Miguel

1

His friend from the goose district of France stood in the doorway, slowly withdrawing himself. Someday the door will open again. On the peninsula, on a red hot day. Moored ever so deeply, in the city, in your memories. Walking. Walking to escape, to break the chains. Loosen up the space-time continuum.
His unruly, curly, tousled hair made him look perpetually surprised, as if a nest of question marks perched on his head. Mathilda brings a sheaf of flowers, fresh from the fields, long before we awake to the chime of the morning bell. She often feels like a bridge too far, long tirades of her comings and goings. Last night I told the moon to turn my bed around. “Let me start anew”. I often think of the old man. We bought him coffee and biscuits at the café next to the bakery. The table resembled a stranded satellite of hope. Diligently so. Marred and scarred, shrinking in a light-brown costume, he clutched the coffee cup as if it was a knob to the last exit. “Young man... if I were in your shoes, I’d buy a new pair”. Hoarse voice in the murmuring hum of the café. Strained by time and careless use, perhaps, he was a former teacher gone gardening. He liked to grow larkspurs, flowers often associated with lightheartedness and youth. I also can’t stop thinking of Miguel. Our summer is tattooed in me like a feverish, recurring dream. Now gone off, for guns and glory, and the drill. The inward light of attention: a sun. Miguel, shining on other avenues now. Spectacular. And red sneakers threading the grounds. Already two unanswered telephone calls. Supposedly staying with his aunt from the goose district of France. Long live the republic.

2

Perfunctory, albeit personal, Adrienne unwrapped her trappings to endure another story. This establishment where the dancers have dust on their hands. The light crawls in slow, amber stripes across the floorboards. Makings. White draperies, sunlight fishing. Talking about the whereabouts of Dinofelis. In step with neurosis, Humbert taps the table for echo report. Honeyglue, watershoe, domesticated worries in the network tonight. Oystercloined eye dwelling on the scene: recalling, reminiscing, vain intermezzos. He was unlocked, letting go of all of his time, unrendered.

3

Rude chiming clockwork ripping up a new morning. Mathilda is already up. Tissue paper. Clippings in place. Breakfast in the saloon: porridge, toast with blackberry jam, eggs and tea. A morning mentally barescraped. Lodged in a fragile shell of hope, chewing that toast, sipping that tea. Miguel walked around barefoot. He claimed his father had tamed a lion in Tanzania, he would parachute over the savannah. Mad person sailing through the blue airways. So many mornings, undisputed, a savannah with little conversation, barren linguistics. “Pass the sugar”, “pass the milk”. You are going to be late for school.

4

Luck never turned such stones. The inbred riverside constellations. Whoa! A terse letter from the king might have saved us. Whereas Daytona never gazed to that level of inward contagion. She is oily in the eye, remembering that golden coast, excellent seafood. Mannekin-years are ending, sleep is mending, look at all those packages she is sending. Hanley has a bus stop where I spray-painted your name, but as Miguel said, we have to move forward. Open-ended, truth-bending conquistadores. I seem to go back to Lake Erie in my mind. Solve the puzzle once and for all. A hackneyed, two-legged imposter entity.

5

Before us. The craven project. Nine vaults of addictive pleas. Injured me. Too obsessed. Where the off-kilter are summoning the favorite adversaries. Canned tuna depressive meals in flea-infested apartment. Nothingness CV. Stale prospects. Bars and chains. The disinterested look. Disillusion. Wait for eruption. Somewhere is the key, not anywhere. Antidote musings. A fiesta of sorts. Melancholy respite. Soaring above the floorboard. Plans to get even. Some day. Fragile hope, construction time again.

6

Miguel wins the barmaid with his timeless smile. Unsuffocates her. Two pints of Guinness please. Dark brown wood panel. Trophies. Pool tables. Shimmering glass spirits. Magic twinkling green, blue and yellow bottles under the lights, an altar. The manager comes down the stairs. Full to the brim with confidence and purpose. Impatient beerbelly general. Don’t mess about. Arranging chairs and swiping tables, clearing things up. Miguel shines like a new doll. The manager does not see this. Just another costumer for him. Misbehave and you are out. We order fish and chips. Talking about drum-and-bass, the hectic manouvering. Snapshots. Dreams and schemes. Remembering Mathilda despite Miguels’ unnostalgic inclination. Onwards, forwards: his beat and melody. This machine can only swallow sparkling ideas and stories that propel him. Quirky, weird and new, “show, don’t tell”. His vietnamese friend walks through the door. They invite me over for drinks and games, the one where you put a card of unknown character on your forehead. Place your bets.

