4

{ writer’s block }

i woke up this morning hating you.

why?

i had breakfast and felt a bit better.

you know what i learned at breakfast?

sometimes the solution is a cigarette.

so simple,

how strange.

breakfast is over.

the dawn is gone.

i sit by my window.

Van Gogh at the window?

he saw something

true.

out there.

(out).

(there).

i stare blankly through foggy glass for awhile.

(i continue drifting after awhile has passed).

i don’t see a damn thing except an old Italian woman crossing the street.

her body reminds me of a melting wax candle.

(i guess i’ll keep both ears).

more or less her appearance is unremarkable.

all save for her countenance.

her expression is striking.

a woman who has endured much.

i notice the window.

attention focused on the glass.

pollution looks like watercolor paint.

i tap a fingertip on the surface.

it’s solid.

with enough heat, it becomes liquid.

fascinating.

but then, it really would be water color paint.

strange how things can change.

(and they do).

(things do change).

i go to dinner and order two courses.

(the inveterate gluttony that accompanies thought-nausea)

i don’t eat.

comfort food has lost it’s appeal.

you know what i learned at dinner?

absolutely nothing.

i’ll do the same thing tomorrow.

why?

night comes.

i’m tired but i won’t sleep.

i miss someone.

(everyone).

i put Chopin on repeat.

maybe i’ll have another cigarette.

Djarum (an Indonesian brand).

tastes like tobacco infused

candy.

everything tastes like candy in Indonesia,

even the chicken.

i pause.

i conclude:

Indonesia is a strange place

with terrible infrastructure

and tasty cigarettes.

i forgo the cigarette (this time).

i close my eyes and think of the old Italian woman.

she was so beautiful.

everything is strange.

photo: Bob Dylan outside his home in Byrdcliffe, NY – 1968, by Elliott Landy

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