May is the long dusk of a Sonoran summer. May is solitude.
May is an exploration, a down-river journey, camping on a soft beach under sandstone canyon walls. May is the vibrations of the silent moon.
May is a guitar solo – bended triumphant notes disappearing into feedback ether.
May is cellophane-wrapped and hand-crafted, a craft-fair treasure, just what you’ve been looking for.
May breaks open, a wide, bright expanding cloud of stars and dust and hours and emotions and new realities, reflections by the hundreds blending into one light.
But May is hesitant of taking too many steps, of becoming his own self too soon, of leaving too many behind, of staring too long into the sunlight.
May battles its way through new heat and old messes, through new noise and old crushes, through new addresses and fumbled old promises.
May is standing in the kitchen, window-paned light on bare feet, distracted by fleeting memories, fictionalized by distance and desire.
May is momentary, a blood-red rising moon balanced on the horizon.
May is a storyteller. It paces and gestures, voice rising with danger and falling with secrets, as ancients dance from his lips to the eyes-closed curtains of cinema-mindscape.
I didn’t plan May, but it signed me up. Signed me up for sunburns and mirage, signed me up for mainstreet handshakes and empty pages. Signed me up for stacks of songs and typical absurdity. Signed me up and sent me off.
May is a sky-lit lake, downtown walls of glass and neon eyes.