Shoes Of Loose Pebbles

Ariadne hovering over one conversation, Dionysius over the other. Shadows creep over the floor like slow-spreading oil. At the mention of Tarot cards all faces in the room turned west, then blank. It is important to read deeply, yes, but also to have a relationship with objects untainted by fear. That is, independent of what one is told, what does one feel?

Lawn chairs tilted so as not to catch rain. Violets an afterthought in tall grass, scraps of crinoline on the floor beneath the wheel. A feeling always that a ghost has recently passed, clearing its throat, tickling out neck. Outdoor cats are increasingly rare. This year's moose sighting remains a future event, an opportunity for faith, or to challenge whatever supreme designer keeps its hold on me. There is a basement, with walls caving, filled with dust, where rats with their ribs showing gnaw moldy clothes, scratch the moist gravel. Of course I'm angry. Wouldn't you be?

How come nobody will touch the dollar bill on the microwave? Old scroll that I am, I had no dreams. Take a note, friends: first sighting of lilac blossoms was in early May. Last year this time my stomach was burning itself new holes and there was grit everywhere. Now only the color of rust, a fear of the mid-fifties.

The fist vs. the open palm no longer a matter of debate. I am envious of anyone who doesn't have to stop the journey in order to empty their shoes of loose pebbles gathered where.