Thursday, September 21, 2006


Covered in dust blown in from the East I arrived in town after three long weeks.

The town was built around a square, in the square there was a well, the town itself

its name was



I chose a corner and built my store, blankets and trinkets and glass and more.

In my corner I stayed, alone in the heat.

The passing of strangers, the sand on their feet.

The burning white orb,
it's Love was a sword.

The water.

The fire.

Was all we desired.


Weird huh.

It's only natural, when you feel pain to crave the need for relief.

In any form.

But now I'm just letting the pain come.

It's like tanning.

I can't explain.


One day a stranger crawled in from the desert. And we all watched as inch by inch he dragged his bloodied semi corpse across the dust and toward the well. And not one of us moved to help. All just sat on our porches in the town built as a square all facing the well as the skeleton struggled and slid, a semi dried gecko of a man, toward salvation. Propelled by his kness across frying pan heat as his arms flailed and spat forward, his fingers dancing their final dance, a self sacrificial ceremony as if they knew he would not make it.

Five yards from water, he jerked and performed his final wriggles.

I took a long, languid drag of smoke, and turned toward the dark inside.

And in Hell, no-one cried for the stranger;
moisture was scarce, and compassion rarer still.

But the winds took pity on us, and covered him in sand.

Tomorrow, it will be a memory.