7

If they cared for me it was well-hidden. The house, the school, the bus stop, the rhododendrons...were halts on my line, accumulations on the storyboards where we were cooking up the present, and the future? Adrienne was there, a black-haired oracle out of business. Her big melancholy eyes seemed to contain all the sadness in the world. One had a sense she really loved her tall boyfriend from out of town but she was too clouded, her psyche was a patchwork quilt sewn together with threads of anxiety. In any case, she often stayed under her blanket. That day it rained, news of grandmother’s death flashing in my mind. Staying near that television set. I should be studying. It was my only ticket. Adrienne had one of her mute periods. A bowl of pasta sallad in her lap, seated in the huge armchair next to a portrait of Lord Jim. And a cressula ovata, magical tree in the half-shade, avoiding sunlight. This room with a flickering tv-set is where we endure another evening. Someone who cared for you is gone. Someone great is gone.

8

Lake Erie, means “long tail”, enclosed by rows of pines, coniferous forest. The expensive fishing trip. The Danville son had connections up north. On the lake: white bass hooked. Screams of delight, fish with vicious hairdo. The water: alternating between steel gray, greenish, slate blue and impossible. He said “there’s a demon in me”. A visit to the time long before the jams and the hiccups. Just a few persons with fishing rods on a boat. Anglers. That long trip, the Danville son arrangement. First time in America. Lake Erie was restless, wide and a little sad. Don’t worry about catching anything –it's the rhythm of the water that does the healing. In the cabin afterwards, playing cards, drinking hot chocolate, warming ourselves. The next day, Presque Isle state park. Someone told us they had found an unfortunate kayaker on the beach. America is big and wild and violent. Lots of places to hide dead bodies. Good morning USA, murderers getting dressed for success. We got out of there and took a plane from Cleveland Hopkins international airport.

9

Miguel, the son of a portuguese mythomaniac, often suggested he was a rock. He had to be. The gleam of his eyes, scanning for opportunities and absurdities. Keeping a steady course, even when his mother died. Sorrow was not something on display. The city pilgrim and the wanderer. He set out on foot, with shoes this time, to encircle the city, to uncover its mystery. I saw him talking to the old man next to a cherry tree. The hoarseness of the old man’s voice declaring “cherry is harder than pine but softer than oak, maple and walnut”. Cherry, blossoms bloom gloriously for just a few days then fall. Miguels strong chiseled face, his rich hair, the whamminess of his hands and the flights of his soul... I can’t believe these things will ever fade from the earth.

10

The ballgame inferno. Tree losing its leaves and thinking it is going to die. Venture. The talisman, soon. Who are the rebels of time? The poets, the comfort and the wine. Perpendicular mood swings. Sharp turns. The Alma mater of yesterday. Coining phrases on lazy sundays. Adrienne never flinched when pinched, only exhibiting that marble-like face. She could work for the secret service you know. Vegetable-agent, but who is she spying on? The pigs and hens around the farmhouse? She said she likes the “groundedness” of being with animals. I have seen her out walking with a pig held in a leash. “Drop the leash we are young”. So many metaphors. Is the pig the sorrow she can’t let go off? But I thought sorrow was a dog. Soon back in the ballgame inferno, the handshakes and the smiles on demand. Interactions, expectations, showing up, committing to transactional situations. When your strength makes me weak. Stop comparing. Drop the leash! You are your own freewheeling entity now, let loose in the vast pinball game of experience.

11

Mixed reviews. Water and wine. Sunlight beating down on the pavement and on his unruly hair, somewhere. The leaves are falling, the moments go away but some of them keep returning, like distorted boomerangs. They comingle into insights, lessons, perspectives: glowing amalgams on memory lane. Between then and later a painful wedge, a collaborator of sorts, shifting sands, slippery notes: nowhere to stand but inside a fountain of tears.

