The cross-walk.
The yellow cabs.
The street lights.
The cart vendor stacking his bananas.
Real things.
Yet, Upstairs, is the real show.
I turn the dials.
The brightness.
The contrast.
The tint.
And finally, the color.
The picture in picture is sharp, vivid.
I turn my attention to the World,
Gray, blurry, rushing.
A slide projector, click, click, click, click.
But the Tom-Toms beat in Thunderdome.
The Man swings his sticks.
He whips his shoulder-length hair back,
it’s sopping wet from perspiration, it rains. [Read more…]