not the same sun in every photograph, it is also not the same sun every Sunday. Showering in the praise song of painted dusk, an orb in retro eyewear is not necessarily an ally. Postcard heat stroke, lightning bolt of luck gone. Old Box ain’t Odin. Once cardboard then metal now Bakelite, Old Box waits longer than the others for the submarine library to be priced at Sunshine Thrift. He waits like another bottom feeder drowning in used research. Unbroken yolk in the local ether where the frequency is pure palette, celestial parking lot asphalt, where Samson becomes Hulk for the science of the green bloodline. As particle, as rage, as wave, fables rant so that blur might offer the entire congregation a memory foam of discount, kneeling comfort, the dazed peace of prophetic photographic fellowship. Doing this in the Sunshine State, makes it sacred, combats the colorful scarcity of hope. Sunset of hours in the same zone, the gaze should only last ten seconds or however long it takes the sky to Tupperware the morning horizon, all threat and fear collapsing.