12

A fair share of nothingness. Adrienne got up and cleaned her room. The clockwork on the wall kept ticking. Hens in the barnyard kept pecking. It was the most beautiful time of the year and we were playing bridge. Soul flyer Miguel was occupied in his practice of making paper planes and acting as if he was far away. He never admitted being disappointed with the entertainment. We went for a walk. His face like a sail in the wind. A radar scouting the surroundings. He brought toast from the breakfast service and we had a laconic snack time by the square. Sometimes the city doesn’t want to play. We arrived at the flea market. Used items for sale, I felt like one of those. Miguel came out of there with a defunct radio transmitter. “Somehow I’ll make it work”, he said.

13

Shutters. Conglomerates. The far side. Metropolis. Juxtapositions. Jams. Hazy huggermugger. Locked inside fog, dog barking to no effect. The humdrum everyday. Lack of inspiration. Simmering through the cracks. Daredevil used up. He paid his so called friends. Scammers on a tight schedule. Looking for the poetry of a way out. Change to fit, the key of the new in the protean lock. Smokestack lightning and crowbar mildew. Protein supplements. Whiskeysounds the doldrums. Hankering for a better future, nitrogen effeminate on a stale ticket: I’m just the kid with the brain of a drug addict. Hammering away. Contested diaphrams. Dusty road of claustrophobia. Living on film, caffeine and the long shadows. Striving to transcend the most difficult time of his life.

14

A fly in the ointment, west of your sorrows. A grief that cannot be contained. Adrienne cleaning and cleaning her room. Spilling over. Taking care of things taking care of you.I had noone to talk to in that dusty room but I got up and emulated Adreinne who thought something had to be done. We got to get somewhere somehow. Workings. Air conditioning. Don’t crash. Open the bleak compartment of noone there, the nothing land where you rebuild your structures even if it feels absolutely pointless. At school I talked to Ben, masquerading a bit, sidestepping, talking about the gym and plans for the summer. Avoiding the collapsed centerpiece of my mind, as if nothing had happened.

15

Time periods, epochs, ways of life, linguistic turns. Traditions are swaying. Ocean floor reconfigured. If a parachute held me now while soul mountaineering. Yesterday’s heroes: people bending broken rules. If a nurse came and bathed my forehead. Fever. Nocturnal animals: who is Cain and who is Abel? I knocked on the door and noone opened. I didn’t have a key. And it didn’t even start with a flourish. Mathilda, a keen reader and a talker. If I told her a secret the whole house would know in an instant. Physiologically incapable of keeping a secret. Who can resist a good story? The linen clothing and low whispers. Hissing sounds in the stairwell. A batch of this on every floor. On the wrong foot with the master, had to go on his weird errands, delivering homemade sauerkraut to the old man. Remember:Adrienne's big melancholy eyes, long looks, long silences. We got stuck in broken conversation. I recall the ash tree in the garden, its leaves: fragile fishbone patterns against the blue of the sky, sending us greetings from our relatives in the sea. One night of frost and it would loose the leaves. Our conversation had a similar tendency, a cold turn of events and Adrienne would drop the exchange and go and clean her room.

16

A hookline in the mess. Your mass of griefs and worries. Mathilda spoke with the old man “ do you need anything?” she said, “The peace of the mineral world” he replied, shrinking in his cream-coloured suit. The day had sunlight above the palm trees and frivolous banter. Good jocks. The sons of the teacher all became doctors and lawyers, that steered them away from trouble. Nothing could break their armor, no mental hiccup, no addictive streaks. Just good solid jocks. Or so it seemed. I didn’t really know them that well. What do you really know? Meaning: construction everyday. Purpose: that magnetic node directing your boat. Steadying the beat. So many days of aimless drift, perhaps I should go to military school. Just like Miguel. Get my act together. Miguel was throwing darts with one of the jocks in the dark-paneled bar. During the time of applications and dreams. The world was a balloon of possibilities. Adrienne sat on a chair looking bored and out of place. Her plans? Musings about anthropology or archeology. She had that sad rabbit look, alone on a field and ready to go. I walked the master’s dog onto a field of rabbits and set it loose. The dog chased the frightened animals and a man reprimanded me and said it was “bad dog-ownership". My poor judgment, can I ever turn the table? Find the proper path. First things first: the whereabouts of Miguel. He is not throwing darts with the jocks, not anymore.

