Tuesday, June 1, 2010

inaccessible

She dresses like an art student
or a
revolutionary.

1930's newsboy cap,
woolen over coat,
khaki's,
converse.

Her hair
long,
untamed,

dyed from black
to chestnut
landing somewhere
in between.

Ageless eyes
peer out from
the space
between

bill of the cap
and her knees,
which have been
drawn up to
her chest,

absorbing the
poetry of
passing images.

Hands tell
a story,
novel in length.

A woman lost
in middle age
and madness

occupied by
the moment when
what she sees,
thinks,
dreams,
all cross together.

When the lines become
blurred
and the trinity
experiences
unity,

she rises from the bench
shuffles
trying to decipher
which of the three
is happening

by talking through
their plots.

Rapid fire mutterings
in broken
punctuated

Japanese.

She sits back down
remembers

a black skirt
amphetamines and forays
into the underground.

The night
she met

Kan Mikami
just after her
return from
her third year at
Berkeley.

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