They may Kiss or tell secrets

There are orchids on top of a box of drawers. Her chest pounds like the oceans in the morning but like the wind at night. In this there is no evil more anchors stove tops and banana cultures small monkeys with aching hearts. I live in the speculative world of ruptured features, off the wall participles, nuggets of antagonistic wealth hidden inside two blessed vessels. She dreams of Prudence and the songs sung one day in the distant past. I have sorted two streams of thought neither one being the curt and succinct one that is required.

Softly without shoes we walked in the giving sand. Avoiding glass like experts we move our warm feet uncut and smoothly belligerent. Taxed only. By the proximity of cold water.

I see the motion of the hands, waving back and forth like Sarah’s beautiful hands on her microphone stand. I haven’t seen her in the morning yet, only late at night when I can only imagine the true color of her face.

Two lanes on the highway, delineated by straight and dotted lines.

A truck that has ornaments carved by a Mexican artist on its hood – colorful figures with golden skulls, shiny, perhaps ceramic, and the driver looked at them and talked to them while he drove as if they could hear as if they were responding to him and perhaps they did.

Off the road there is a small path where we sometimes walked, she in her leotard, I in my torn and faded jeans. How did the jeans get faded? I wore them forever and continually washed them and loved them until they were faded.

Have there been oxen on their way to Damascus? Have the Beatles played for them singing Obladioblada? Have there been moments of water moving in a passionate wave? Have there even monuments which fell out of the sky intact, seen and yet ignored?

The aliens have been here, we are assured of this. There are days and days worth of videos explaining their presence. Certain people believe them like gospel.

Today there was wind but now it is still. It is cool outside but not cold. I have the virtuous song of a clock ticking on the wall – where the numbers should be, it instead says, simply, tea time – every hour is tea time, except a few in the late afternoon where instead it was high tea.

This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.