Monday, January 16, 2012

Things I Saw

(written 8/12/2011)

Just the other day on a bus, far away, I rode for a distance a map cannot measure.
My eyes were pinched against the swords of an amber sunset, my arms and legs bathing in sweat and sweet.
Nonetheless I saw a hill, forever rolling…cascading greens pulling over one another to melt into a voluptuous mountainside playing leap frog.

A pair of trees with trunks bulging at all sides from the Mother’s persistent pressure.

A flock of birds cast in a cordial shadow of rouge, not dark enough to frighten or create mystery, but the color that feels safe like a quiet friend.

A dead dog lying belly up flocked to by a chorus of grubby flies rubbing a stream of legs together.  They rehearsed a crass victory dance upon their over-sized meal, the type of feast they’d never have without the unconcerned locals who care more for their white rice confections than skinny strays pock-marking the streets.
Even the dogs with homes are saddest looking breeds. They beg for some things, something, anything more than the mocking remnants occasionally tossed their way.

I saw an old man resting his diseased bones.
His atrophied eyes could barely comprehend his own shape or deteriorating flesh. Nonetheless, he lined up next to the best of them, those brown skinned stallions fresh from the womb. 
And never did I see a tear squeeze through those lucid trap doors. ‘Til this day, he is the strongest man I’ve passed eyes over.

A sky, unlike no other, was dancing with itself for the hell of it.
The sparkles in its long, wide wake dripped colors that strained into ignorant orbs.
The pink and orange, the gold and auburn, they mingled like sugar and warm water while tasting just as kind. These hues spread prehistoric wings that shone with a brilliance our human capacities have no way to explain.

And amongst my view I was possessed by the smell of fried plantains, fried bread, fried cheese, fried fried. All the peddlers’ grease had accumulated from centuries of hocking goods. It gathered there in the street gutter, glossing the children’s slick black hair, preening and pruning them into the caramel Buddhas they were fated to become.

I could’ve seen for centuries or just a faded moment. I’m still not sure which I chose, or what I was supposed to do.

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