THE HIDDEN TRACK

The following passages are dedicated to Leopold, to the vernacular, to certain evil women (you know who you are), to certain wonderful people(they know who they are), to soft afternoons and quiet Sunday evenings, to Fall and seeing your breath for the first time since Spring, and to Isabelle Ya Feng ... a soul slipped by like two ships passing in the still, moonlit sea.
-- Abraham Ahmed, the Surfing Beatnik



And They Call Me Unto Them Each Night...

It is not within the shelves of bright unobtainable "things" in the department stores; it is not within the rows upon rows of identical, suburbian homes that litter the outskirts of cities; it is not within the confides of acoustic false walls and smells from recycled air and printer inks; it is not within the congestion, negativity, and false hope that we call traffic; it is not within; it is not within the churches where old women sing hymns to the exposed rafters and depictions of a false god and his son within the stained glass; and, it is not within saturated corn syrups, adolescent bimbos, or television sitcoms with cliché principles.

Mine is where the beggar sits Indian style and collects his whereabouts in the hot morning sun; mine is where children fantasize about sailing ships upon the seas of grass in parks on weekday afternoons; mine is where the tattered prostitute leans against a light post and cleans underneath her fingernails with a jack knife; mine is where the flop hat farmer digs his spade into the untilled soil and releases the organic smells of earth; mine is where smoke rises to the tops of dark backrooms and stings the eyes of shiny-haired card players; and, mine is where cats tiptoe through damp flowers, where long legged girls rest against red velvet wallpapered foyers, where music is, and where a potbelly stove is the focal point.

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