17

Lofty ideals and sweat on your neck. The job, the dirty grind, the lagging behind, and life that is elsewhere. This shovel blocks the view. The front, the back. Someday I’ll make my way in this godforsaken town. The peninsula. Doubt. Frying in the pan. Loose affiliations. The death whisperer. I remember the days in the garden. Talking about plum trees with the old man. Often flowering through the snow, that makes them a symbol of hope, endurance in difficult times. I’m marooned in the winter. Presbyterian jingles. Dog-walking. Sighs. Horrible mornings. Alarmingly despairing lows. Grocery store fear. Silent phones. The accusing stare of the room. I should just take care of school. Miguel hasn’t called me back.

18

Mansion. Birdnest in the tree. So soft is their flight, like her eyelashes when she smiles. Adrienne, could I ever reach that plane. Tinker, tailor. The first, the last, his everything. Pale Impala heading south on a new morning. I’m only a few feet away from desperation. But I’m still firm, walking the master’s dog. In and out of jams. Threading water. The depressive deep sea cooker. Refrain. Bus stop. Waiting list. The turns. Sit this through. Cold seat cigarett. Without warning signs. One nice meal at Beaufort Hills. The ragged doll and the vice chairman of DLS. Somewhere among the ratched memories, a key or a change. A turn in the dream songs. Please.

19

They heard the knock on the door. Turned you loose, your mama too. Hid the bottles. Yesteryear mint-green porcelain on the table. Something of a dying breed. Hermits. Her Jewish parents. Implicitly talking about the guilt in roaming free and should she stay with such a schmuck? Internal affairs. The grand look. She kept a small revolver in the drawer among her earrings. A loophole somewhere, the daughter wants to move out, but they say she is too young. Trainers. Ponytails. Weird Cordon bleu. I hijacked the conversation. She too had a soft spot for Miguel. How did I end up in their dining room? Minute ordeals. How does it all add up? Stern economist father: short-sleeved shirt, hairy underarms, horn-rimmed glasses, no-bullshit eyes, Elevator blues. Stuck on this floor with everyone else. He distrusted big companies and big governments. “They want your money and your servitude”. An ardent worker nevertheless. Gets up at four. Sisyphus doing it clean.

A few good moments, lantern eyes, a boat kissing the waves. The last rites. Routes. Vested interests. A nickle and a dime. Report. Some lost saga entwined in the perimeter where we thread. Tenderly. Tuxedoed smile. Rare times. Handkerchief. Polished shoes. The ceremony where we lift the hat of time. Parched. Part and parcel. Every me and every you. The longing is the fuel. Engine. Oil. Macaroni cheese. Remember this on a bleak tuesday. Pruning. The everchanging wheel of wonder. Walk this through with the unknown metronome of your heart. Beating drum. Have a stance, take a shot. Put your furniture in the garden. Water the flowers. Dive in to your dreamy catalogues and your tapestry of rhyme.

21

Barman sighs. The propulsion of lies. TV hacks. Looks the other way. When Adrienne showed up I could ease up a little. That thursday beneath the rain and the clatter. School work piling up. Endorsing truancy and a game of darts. Adrienne, a saintly horse with serious capital. Still no signs of Miguel, beautiful stardust. Wherever he has gone there’s a bluebird singing. The name sparkle and shines, unattainable. The looking glass: sea and myth. Wave after wave. This forgotten peninsula where we are letting go of our days. Parked in a waiting game. Tandoori chicken. Lame. No resolution. Gadfly radio personality. Tease, tease, tease. The broken record of my mind. Glimpses and a mass of leaves on the streets, under the lights. The felling of the new:” a big hole of anxiety”. Hold to the here, the now. Steady as a rock.

