She looks like the sky suns ignite, as they die.

The mystery of his face became a matter I touched on, the rest of the day. The members of the line who’d watched it were now a club, transmitting ruminations though time and space. The girl was Asian, and didn’t’ speak English well; her skin was pretty to perfect; I imagined airbrushes for lesser models of human being. I looked at the neighbor who lived one floor below my building, one building over, who I noticed at the table by the window. The mom who’d slept with a hundred and fifty seven men, much as any man would with pride, cite the number he’d laid, winked at me. We shared a stoned evening on the roof, when the pressure of parenthood threatened to crack her, and show and tell, she poured out her life. Don’t get the wrong idea, she said. About what? I’m thrilled you’re who you are, and you’re sharing it. I’m blessed; look how amazing the moon is. Don’t tell _______ I was here, she said. He’d never understand. But he probably would. Nobody is a wall, without any cracks. We shared that small human moment, and smiled over it, kindly. Zits and all—I laugh about it, whenever we catch yesterday
in a glance now.
In a sleepless night she came back to hem the morning in solitude;
a child screamed in the early distance. I’d suffered the demons of relationships
and all the sorrow and suffering they breed; an hour of sleep, the work day looming—
I wonder why. There I was in the café line, where were you last night? What needs to be hidden?
Philosophical rants destroy loves angels grandstand; I need to know ... I am a free individual, and the storms of the world
can veer to destroy or rebuild me. The essential mist
of no eyes seeing your perch, as the waterfall smashes the rock
it will pulverize; it’s your prerogative to be borrowed by the universe
without knowing
why.

Cross-Referencing Mainstream SOc(i)al[led] Mores

Note: this non-sequitur post is preceeded by

all subsequently-dated posts in the blog

http://novelink.blogspot.com

which you can reach via the

Brock Bio Link

2.
[Awash in thought,]
[I met Carlos Santana at a crosswalk.
You’ll never know, I said. But thanks.]
[It probably wasn’t him.]


But who knows. It’s always possible the record covers speak the acute, rather than the photo-real. Like three weeks of nights and days compressed into two seconds, one recognized boldtoinsight destroys the mundane. Exhausted thoughts push Sisyphus burdens up vertical histories of their eventual demise, ‘blissfully’ ignorant of their ends. I read that Sebastiao Salgado is ‘fearlessly political’, which I appraise through appreciation of his art as bullshit, as the only thing he fears to lose in the shallow statement is his popularity, with which he raises the ante of his notoriety.

Fearlessly political is an internal framework the existing powers can not demonstrate, to demolish. What receives highlight, opens itself to admonishment; the dance of birth and union seeks terms with its own destruction. He was a bank robber from New Bern North Carolina who entertained a penchant for whippets, and ran three businesses through false fronts of ex-girlfriends with a penchant for alcohol. The party raged with eclectic masters of nothing and lovers of all; magnums of cold sake filled the vintage claw foot tub, sweating and brimming in ice, with sashimi cuts bracing square plates laid for the occasion, awaiting dollops of rice. The low end high definition elongated aspect TV played slow motion female heroine martial arts movies megaphoning heights and drops to the woefully uninitiated. At some point, waiting for a poor unfortunate, I decided puking in the bathroom’s like cutting (and snorting) coke lines ... crossing our legs, we took wagers of what did it—the really not quite fresh raw fish, the stress, or the sickly sweet mango puree which hid the sake’s octane. At some point I remember a lot of screaming.

Distressingly barefoot on glass-strew Oakland sidewalks, I played back the
movie... how each side propagates what the other will slip upon
blowing chunks of what you can’t imagine to make real.
Then, there was open-hearted Anne, a gem in her own
regard, whose desire to please and heal waited
on the American initiative to secure
a later usefulness. She angelically
held the birthday girl
as she vomited out
another year.

AS a RULE
I don’t drive drunk.
Not cars, anyway. But
there are always special considerations.
That morning, my night owl friend called
I thought : She hasn’t been to bed yet. It’s late
rather than early. But no. I had a dream you died
on your bicycle. Hit by a car. So thinking out of the box,
I diced in reverse. I became part of the problem I like to avoid.
Once a month on average, I dust off the car I possess
just for occasions as this. Naturally, it is out of gas. No wonder
I never drive it—can’t be bothered to dump a few in the tank? That’s
pretty pathetic. Anyway, I must say, a warm night with the windows down,
tunes basting, brain sporting a healthy glow in wine, sun roof open ... it’s dangerously good.
That feeling, you know? Immortality. Fun. Devil may care. It’s a from and to, which no longer matter. Everyone on the road, seems to be flying, and gleeful ... why is that? Is everyone drunk? We’re waving, it’s a parade ... the Bay bridge is high above the icebergs fools like us, are melting. To think : I almost took the evening, to work?! Utter lunacy. Towards what satisfaction? Creating more work for myself.? IT’s a strange day of impossible happenings; I wondered at thousands of plastic picnic knives in multitudes of colors, scattered across the sidewalk. Axed my brimming thoughts to bits ... I sort of looked, and tried not to look at it, waking and dreaming in one glance.

A girl is squeezing her boyfriend’s zits in the Sunday morning café line,
and my stomach churns as he grimaces. It’s the kind of thing surveillance cameras
over-again. I’m fascinated and repulsed, as she doubles her efforts to oust his
deeply entrenched blackheads ... leaning forward to check the spoils, as she deftly transfers the oily refugee to her fingernail. Yuck. Those things inhabit our faces? IT was not a cheering thought, before coffee, and after a lot of sake.

The mystery of his face became a matter I touched on, the rest of the day. The members of the line who’d watched it were now a club, transmitting ruminations though time and space. The girl was Asian, and didn’t’ speak English well; her skin was pretty to perfect; I imagined airbrushes for lesser models of human being.