Anywhere But Here
I last saw her in October standing on a county road holding a cardboard sign = A ONE-MINUTE STORY
I first met her in the train yard in Salinas. She was sitting on a loading dock with three old Michoacanos, drinking mezcal. Sad rancheras plinked out of the doorway of the cantina across the tracks.
She was a poet, creative and sensuous. She penned her indifference to others of her species, in blue-lined notebooks and on backstreet walls.
She painted large abstracts in psilocybin colors of purple and acid green, on canvas and on brown paper, with deep distain for those who didn’t get it.
She liked to dance naked, damp and slithery, but just for me, she said. It’s an arcane form of moving meditation, she said. I didn’t believe any of that stuff.
I last saw her in October. She was hitch-hiking on a county road, and holding a cardboard sign that said anywhere but here. I’d like to tell her how much I miss her. And send her the silver comb that she left behind.
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"but just for me, she said. It’s an arcane form of moving meditation, she said. I didn’t believe any of that stuff."
I like that line. It shows that the man had no illusions of a long term relationship but appreciated his time with her nonetheless. Beautiful piece, Sharron. I remembered it from the picture.
Ah. Mezcal and psilocybin. Those were the days. : )