“I left in love, in laughter and in truth and wherever truth, love and laughter abide, I’m there in spirit.”

-Bill Hicks

“Please leave the window open.”

-Jim Varney

“I do my best. I look. I listen, but in the end, I know it’s my story. Not Kamau’s, not Kenya’s, or Kenyans. Those stories are yet to be heard.”

-Anthony Bourdain (last show)

“I'm so tired. All I want to do is go home and be with my family."

-John Candy

”I joyfully await the exit and I hope never to return.”

-Frida Kahlo

“I myself don’t believe in my death.”

-Salvador Dali (last interview)

“It’s been a slice of pie in the sky.”

-N.P Guttí (Me)

LOVE

The answer we found on a night not to exchanged numbers,

better to have known, then to live with it.

A smirk hides that smile.

DEATH

Our way to say;

This was, is, and will be,

while watching her danced to flamenco.

"Oley!"

THE STINT

It was to paint a jacket.

So that the verse could see what we all have become;

paranoids, suspects, pats.

The life in counterintelligence is a road that you may not want to part with.

Nothing was left, the people whom you thought could read between the operation, couldn’t.

They were caught up in it's vigilance. Sought to be heroes in a villainous charade.

A poetic justice.

A place where the meaning stagnates.

I fell for a woman who’s main objective was to see, but what she found was nothing more then a piece of art.

A cat who’s curiosity spun her world upside down. So she made collages

The hints;

to disconnect from the web of lives that are and will always be there. We have all sunk into some chasm of narcissism. Thinking the same, feeling ‘what if’s.’ Deteriorating into a fogged mute.

Truth; I may be poison to her hearts purity. Couldn't believe that warmth existed within that premises but it did. Maybe she felt it too. But, when goodness flows there’s rocks trying to dam currents. Her friends were coyotes on that trail.

I didn’t blame; when you try to earn a check for being a double entendre, momentous love is pushed aside. They, tell you it’s not enough, that the job is not to pursue happiness but rather staying awake, through the tunnel.

In the end I resigned. Traded in the hand for no decks. They used her to believe the jacket was indeed a profile to paint on. It didn’t matter, I was free. Free from all rubbishy mindsets we have accepted to be the wall marks of our first world terrain. The longing to be her guy had bitter-sweetness. She’d find love again, with me, or a waiting suitor who deserved her sharing superb interest in being humane.

Maybe one day we’ll all find a way to reconnect to what’s important...quiet towns and coasts, the desert lights, walking barefoot, countless steps to natural wonder. Nothing matters more now.

So there I was not, and now, am found. In the middle, all became a delirious delight or delightful delirium. Getting to me, as it does, I had become the cliche of every rake, losing the right to ever call Apollo’s logic a gift, ‘Wine, women and song,’ had a ring to it, still, with quick effects of sprouts and morning splendor tea; in the cards, I was dealt the hanged man and shouted, “Twenty-one!”

“What’d you looking at?” He sweetly kisses her swan-like neck as it gives her inviting goosebumps. Light within the lamp finds the gloss in her eyes. He joins in on the gaze. “You know, every summer since I was a little girl my dad would bring out a shrine for Matralia and everytime I saw it, it reminded me of her.” Their sights stood still on the statue where the water hits it’s banks.

“Do you think the war will stop?”

“The old man told me not too long ago, ‘Junior, war is a talent. A measurement. It when you outweigh the feather. The point is, knowing when to cash out, or in.’ He isn’t that far from right though. I mean look at us, here we are trying to act as if we don’t know what’s going on out there. A hundred years won’t change us. Not one bit.”

She caresses her cheek against his with a deep nose breath. “I don’t think we’re supposed to know, and if we did, I bet it’d be like seeing the sun for the first time.”

THE END

Saturn’s Eve. Quarter to six. ‘Last Call,’ turns the tip jar into an alms-basket. The floor

clock during this gulp-surge ticks secondary to the heartbeat of securities broker, Gerry Kantz. His hands quake not of a jones, but pure trepidation. Striding home tonight, just might be the ninth symphony of ‘swill-walks.’ Blue hour could bring to his door, feet, from a ‘plumber’ he’s side-stepped since mid-March. Then, Kantz wasn’t aware the pull some have on the other side; ”two sides of the same coin,” they say.

Now, morning becomes noon, and, the neighbor’s dog is loose again. She takes a wiff of a far-fetched scent on the mat of a front door, that’s locked from within.

THE END