Tuesday, March 18, 2014


Under the red light she waves unhurriedly, demure of any gesticulation before languishing sideways onto the reddened divan. An innocent act, for sure, meant to comport vulnerability akin to something kawaii but the lonely dragster revving his engine at the intersection, refuses to peel off.

Or maybe not, for how often does an unclothed Olympia gaze upon you from her seraglio? he wonders and mesmerized, lifts his reflective visor to leer at her ecdysial state in spite of himself, unblinking until both eyelids grow cumbrous from the torpid discourse about to lecture...

Then without any provocation, a preternatural quiet sucks all the white noise through a clear straw, cleansing old wounds. In that void, words form but do not speak. Octagonal translation universally
transmits a failure to communicate in either Japanese or Swedish. Perhaps the remedy then is telepathic or semaphoric or even photographic.

He strips completely down to increase his magnetic field, but to no avail as she fades further into black.

Minutes go by before the man, now her lover, regains his equilibrium enough to snag her from the vacuum and lock lips in resuscitation.

She awakens in his arms. Her entree, recently plated, sits on the silver tray room service delivered almost an hour earlier.

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