In a Foreign Land (day 1276)

A large laneway spoiled my walk.
It burst open at the seams with
Garbage and decay
That nearly side swiped me
With unbridled consumption.

The laneway confused me
As I contemplated it a while
From the safe sidewalk on Main Street.
It steamed and gurgled and
A faint smell of piss and regret
Hissed at me with a cold bite in the air.

From here, my memory served me well. It reminded me of cannons
And a bazaar in a foreign land
That was purely barbaric,
Entirely rusty and soiled from
Years of neglected abuse.

In my idle moments I watched
Three souls wander the laneway
With as much passion
As one would expect lost souls
From Christ the Redeemer’s
Empathetic sermon to have.

And I was alone, wondering,
Thinking to myself in the 1-2-1 rhythm
Of my left-right-left leather soles
Clip clopping down the lonely laneway
Into obscurity and steam.

Tibetan Orbs (day 955)

While straddling my time between Christ the sugar bowl and Don, the rather small teapot
I kissed the roasting bacon nuzzling up against my clothes, a warm glove
“Ouch” said the lonely spot of a remnant hot plate as I smooth talked her into a gentle coo
From here, I could almost hear the other patrons, busily slurping their medium roast over
Minding the color swirls developing in their half and half and brew mix; mind the honey, sugar
I twisted wildly to see a maiden, one of fairer skin and lovelier smile than this twirling vinyl chair I’d been making eyes at
I couldn’t quite understand her stuffed down puff jacket obstructing her twisted cursive
As she coiled and rounded the blue ball point pen about the pages of her soft red scribbler
But my eyes were taken by her small Tibetan orbs delicately dangling from her lobes
I wondered how far she had come today, and if it meant to her as much as it meant to me
That she was also sitting by her lonesome, like I was, at a buck fifty diner, romancing wildly with Christ the sugar bowl and Don, the rather small teapot