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  • The graves grow grassy hair, that cocktail party is over. The ship of quick hellos has sailed and the graves grow grassy hair from the old broken shadows. Statues of rulers, and statues of religions like images of light seen from our broken bridges, there is clarity somewhere but it is almost probably not on this earth. Complain? I'd rather come to you with open eyes and with the eyebrows of a frame, come to you with my true name, come to you in the folds of cement of that gravestone put down by wind and planes and angles and hope there might be angels, even at the helm.

    I could be in a booth for two with six empty spaces. I could be playing you a duet with ghosts, with my tinny saxophone. The lamp oil could show the way, or the lamp oil might be another form of darkness; grease. I've missed you, friend.

    Out on those streets I chanced to wander, just ions in a dress, the lamppost peeled back to reveal another form of trash, but the low has to be inside the high-toned, doesn't it? A small girl came by, maybe six, maybe nine, smoking inside a bubble, it might have been some form of chewing drugs she was inhaling.

    I was just wandering for a while, mostly in my mind, holding hands with syllables, moving in on vagrant synapses, holding at bay the varmint semi-colons, punning alone at night in splendid aloneness. Still I missed you, friend.

    I don't know what it is, this quest. It might be a beau geste, who could be the wiser? It might simply be that this planet orb is one blue oasis. I'm just putting this down on a cloud cover, because, you see, I missed you, my friend. There was a moment on the road, when I stopped, two men were standing with one bicycle. You know how: using it as a bar stool. And the old ragged sign behind, that kind of older-fashioned billboard, close to the ground, handpainted, said: COFFEE, BEER; and, WHISKEY I saw then, fading between the coffee and the beer and a woman in a bikini.

    One man was putting his foot forward as if to make a point, the other was huddled in a sweater on the hot and sunny day. I didn't think about you for a long time, and then I did. Time was burned into my pocket watch.

    (Photo by Susan, today August 4, 2014, Morning Glory flower, in the garden)
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