Blue, Gunshots, Eating Shoes

Pops of blue.  Against what.  Skeins of gray.  Lure of monochrome.  Screens of violence.  At 5 am I watched a match between two women, battling over tennis balls in Melbourne. Seven shot dead in Jerusalem after praying.  Grainy witness to the Memphis flaying.  Keening and pleading for his mama.  Around the world in an hour.   In a dream around 7, I was eating the soles of a pair of black leather shoes, peeling off pieces.  These delicate shoes, full of eyelets, usually sit in my closet.  After my first rush of radiance, ecstatically led by someone offscreen, the dream began to think: disgust side by side with beauty: the shit.   Appeal and revulsion, beautiful and the monstrous. Nestled in.  And the hilarity of pragmatism: would I walk like a bird, scratching out a steady path with half the shoe gone.  Missing pieces.  Was I practicing for starvation in Leningrad?  During the siege in the 40s, they scraped off glue from shoes and tables.   Also, I was observing my oral French.  Somehow that mattered.  A traveler’s exile ends in language.  Wrens meet at the branches of a bush beak to beak, nose to nose as if mistletoe.  Pebbles on a gray slate play with their shadows, not a cat and mouse game, one will always prevail.  The open emptiness of cobalt blue.  Pop pop pop. 

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