Observations From an Evening Walk

Posted on June 9, 2009


A CIGARETTE, the butt.
A napkin, yellowed.
Small nest of ants.
A clear plastic bag, unfinished crossword inside. Noted the word “anamnesis”
A small, half ripped piece of note paper. Pink ink. Afraid to pick it up.
A little village of aged sunflower stems, pale colored towers.
Fresh wad of bright green gum. Smells like melon-berry.
A small fairy, long dead, colorless.
Cigarette, half smoked.
Ancient leaf.
A broken tube, probably from the local hospital.
Apple core, brown.
Full and unopened bottle of mineral water.
A sliver of soap, streaked and blue.
Charcoal, concrete crumbits, granite.
A black feather holding onto the wind.

I come home and write it all down, playing back the memories in my mind. My father calls and tells me to go to the Co-op and buy a straw mat. He tells me that my bed is infused and full of chemicals, that I’ve already spent twenty years sleeping in them, breathing them in. He tells me that people have lost the ability to really dream because of the chemicals beds are made out of. I ask him about pillows and he says “Jesus!” and hangs up. I have a staring contest with my dog, she wins and little boogery tears collect in the corner of her eyes. I drink some green tea and burn my tongue. When I brush my teeth I can feel the burning all over my mouth. I let the toothpaste foam around my lips and ooze out into the kitchen sink. I wipe it off with my fingers and pretend I am a villain. I take a highlighter pen into bed with me and highlight my favorite freckles. I ignore what my father says and sleep. I cannot feel the chemicals, I dream of nothing.

Posted in: June 2009