10 am Saturday His legs take turns, propelling him through clouded crystalline barriers, Inky black thoughts clasped in his left hand. The toasted man takes his place among the Meager masses on his chafing pleather throne
240 seconds, a cup of tar, and 6 white cubes Reveal the foot prints of spectral crows as they Perch at opposite occipital with talons that scratch at his temples.
The toasted man is old. Garfield chats with The Peanuts as he fingers the classifieds and fondles the sports page, tiptoeing past the implicit cautions that make their home in the obituary.
Salt and pepper dreads down the back from the head of the olive toned stranger compliment the freckles and dots that speckle his exposed hands like six kix in a box of cocoa puffs,
Hands, that wear scars from careless mistakes made in days of old, cradle a mug with the delicacy of a mind honed by patience.
The toasted man is my best friend, But we’ve never met
Confessional truth is not my aggressive ego, it is my fault. The resolution of my conflicts with time, the smell of the broken limbs, my head in hoisted fever, my eyes searching for a cloud. The ultimate otherness, of an
couples run naked then plunge into the vast sea laughter ensues… through the duration of the night a flock of birds with intense sounds In the distance the still silence then an old man appears gets into his boat and
loner in the desert incapable of enjoying the stars knight of no man’s land cannot stand on his own desperate for a touch ‘pathetic’, they shout and wonder how he lost his mind love only made him weaker as life