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



Your Reflection in Mass...

Hash browns ala carte never tasted quite so good as they do tonight...

I sit at my kitchen counter and listen to the churning of the washing machine and to the whirling of the dishwasher, complete with wine glasses tinkling inside as reminders of bottles corked, glasses raised, stores, friends, and conversations of anger and conversations of laughter...

It seems as if every item I own now gazes down at me from their posted positions and fails sadly at every attempt to bellow out “Remember when you chose me from the rest?!” or “You almost passed right by me, remember?” or even “I can’t believe you forgot how excited you were when you first got me!”

To me, the things I accumulate are all tombstones of movements gone and moments past.

When was the last time I ventured into the deepest regions of my home and found a bauble from a clear moment and held it over my head and sighed at the rebirth of it?

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