She Wears a Blue Bandana
and uses the phrase
“on the lamb”
to describe most anything:
Her legal status.
Her state of mind.
Her philosophical leanings.
Her birth-control.
Her favorite summer shirt.
House of India #60
This globalization of loneliness plays out by railway. Postcard. Grass skirt. Blue paint puddles on black dirt. We meet the minimum standard without meeting each other.
When we wake up, we drain the excess moisture from our skin and wipe away what never got inside. We hear music and start our days. The orchestrated wolf calls that seeped into our dreams overnight have become beeps and blips. Plastic eyelashes. Toys.
And it will be mine. The world’s sorrow.
Rare actions barely exist. The waitress is pretty, and her home is clean. Like a distant candle. Like a radio left on in the woods. I was practicing precision contentment in the mirror. The day was fragile. I was reading a magazine.
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