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



Here, There is Greatness: The Fields of the Past....


 "There is a newness coming, a shift in the winds, mighty, and forceful. Love and all definitions of serenity rest just around the bend in that silvery river ahead. Allow the past to remain where it stands, in distant fields of sheer malice and hurtful untruths. At the soft banks, there will be a hand offered, one from she with chestnut eyes; take it; get in the boat; and, till the unplowable fields no longer."

The voice ceased, but the emerald tips of the treetops still slid softly across his chest and belly as he floated quietly overhead, each beating gently in rhythms all too familiar...  

Awoken by the passing railcars, Lawrence pulled his arm from the inside of his tightly-zipped sleeping bag to check the time: 3:15am. He still had three more hours, three more scrumptious hours, before the 6:15am passed with a legion of emptied coal cars in tow. His ticket to that bend in the silvery river. He rolled to his side and pulled his forearm tightly into his chest to rewarm it. Lawrence's body sank deep into the sleeping bag, sheltered from the elements and all ill ways of the past and the discarding therein.

The next three hours contained imagery and mental construction and narrative dissimilar from the previous. Still, a light of assurance shone, and the boat at the river's edge never left his mind even throughout his waking hours.

No comments:

Post a Comment