Jennifer Castle – ‘Pink City’

Review by Andrew Patterson

Intuitive statements based on two weeks of listening to Jennifer Castle’s Pink City every morning in late Summer:

Pink City is brimming with long looks. It holds a candle to itself.

We will never know to whom the deeds belong. The Pink City sheriff is a snake but he sure has some sharp tattoos.

We got lost a few times. We forgot our names. We came up playing the fake violin. We cut our teeth on jamborees. The medicine in Pink City comes packaged but it is free.

The distance between here and Pink City is not great.

She was only vain when it was beautiful to be vain. And he had to grant her that.

There are locks but little locking. In Pink City, the dust settles arguments.

Even in the woods there are rooms. One can find a corridor that leads from the outskirts of Pink and into the green.

At the corner of Adelaide, there is a cake shop that looks open at night. The way the lights shine it is open.

The sound of some little effect moves the room. Ears perk at nothing sometimes. Blossoms make a noise slowly. Pink City is perennial.

When it comes to form, I am always eager for the insides. Sometimes it is nice to sit outdoors, though. Even in autumn, to see a form out in the world and the chill onsetting. To let the Pink City pass you at its speed.

Soaking could be good or bad. Pink City hosts The Wind when it has nowhere else to go. Don’t get lonely, Wind, we are wet but are not long for the water.

Leather when it gets worn is a rugged kind of handsome. Empty leather, too, can look good rumpled. There are no coat hooks in Pink City. Tough guys go cold or wise up.

Walking takes me, not the map, not the stones, not the name Pink City.