justwrite 23 june

I can only say I’d rather be reading heeding no warnings no reminders no alarms the charms casting shadows on other occupations the state of the nation the union the confusion piling up like lost and dirty dishes scattered like wished of a thousand pieces of dust rusting into place absurdly with all the wrong elements glancing backward and wondering what to do with all the freedom they are sifting through the air and I am unaware and don’t care like Pierre the boy whose mind was changed and also eaten by a lion because this is what happens and those dappled gray ponies don’t ride off into the sunset with you on their back every time my fine young friend sometimes by the end they’ve simply had enough and they take the bus instead and forget your ticket or perhaps lick it and stamp it on a bumper of a misplaced caravan of convertibles distracting your attention for long enough until its bluff can’t be recalled I am stalling before telling you the real story which is the glory of bus stop sitters the knitters of eyebrows and the crows feet flocking together pulled back by scarves and pressed into service as the synthesis of nylon track pants and dark heavy suit coats protects and defends and allows another cigarette powering another handshake and there’s a plastic bag on one side and when beside him the face turns the same angle she has twice as many plastic bags half as many cigarettes and again half of that but also she has buckets these are of strawberries or sometimes blueberries at the moment and it is unclear if her day is over if these are purchases or still to be sold if she’s holding out to light upon a new corner another piece of curb undisturbed by the passage of sunlight behind the sovietstyle apartments turning gray to pink before sinking into night her eyes are bright enough to see what she needs and the rest doesn’t matter for now