Walking Along 23rd Ave Before the Big Rain

It was the lightning lightning, melded together like two robert frost poems, that lit up the sky big big in the darkness under a streetlight casting mellow tones all around the rain-soaked patches of misunderstood witchy people, crying out to the darkness in a little VW bug that sounded more like the tuba from a bad old orchestra on a 45 record, scratching the wilted twilight in some staccato shades of lastingness.  I wrote little jazzy hymns all the way to your place, under the bridge where I'm sure Paul Simon wrote that song about groovyness and for the moment I was transported back to the eternal 1960s when we were all Kerouac wanderers under a summer sun; glancing off each other like light thrown from a prism and how we laughed to dwell so deeply in the forever under the title of Now.  We watched the lightning, big big in its sky under the roof of the men and women dwelling in that now, with their little dog wilting under the cloudy hurricane raindrops, so perfect and present within the manliness of a dropped trinket in the fascinating place underneath the porch to which the last moments of this deep godly meditation were thrown.  I took a deep breath and sat down like Buddha under the tree and thought of nothing but flashes of light thrown around the sky, as if God were me and I was deeply troubled by how the Earth was moving so quickly forward and how Time was leaving us, like an extinct mammal blown through the town, dustballing and wheeling around a frozen artifact that dropped and missed the point, landing and melting like ice cream in the middle of a packed July carnival, with teenage wisdom breathing on necks in the shaded areas near the firework trees.  It twisted away in a spiral and was gone, and we left to eat the last of the gold, disguising ourselves as vegetables and how little we thought and how much we laughed and how beautiful all the moments with each other had become because of that.