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“THE STREET HUNTER” By San Picciarelli
http://sanpicciarelli.co.cc sanpicciarelli@gmail.com @sanpicciarelli
2011 © all rights reserved
1st Edition 2
Two o’clock after the middle of the day. The tear hunter has long embarked in his own trip to that place no one can name, but the one within every one.
When the listener has finally defeated the deaf dictator, and the long avenue runs dry and sour as a sip of acid sweat running down working arms, the street are alit.
Everyone is visiting the city that surrounds perception. A man is lost in the middle of the world. All is far too democratic. All is foreign.
Hanging upside down from a tree are the smells of a candid spring afternoon. His metals being re-coined by the light of all suns, and scarce is his malignancy towards the kind roots of all issues.
His boots are worn out, so his legs and his concept of things. And the dirt on his pants shows the amount of mercy that story placed in his legacy for today. Two triangles.
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A long rectilinear round of fresh grass adorns the gliding steps of those of passing by. As if we could fairly taste the sweetness under the soles of all walking feet, the tenderness underlying their go-nowheres, filled with destiny and similitude.
There are those who hide their own showings, and those who do not. Two sidewalks and one big and white giant pole right ahead.
There should be nothing lesser than mementoes in a hunter’s head.
Behind his eyes, a butterfly wing caresses his retina from its inside out, as the images at the forefront build up from softness and clarity, as if the rear ends of his soul fed from the all the simplicity in it.
Behind his backs, the dark-ended alleys plead silence, but everything is cushioned mute by the lords of noise themselves.
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Sirens and secret humming pieces inhabit everyone else’s ears, and yet, the concrete agglomerations of the city offers little comfort for him, the hunter in traveling.
Like a Pirandello’s character, his lonely voyage aims at the cores of his own creation, for what, as such the unquiet coast seagulls up in the air, and the saline paws of the giant sea turtles, his grace, kindness and curiosity are easily forked into a walk-less sitting.
He has no motility. There at the cold concrete holding the weights of his flesh, and for not so knowingly – perhaps intoxicated – reasons.
Two o’clock is again and most possibly the universal time for odds and possibilities… as he senses every other moment at present to be.
But there comes a sunflower from the ground up, and beyond…
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"THE STREET HUNTER" By San Picciarelli http://sanpicciarelli.co.cc sanpicciarelli@gmail.com @sanpicciarelli
2011 Š all rights reserved
1st Edition 6