And I’d make myself sick if I was another person watching my thoughts. It’s a blurry and slow-moving
compilation of coincidences stacked on top of eachother: sticky teacups stacked on a desk, junk mail

Egg-yolks blooming in serenity

baba’s palms turn upwards

black dirt falling on the sun.

The fruit of baba’s hands

covered in spines

twisted but not the wicked way

that punctures skin.

Serpentine limbs extend in search of

I envy the stories

They tell.

Of the East

And the West.

Of bare feet,

Guava trees,

Roasted fava beans.

Of tin water pails

That held curly-haired children

To keep the dust off their feet.

“A breath, a sigh, she closes her eyes,

hearing the forest saunas around her,

yonder the sum set the sky on fire,

burning, burning,

the stars/lew higher...”

“Davidson! That tree is flying! It’s going to crash into your house,” Gary warned me. “You’re right, Mr. Franklin, and here, it’s coming in for a landing,” I replied with calm reserve.

There once was a man named Ed. Ed had a wife and three kids and worked at a very successful job. His life was perfect. But as time went on, his children grew up and went off on their own to form their own families, but soon Ed became a grandfather. And once again, life was perfect.

The sky gleamed a radiant blend of colors which reflected on the glassy ocean. The aroma of varieties of flowers fresh from the fields lingered in the air.