A yellow petal. Also a balcony made of stone. A light to light words at the nocturne. Below a group of stray dogs run through, beige, called PotCake dogs because the inhabitants used to give them scraps from pans that resembled pieces of broken cake. Sounds of the wind through verdant fronds. A type of firmament pelican and they look to me like dinosaurs. Then north.
A stem and fence and trellis that have gotten old. Hmm…the lawns and mulberry tree, but nobody eats them save for some birds and squirrels. Pretty though. A shame they lack taste. The world wants the fanciest of luxuries. Not too far is a building housing books, and a trail. The trail goes to ponds and has sand paths, horses too. A mix of things. Inside fans turn for air and sound, air and sound, air and sound. The Tibetan Book of the Dead. How are you supposed to remember which light is which, what to avoid and what to identify with? Better just pray like hell instead and hope you did at least alright, like passing an exam. South.
There is a bad man there, though he looks like what people think is an acceptable man. He’s a bit psychic or something too, which makes him twice as dangerous. I avoid him and he picks up on this. We talk because he talks. ‘Where do you live?’ I point to the incorrect place on purpose. ‘Oh I think that’s not where you live. I think you there,’ and he points to where I really live. He knows that I know that he is bad. I leave. The sea sounds. I can hear the sea waves and there are birds. North.
It’s snowing. A million metropolitan crystals in everything. Roofs are hats for houses. Smoke rises from factories. The bay door opens and light from the winter sun marries briefly the crates and pumps, the desk and tools, the invoices and industrial water container. There is a blue box truck outside that needs to be unloaded. Heavy boxes. I am in the wrong place. On paper it’s correct. But in any other way it’s a hundred percent wrong. South.
I am stung by a jellyfish. It’s bad. A doctor gives me medicine but comes back. ‘I’m worried,’ says the doctor, ‘because that medicine is supposed to be a liquid and it is a solid. It might be very old…’ What am I supposed to think? What do you say to that, so far from home? I suffer through it. It’s my arm. My arm hurts badly but everything hurts and is itchy, like an allergic reaction. I thought the sea was my beloved. I guess not. North.
Flowers. Simple flowers in the September sun. I no longer really know what they mean. I like them nevertheless. A long dirt road. Doesn’t really lead to anywhere. Nothing. Trees. Greenery. Little hills and valleys. Lots of goldenrod, that’s for sure, always lots of goldenrod. A psychic on a street hands a piece of paper in a faraway town to my loved one and it has information, names, that they couldn’t know. I wonder what the seer’s trick, if a trick, is. The sun is bright and lights the earth. I would prefer the overcast, the cooler, the clouds to take over. I wonder at that.
(photo credit: Brian Michael Barbeito)
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