The Red Museum

by Bradley Cristler

Not always such a damn dismal pushover, but Sacramento has a tendency to kiss me into a trembling fool. More specifically, Downtown. Depending on the circumstance and quite contrite mood and wishful un-responsibility, that is when my mystical ley lines align in a world of ill-fortitude. Twas it not on me to craft a seach on over to Sacramento to belt the rapid notes of a trumpet and swivel up and down the faux ivory keys of an accordion. After a humid windowless cruise Southbound on 5, the canopies of greeneries danced Sunshine on me in splatters. Deadended off C and ogling at a lonely chained up park, rolling warehouse door invited any soul into the grimly lit cave of art, an art of now, modern art, an art of a non-movement, modern art in the bellowing treble of not knowing the past, an art in the lull of time. Pacing enclosed echoing concrete and the bibble babble chitter chatter fucking hell. Tucked away from the non-movements, a rather despondent piano weeps in the singular glow of a suicidal bulb. The tattered epitome of my musical being has but half its living qualities, merely exhibiting a gasp of air in the name of piano and the youth of forte a forlorn reality. Aching vicariously, the streets called upon the wanderer me and at each corner, a fixation for any bodega howled. A weary me trickled fingertips along masses of monstrous aloe-like beings. A bundle of Middle Eastern joy behind the counter offered a fruitful evening to come. A non-reserved patience had the nectar of the Gods flowing in me like the Roman aqueducts. Indirectly speaking to the world, the wanderer me, the conquistador me to conquer me, conquested on for a sense of symbiosis amongst other humans that once were meshing organic matters with the flux of me. A superficial amount of conversations piled on as dead bodies with only the significance of a dull statistic. Experimental jazzy inflections of my battered brass filled the art of non-art air and as the Moon in ocular remission to the beings of Earth, the me that was me waned into a puddle of primordial ooze. The conquistador me conquered the land of me without much effort and the civilization me winked above from an abyss.

 

-The End-

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