Here landscape has turned jade, and general attire has become shorter. I too wear shorts occasionally and occasionally eat American. Not often.

In my dreams, there hangs a gulmohar bleeding flowers, in my dreams I still row a boat in rivers of dirt covered men. And gunfire? Today's news carried enough.

Fashion, that I don't know. Which shows top the charts, that I don't know too. In the weave of days and nights I prowl rattling the cage. I etch my words on silences.

Exile is a evocative word, I have frequented it's use in the streets of red light districts. There eyes line up every night to catch a ferry to this land in a fair exchange of flesh and cash.

Today rain closes the sky in steely bars of water as time attempts a closure of wounds that bloomed rabidly. Everywhere your ghostly kisses still pierce my skin like rusted accupuncture needles which now cause pain.

I take long walks in wild grass and carry home clothes burnished with scattered seed. Scattered too is Myself after I set out on drifting continents. Sometimes I measure my waist and sometimes I measure my forgetting Like this.

2002:04:21 23:30 Atlanta