Sunday, November 1, 2009

What I Hear

I hear the clamorous sounds of refugees past--mother and child against the blood army of Them...European fascists and Stalinist henchmen...Maoists and Mid-East Madmen. I hear the clamorous sounds of refugees running in the night: the mother's wail, the young boy's cry...the rancor of death approaching. When I hear the sounds of clamorous refugees I brush away an imaginary spider. I eat a colourless cheese sandwich and lick my lips. Sometimes I wonder about the food of life and the preciousness of where I live. But still, I wish I had legs like a spider and eyes in the back of my head.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

I am a tired, old, overweight mafia man but these last three posts are like gallons of high-grade gasoline for the engine of my black, leather upholstered Lincoln Continental. Plenty for me to "pay a visit" to my mental warehouse of characters, who as of late, haven't quite been paying up.

The Dox