22

Dozing in the parlour among green plants and curlicue shapes. Safe from noise and hustle. A little gem among the seeds. Sunrays are whistling through. Adrienne brought me tea when the smoke of my mind had cleared. Stories of Tirana... corruption as an artform. Biscuits. Is she ever going back? Big eyes, big sensual mouth. Droopy? I never thought about it that way. She carried a letter from Miguel. His bright future perhaps. Caribbean island hopping. Steward on a boat. Endowing that warm smile for the world to see. Mind and world. Experience is shot through with normativity. Surprise lines. I didn’t think he would write Adrienne. Act unperturbed, tea cup in hand, newly arrived from the land of sleep, from a nap beyond the troubles. This parlour, the master wants us to scrub it but I rather walk his dog Punjar. A love letter? It couldn’t be. Does he play on both teams? It’s a binary world but somehow I’ll learn to survive. Yesterday is on my tail, delivering nostalgic blows to the heart. Unnecessary associations in the network tonight. A most revelatory tea time among the plants and the shapes. Perhaps I’m making something out of a nothing. Some people often do.

Motley hotel on the first of may. Shamrock values, contested nightmares. Awake a few hours too early. Bluebird on my mind. Miguel also. Returning. A lost spell. Inside the molecules. Bending to become the new version of you. Shamrock values. I could never play that game and call it fair. I wish I could do something for Adrienne, the acedic princess. Rain taps on her window, beating her drum.We're cliches, worn-out from careless use. The kicker isI'm alarmed and atuned to changes in the weather. Humdrum grey humidity. Depression is guarding your secret, sapping your juice, mutineering the soul, sorrow becoming stale and too influential. Hack work Sloterdijk menschivik ideology fog brain. I'm looking for a free space inside this hotel. Must have looked a little uneasy when I turned the other way. It'sthe shamrock values. Embedded. Coded. Encrypted. Your heroes waiting to be saved. Coronation quarter, early morning blues, contested nightmares.

24

Wet asphalt shining under the street lights. Old world new world. Merging. The tension bungee jumps. Abyssal moments of vast emptiness, a terrifying absence. Adrienne refused to speak, avoiding contact in the gilded age. Fully booked over Christmas. Leaving the house and the plants deserted. Readiness to go anywhere. Miscellaneous drifting. Don’t feed the internal war but how to reach a peace agreement? I can’t sit and wait, I can’t sleep almost. The bittersweet refrain keeps returning, obsessive brainchant. Can it help to eat certain vegetables? It can’t be like this forever, this is only a wave, a new base of the soul will emerge. Something deep and primed, anchored in the wild forest of the psyche, a bear guarding the ornament where your spray-painted name has been changed, the sound and the feel will be different. I will say “Miguel” and feel hope and gratitude over breathing and walking one more day on this weird planet.

25

Wesley tree top. The Louvre, art melting. The hands are cleaned, the gear is in place. Murdering rain drops. Visiting the mother conjoined with purloined whispers. When will he proclaim "free at last!". Utopian letters? Wishful thinking? The case for peacefulness is postponed, annoyingly so. Some needle, some manipulation. The watery domestic. Waking up in the middle of the night or too early in the morning. Adrienne is vast asleep, tending her moon garden with the willows and the pines in a dream about folklore. Deploying rare smiles. The film of juiced up vermillions. Husky hue, sideburns, male know-how in the face of death. Why can't I ever be properly prepared. Ready, with suitcase in hand and a letter of recommendations. Check in at the hotel, ring the bell, ease into it. Wondrous tapestry. Slipping through the fear gate unscathed. Wash the dread right off. Like a sparrow in the thick of it.

26

Rejection letters. Unemployment. Dire straits almost. The lone walk cigarette. Watch the lillies bloom. Faint ideas about resurrection in the in-between years. And where is Miguel. I can still hear him singing in the wilderness. He is large from a distance. Perigord son, in the air tonight. But you have to find a path and start digging. Perimeter blues. The center cannot hold. Weak overlays. Weather forecast: the long silent boardwalk, contemplation face stairing into space. Adrienne feeding the hens while the clock magnifies my worries to no avail. Ride tonight, gather friendly animus. Seek ritual, the bending query lingers in your bones like a long forgotten dream. Heretofore. Cymbeline. Smoke plums. Fire embers. Letting go and starting anew.

