Lost dream or a road travelled with blinders. In dreams, numbers dance inside of rain drops, tea leaf prophecy and coffee profits.
So much life until now spent in airports. When my thoughts do not allow me to rest or meditate I play the game of imagining I am in flight, my thoughts are but clouds that I am floating through, but they cause so much turbulence.
Tossing in be I try to imagine that there is a protective shield around the perimeter of the mattress. Old annoyances penetrate like bug strip resistance flies. They have been cleared for landing. When I finally fall asleep I have repeated dreams of giving birth to football pineapples and square, chalky bead. The pineapple int the international fruit of hospitality with its thorny skins greeting you to crack it open.
Iced teas served quaintly in a Masonic Lodge jar. A cellar filled with canned vegetables that will never be opened or consumed.
Licorice ropes hand down in the candy jungle as we swing freezing to seek the great salt plains. A pretzel blossom, a freshly sussed bosom of spicy Portuguese mustard,