Downtime in Dreamland, 2014


The walls drip with sweat; the old apartment building is flesh, thresholds and beams are bone, windows grind their teeth. A guy walking alone outside pauses to light a smoke, next thing you know he’s a ghost, his stain caramelizes in the afternoon sun. Abbey Lincoln leaps from the turntable, “Let up!” She turns her head, all the way around, we laugh so hard we miss what happens. Glossy black and white photos of Colt Men in ass-less chaps mixed with autumn leaves remind me of potpourri. Pie in the face pie in the face pie in the face. The front porch tells it like it is; sun-baked clay, water, time hiding in the shadows. I’m going to miss this place, but someone with orchid eyes nervously kisses me as Santa Claus catches fire.