27

A barista in the meadows. Flowery café. Valley of redemption. She had a thing for fresh starts and olives. Stretched back then. That was when Adrienne was young. A thousand years old. The stars in her eyes had not gone silent. Enveloped in muteness. A witness protection program of the soul. Unknown crime. This almost blank stare. Where do we go from here? Straight to infinity or just a few blocks down the street. Very peripatetic. The old man turns a page in the newspaper. Nibbling on biscuits. “She is open, not empty, she will find out”. Well-received. Caterpillar. Ploughing through the image stream of the mind. Another day on this crazy river. Parallax.

28

Merione wash period. On the slopes. Skiing. Respite from trouble. She had a nice day at the helm. Improbable. Left out. Carried out vain projects. The snow had everything softened. The caterpillar years. Something of a nagging itch. Impromptu. Canteen. Watertight. Primrose vest. One resort after another. Drinking spree with friends. Miguel’s high-octane stories. Buying rounds. In skiing jacket. Later we’d all have hangovers and send a postcard home. In higher register. In the evenings, the mountains watching us from a high castle. Judging. Plotting something sinister, highfalutin. Miguel on top of the world. My anxiety about home became fragmented, and dissipated when I was away. Hence the idea of perpetual motion and vagabondry.

29

Door bent. The similar process. Fish. Go deep. Lake Erie. If I had what still read. It was going to get rough. Dimlit sallad. Fractured soul of bits and pieces. Outstretched camaraderie. The wellspring of new ideas and potential friendships. A boat from here to there. But he drove out into the desert where kidnappers thrive and the water holes are many miles apart. Dying of thirst, almost, he jumped into a well, thirty feet down in the ground, but then he could not get back up. Saved by nomads spotting his sandals by the hole. From here to there. Faith. You need bus loads of it. Empty canteen. In the thick of it. Persistent camel. Deserts: a whole lot of absence. Just you and the rocks and sands and the animal and the buzz of your memories working themselves out, dissolving, ever-changing, participating in new thought fragments. Sunlit dishes in a great vanishing project. From bags to bitches. Lake versus desert. Horizons. Peaceful rhythms.

30

Freight train nights. A moveable feast. Dream-stream overload. Where are his friends. A lone night under the stars. Toyota Carolla. Mile after mile. Delivery. Puns. Skipping beats. Stirring myself up to avoid. Depressive deep sea cooker. Hamburger with mayo. Something on the way. God, I feel so alone. Life is a horror show at times. Buckle up. I miss my friends. Frivolous banter. Plans. Stories. Doings. You want something to take the edge off, but no alcohol. A road for Even-Steven. Where it all adds up. But where’s the antidote? Evil-knievel. Stressful inner images. The relentless stream. I’m not picking up anything in the grocery store here. Where to lay your head? It’s as if something is out to get me. And there’s no trace of Miguel. The secret samadhi.

31

Dreams in indigo. Do not despair, dear Freddy. Alarms in your head went off, but where’s the evidence that they speak the truth. In the palm of her hand, a branch from the alder tree. The old man speaking soothingly about nitrogen in the soil. Venture. Holding on. Diggeridoo of endurance droning for you, for embers of hope on a dark night. Tremendously dark. Adrienne humming for the first time this year. Palimpsest. The net of experience, or the river. We’re holding firm. She took off her shoes and waded. This soft stream where the branches carry messages to the sea. In the hut she whistled that tune Miguel used to sing. Island hoppers of the sky. Taking comfort and solidity in the unknown, “I put my trust in that”. The next move in the puzzle will reveal itself. I can’t see it now but it will be there eventually.

32

I am on a flight. Light tan, light bag. Thin air luxurious yuppies. Devilish. But you absorbed the heat much better. Somatically. Relaxed in a plane seat, a philosopher you couldn’t pinpoint, interested in body language and performative art. Black polo shirt. Bald. Strong features, a warm bear smile. Miguel couldn’t be vexed. Insalvatory gem structure. The heathen times. Having an apartment with almost no furniture, as if constantly on the verge of moving out. Was his mind like that? Something that could be quickly excavated. No anchoring, no foundational sofa? Clean and breezy like a hotel room, ready for customers. In transit. Host to whomever, anyone who could foot the bill. Marionera. Distilled. Miguel in an airport lounge, hair combed back, flipping through glossy magazine. Excuse me talking but I want to marry you. Loudspeakers announcing the next flight. Tomorrow we’ll be miles apart. Scattered, someday we’ll pick up the thread I hope. Miguel silhouetted. Sunlight beating through large windows. Light footsteps towards gate 17.

