This is a continuation please read Dream Fragment (Saturday May 7, 2011) first.
Can he smell the smoke from here or is it only that he can feel the grimy blanket the stacks belch? Like the spindled legs of a table draped in cloth the stacks dominate the landscape. From here the city reveals its ordinariness. From here it does not look sinister and vindictive.
The boy walks along the seawall. Shop windows display towering figures made grotesque in the puddles that swirl with rainbows of petroleum spit from the sky or the sea, one cannot know. This window has cookies. Wild colors stacked high like precarious plates in a cartoon, each one the same shape. He turns into the alley made no more illicit by his boots. Finding the darkened door to the bakery, a window above. The bottle shards spinning and sparkling down the alley to distract anyone who might care.
Dropping into the shop is like sliding into moisture itself. The air yeasty and suffocating. He waits for his eyes to find corners. He listens for shoes, for violence and escape. He hears the ticking of wood, the rush of his own bloodstream. His stomach.
There is a long uneven line of light drawn diagonal through the shop, like God’s light in paintings he has seen in the doorways of the cold dark churches, the light always leads to God’s head.
Pastel macaroon coats dirty fingers, hands. Jaws, feverish eating without thinking seated in the warm darkness just outside of the band of light. Staring at the flour that he has stirred cartwheeling in and out of the river of light. He slumps sideways into a sack of flour.
- ▼ 2012 (7)
- ► 2011 (19)