by Michael Brockley
An American woman in a black kimono with crimson scarves and a piano-wire necklace. Lip stick that ancestored red. She glides across floors like a Valkyrie. Drinks water without ice. Speaks of ennui and caliginous. Of the fog of being half in and half out of reality. She hikes among the training grounds for obsolete wars to photograph roads not taken. The paths that veer from the horizon. The doors that stand on the periphery of playgrounds, with broken windows and heirloom knobs. She knew herself as a woman before she finished playing a girl. Ascended from prizefighters and Hawaiian bungalows, from Madame Goode’s dark chocolate maple candies and cruising past castles along the Rhine. She recites the prayers of dry savages and hears the confessions of nuns. She has slept in the narrow bed of providence. And followed the escape routes of red foxes. The ones that double back on those in pursuit.
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Outstanding. Ambitious, and it works. We’ll done.