33

Base. Homeworld crumbling. Rose peeking through window. The beam of the new. Settle on a star. Primrose vested. Placing a lock of hair behind the ear. The temples are expanding. Lockstock. Smoking bear. Feast. The sacrifice. Your lot had been rearranged. Dinner is served. Adrienne’s festive shirt, contradicting her soul. Going against yourself. The mad motor inside. She arranged the table in the garden. Fleeting respite. Sun aglow and going down over jagged whimsical pines. Paper plates, garlands, bridges, mugs and cutlery. Humans and their tools, always coping with the world. I parachuted and fell into this garden, this life, these versions of the kaleidoscope. There were birds and music. Sometimes it feels totally random but how random is random? And do numbers really exist? It felt good to be out of the rain, it felt good to be out on the road. Magical routes. The stars: haunted constellations. A horse with no name.

34

Municipality. Dog-years returning. The master paying bills with concerned face. Adrienne never escaping her program, her circles. Loneliness, a big task to reside in it peacefully. Ascetic sideorder. Twin perils. Daytona. Wind mills. Exit wounds. The plain where we went to work. Corn flakes mornings. Alabaster screen shots. The old man talking about the greenery, sipping his coffee, flipping pages in the newspaper. You get the feeling there is a lot of work to do. But where to start? Scrubby ideas. Tormented nights under mundane lights. Fostered. Incandescence. Lake Erie. Somewhere among the roads, a purpose. Reentering that vast plain. Nothingness winds. Barmaid collects the tip and eyes my busted nose. What I had slipped out of my hand. In the municipality. Dog-years returning. No easy street. Scrapped intentions. Tear down this wall.

35

Blitz. Alone in the catacombs. The invectives are crawling in the chambers. Immunological swayings. Dirtbag posture. Lavish catastrophy. Musical. Where am I. Solve the print. Money. Karate. Hammered. Soujourn. Nietzsche’s breakdown, where is the horse? Weird house. Inflicted stuff. I can’t go on like this. It’s just a phase. Isolation. Molested soul on the brink. Question marks are shaking. Rattling guns. Turn, turn, turn, there is a season. I hope I will get out of it.

36

The long silence had just begun. Repetition. Tableaus. The pilgrimage of youth ending. Resuming. Where were you? Our last night together. Crickets. No stars. Just muddling through. Scary lone steps. Perimeter blues. Miguel’s withered flowers in a vase. Early morning dog-walk. Cigarette. All the time that we shared, in pandora’s box. Scattered. Inscribe your name in the catalogue of broken families. How did you play your cards? Shattered self on green carpet. Sorrow burst. Scraping through. Unfamiliar strategies. Where do we go from here? The bends. A buried relationship. Pick up your shards, pieces of investment, fly your satellites home, wherever that is. Home is where the heart is. Sometimes I think it went away, crushed and crashed, with you. Leaving me excavated, used up, thirsty in the desert with my camel, my only hope. Gather strength, persist, even though you are a hollow bureaucratic statement. I can’t believe this is happening. Miguel being gone and all. Leaving a compass and some withered flowers behind. A move towards the light. He stood in the doorway, slowly withdrawing himself. Leaving this blank space for me to reclaim. The old man would suggest some kind of orchard in its place.

37

Wurlitzer playing low.  Awaiting change. The barman comes over, takes our orders. It’s twelve past twelve. I have a beer and write the afterword. Heard the premise, felt it like the edge of a knife. Adrienne is out of sight, playing lip service to hope I suppose. The emerald of the sea on her dress. I need her tonight, her oracle out of service, her vision and profile. Ticket to wonderland or at least somewhere else. Gone off with her tall lanky boyfriend. She can teach me a thing or two about endurance, now that everything is shattered and the depressive deep sea cooker is on my tail. I keep asking for directions in this new city. I have keys but where are the locks? I have a voice but to whom shall I speak? I miss Adrienne lingering in her room: big hair, deep dark eyes. I wish her well. It’s time to move on, even though it hurts like hell. I’m enveloped in that wurlitzer tune. “Monty got a raw deal”.