In the ash of an hour that’s all gone and dead, I can smell horse breath. It’s there lingering within me, as I turn yellowed pages of that McCullers book I adore so much. I like it because it makes me feel like I’m in the South, with nothing but alcohol spinnin’ deep. On the train, eyes follow my hands and breasts. Never the soul though, because that would be too bold. If a connection is something reached and magnetized, there is a soft fade out. The seize is there in the reception I’m given. Sometimes a smile is shared, but typically I’m just met with silence. So I pretend to be Frankie Adams that dreams of living elsewhere. With her, I become naughty, and can taste Alaskan snow and frail wintered sun that breathes like tiger and dragon.
Sighted on a walk home, is a gypsy lady with long gray hair, swept back in braids. When I look up, I shiver, for she is all I’ve wanted to become. I see my future there, curtained in her face. We love each other so much and die and are reborn again. We let the shadows of the street, mark us with new time that leaves us buried. And up, up, up in the static, we point to the stars, that continue to swim in the black cave of our existence. It’s that easy, & that hard.