Break out the signs.
The fire trucks and ambulances must get through, move the barricades aside.
A race has ended.
All the winners, every category, are panting and searching for air.
Eyes bugging and clear.
Taste of a Dallas blonde in October, when the seasons arrive, when the simmer of summer ends.
The house gangster is in the house.
Beats surrounded by another brick in the wall, and we got our education.
Smoking food trucks.
An ice wrapped ankle in the red crossed tent, worried children and caregivers.
The sounds of the new.
Everything gonna be alright, it will be cold out one day, freezing.
They got moves.
The sisterhood of the shakes, the sliding and the bumping, the mob getting flashed.
Photographic evidence.
This happening, these cars, these pie face eaters, and these fishing poles.
You got lucky baby.
Melodic confusion again, just a hobo man, giving up this rat race with outlaw boots and Texas jive.
Lay on the fun.
Easy to talk, easy to laugh, nothing but times and scenes, all shaded by shades.
The Word is written with ink.
Truth transforms, the reality of what has happened, the comfort and tranquility.
Love is peaceful.
Not like a ruckus or a battle, sides squaring off and digging in, demanding everyone follow.
Now we live.
Without the careful apprehensions of the past, without the holding back, without the blues.
Light up and connect.
Arrange the obsessions with an orderly method, refining and chipping rocks off the creations.
The wind whips this morning.
From the north, the top of the earth, where days last all day and the lights are like an art show.
We are western.
Always following the sun before sleeping, awakening to another try, seeking smiles.