Friday, March 20, 2015


I can see through walls. I see the fig tree in the back yard with it's over ripe fruit oozing viscous juice which drops in a sticky, sensual splash. I can see the neighbours next door cooking and reading the paper and seething at each other. I can see Jorge in his bedroom, laying on the bed in his monk robe and groaning and rubbing his head. I can see all the way across town and through many walls to where a lady lies on a pink couch in the dappled sunlight. She is reading and Marvin Gaye is playing through the fly screen and she is smiling quietly.

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