the life of a buzzard

Les steps off the curb and into the future. He backs up and goes forward following light refracted through time. He is confused. He is dicodomistic.

When he goes into sleep he is not dreaming, not awake. Les likes the word ethereal and chuckles as it scoops off his tounge into piles of snow left for dead. The state continues through wednesdays and panes of glass. Never gets its due.

When Les was four he fell off a horse on to new gravel in the road. A moment his mother had taken leave of him to survey the field. The corn was at his head, his mothers waist and all was warm with green around them on the road. The cattle could be heard but muffled by his cry as his head hit the road. Blood coming off the dust and raised up into wind. His hands immediately going toward the gash and his hair was matted with sunset.

Les wants. He needs to touch. There are no buts in his story. He likes it that way and takes a little bite out of himself to construct it in the negative.

"Just enough.", he says as he releases his breath down towards the asphalt.