They said we were stacking stones, waiting for god. The best I could tell, we were just making a clock tower with a big bell in it. The bell currently hung between two mules parked outside of a blacksmith's shop. They didn't have names, but everyone said their ears were perfectly shaped like almonds. The bell was suspended by a small bamboo stalk, across the mule's backs, hanging about 2 feet from the ground; dust settled easily under the bell and sound was absorbed as if carelessly walking into the ocean. Like I said, I didn't know much about why stones needed to be stacked, but over time -- cleaning the surfaces, making things square -- that bell ended up just about where the tops of the trees ended. I also don't think I ever figured out anything about god, but once that bell was struck, pulled gently by a rope attached to the braying of a donkey, the sound didn't walk aimlessly into the ocean, it seemed to wander around in the clouds; maybe a bit like someone sitting quietly alone reading a newspaper.
I know a woman who mumbles words into my armpit. I never can hear what she says, but I love that it reminds me of how much more there always is to say to her.
Under this boat, a hull supports, which is held up by water.
the water goes, actually becoming quite bright. Stones sit on shores with wispy seaweed hair as videos are made for high school loves.
Tilt your head and squint an eye against oblique sunlight through cafe windows and you'll see a single stone, perhaps on a shore or at some ocean depth, where kelp is seeded, growing
towards parted waves that hold a song about home. Home is large sunglasses and musk. Home is a lot of things I have yet to see.
Has anything every been too fast? Or too furious? Seems impossible...
I had this thought while I was sitting in a cafe, that there was the possibility that the next time I came to the cafe it would be in the middle of a robbery. The robber would only let people go who could prove they had been in the cafe before. I became really excited when, in the present moment, I saw this small, golden tack pressed into the ceiling near my table.
I envisioned my future self, strolling into the cafe with headphones on, oblivious to the current state of affairs. As I wipe my feet on the entry mat, I look up to see myself face-to-face with a man in a ski mask holding a gun, demanding if I have ever been in this cafe before. I maintain eye contact, and slowly raise my right hand towards the ceiling, off to my right side out of my line of site, finger extended. I simply say: A golden tack.
I am set free.