In the hanging kitchen, the smell- cut cayenned sausage, ejective tomato slices the whole thing in the back of the throat, inflamed. Olive oil. Vinegar. Billie talks about her "girl friend." She lives in Mayfair. (Almost pretty; don't look too long.)
At times I feel sick.
American man he strikes the figure of a half-God broad-shouldered, burned he does Not exist, John Henry split his bust long ago and we are huddled small boys imperfect in the dust of his legacy.
Our fathers stood from dinner tables kissed wives were kissed by children one last sip of old wines and walked into the night looking for burned-up lamps, the memories of mountains. Ate stone. Drank mist. (A thirst for adventure is close to your heart.) Fell into the grit, the failure, fell into everything. (Little else has taste once the spice of life is on your tongue.)
I have nothing but my understanding. I want to be swaddled, paralytically blind, shamelessly loved. Or to go out in the wicker world, there to find whatever our best died looking for, tigers or ruins or a life after adventure.