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



What the Radioed Waltz Saw...

They tried to name all the songs they heard but laughed gently at their failings. Soon the radio was none but a dim, twelve volt bulb lighting their knees in the car’s warm interior.

























She twisted shut the passenger wing-window and sunk low into the bench seat, turning her collar up and into her tanned neck. She readjusted and slid closer to him and leaned into his shoulder. His face, illuminated with the bezel’s yellow glow, smiled down at her exhausting eyes. He lifted his hand from the steering wheel and pulled his coat from the backseat. He shook it and laid it over her bare feet. He palmed her shoulder tightly and rubbed her arm warm.

Darkened scenery and houses of unknown occupants dashed towards and pass the car’s windows.

He thought of eateries and of UFOs and of kingdoms of Europe’s past. He glanced time and time over down towards the wingless seraph asleep in his midst. He made silent vows to the passing lights and to the murmur of the engine.

Though should the past cycle round and confront them at their next stop they would be inclined to simply re-board the sedan and ignite on and into the evening following the day.

Before going off the air until the morning’s light the waltz on the radio station would hum soft and low:

In another day, six-hundred ways
All time freezes, bellowing and gasps.

Endless faiths, leveled plates
Listening hearts, elements in casks.

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