She used to lick her lips before taking a bite of her food. Slow motioned unwitting seduction. The color of her tongue against her red lipstick, white teeth and her crazy blue eyes opened wide. Her blonde hair falling softly upon her shoulders.
We were together for a couple of months before she went off to Italy to do a series of shoots in Italy.
But that summer, 1996, was something. We would go out every night, she would stay in my apartment and I even gave her my key.
Jamie was her name but I called her James. She was a model and was on multiple magazine covers. We would get into any place we wanted to.

Her face is like a work of art. Oval shaped, pursed lips, big brown eyes possessing a sense of wonder. She is walking down fifth avenue, a queen waiting. A presence, a cocktail of innocence and mischief, adventure and stoicism. She doesn’t smile, she simply emotes through her eyes and her hands.

Frightened, she dares not smile lest it be misinterpreted as an invitation. She ain’t no harlot, she ain’t no virgin either. All the predawn apologizers watch her with a keen sense of desire. They tip their hats and then pound their chests.

In a neighborhood, far from anywhere, she walks through the fallen leaves, catching one or two before they reach the ground.

She walks into the hall, backless gown, with 50 inch heels which catapult her to the top of the room. Bleached blond hair and blue eyes, a Barbie with a heart and soul. Her eyes seem tired yet poetic in a sense, revelations in blue, black and white. She presses her lips to a glass of wine and it reminds her of her time in Florence, with Florence, her first and only. She winces when it hits her that it’s been over 30 years.

He sits and watches, he recalls her from another life. Her beauty and her emotive eyes, enhanced after all her years. He can’t keep his eyes off of her and he grimaces when he remembers how it all fell apart so quickly. A love from another life can still haunt you in another time and place. Subtle reminders, a scent, a tune, a photograph on the floor, torn and disposed of, yet never truly gone.

They drank the Kool aid, they believed the lies, they started a revolution and still stand by his side. A crowd of mentally impoverished souls, imprisoned by loneliness and fear, stand listening to this false prophet. Like a poor man to a used car salesman, hanging on each promise, each word as if it were the gospel. Only to be left stranded in a ghost town, alone again.

What good is it when people are convinced that the truth is a false narrative?
What good is faith when the emotions are filled with fears and hatred?

A woman at the wall, a man builds a boat and the sea splits for salvation.

Reproduction is taken for granted, among the insects, flowers and animals roaming the world.

Universes, proof of infinite power and space, can you even fathom what they say?

Love is not permitted according to the ones on the pulpit and the blind folk living in fear listening in and carrying placards in support of fear, hatred and false faith.

Can you see that young lady walking in the middle of the street, in the middle of the night. A harvest moon guides her, high heeled shoes in hand and one strap of her dress falling off her shoulder, hair falling into her face and a cigarette in her other hand.

It’s a stream of consciousness, nonsensical puzzle pieces searching for a fit among a crowd of pieces from another time, another puzzle from another…

Life is crazy and should be simple right?
Love, sustenance and shelter. Isn’t that all we really need? Why the race for size and unattainable treasures and spaces?

She sits on the train, black knit cap, rumbling black hair framing her face, swimmingly dark eyes, cut off tank and proud genuine feminine definitions.

“What is the last stop of this train?” An old man with a shopping cart filled with hoarded souvenirs from some time ago.

She sits, dark eyes reveal nothing, her emotions are gated up and protected beyond her light. She sees right through you and ignores you, you’re just another man with an empty handed heart.
You stand and say, “thank you.” She says, “what for?”
You smirk and say, “For inspiring me with words.”