Jul 30 24
The Black Palm
It is around 8:45 PM at a remote terminus of an exit to Lankershim Boulevard. The area is typified by single story, fairly derelict, light-manufacturing buildings. At this hour, their presence mainly serves to add angles to otherwise shapeless shadows.
The ground around is mostly hard packed gravel. Antiquated curbs failing to hem in the desert material.
We are stopped at a red light, alone (except, of course, for all the unseen things that occupy every inch of this planet — and our endless thoughts)
In front, through the frame of our slightly smeary windshield, a massive, single black palm rises out of deep blue mountains — it is silhouetted against a slanted, quickly dimming, orange/amber sky.
The palm gives of no interior detail. It is shockingly chic in its dense, black blankness. It’s like by some enchantment this goth piñata has made all periphery, central — a voluptuous void replacing topicality and knowledge.
It is around 8:45 PM at a remote terminus of an exit to Lankershim Boulevard. The area is typified by single story, fairly derelict, light-manufacturing buildings. At this hour, their presence mainly serves to add angles to otherwise shapeless shadows.
The ground around is mostly hard packed gravel. Antiquated curbs failing to hem in the desert material.
We are stopped at a red light, alone (except, of course, for all the unseen things that occupy every inch of this planet — and our endless thoughts)
In front, through the frame of our slightly smeary windshield, a massive, single black palm rises out of deep blue mountains — it is silhouetted against a slanted, quickly dimming, orange/amber sky.
The palm gives of no interior detail. It is shockingly chic in its dense, black blankness. It’s like by some enchantment this goth piñata has made all periphery, central — a voluptuous void replacing topicality and knowledge.