The
night-street became one flat shiny mass of asphalt.
Bus
wheels, tricycles and bicycles balancing at eye-height.
What
if time stopped? - Passers-by wouldn't
be passing by.
That vendor
would have to bear with the iron on his shoulder.
Buses
wouldn’t go past.
Fingers
would be stuck inside vaginas, a nose, or an ear, forever.
Time
never stops.
I
know nothing more here,
on this
muddy curb.
My
friend starts up her bike.
We
drive through too many flickering streetlights,
eat
through boulders of potatoes, fly with Buffalo-wings spread wide on a platter.
Margaritas
feed the senses, voices amongst voices fill the air in an upside-down world,
where
refugees recite poetry, to re-connect their breath with the breath of the motherland
for
peace.
Children
are being raped in remote villages finding refuge at schools.
They
will tell their stories later.
Time
will never stop.
The
morning smells of roasted coffee beans.
The
dusty roadside chases the monkeys on, and me-
wandering
amongst random stones- I arch over a vision.
Ancient
stone faces come alive, watching their new queen
at
leisure from traffic and time, from bored eyes, from broken vows.
Dragonfly-looking
butterflies chasing sunshine all the way
onto
the tip of a paintbrush held by someone
who isn’t there.
There
is, however, an artist by the walls of reality,
making
the exact replica of a postcard.
I’m
too flattered with my own old face.
It’s
time.
Checking
in on another flight.
Someone
yawns loudly into the back of my neck.
It’s
all in the air...
