Enga mellom fjella: where from across the meadow, poems sing from mountains and molehills. |
[This is another note I will not send] Over the judder of tires crossing brick, the squeal of no-name techno-jazz, life screams inside me and I'd scream back if I had a voice. Your voice in my ear drowns out this so-called dawn, the brightening gray of a day in mourning. I hear it in the seagull's squawk: go away, far away. But no complaints come out of you. What can you do, you say. Even your disenchantment rings with laughter. © 2008 Kåre Enga [165.353] 2008-11-25 I was speaking with a friend.When I asked how he was, he said, "No complaints, what can you do." The initial prompt was "This is another note I will not send" which is its provisional title. ME: The trip was okay, but tiring. I did get a chance to chat (partially in French; I don't speak Bambara) with a man from Bobo-Dioulasso, Burkina Faso.Wiki-link: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bobo-Dioulasso I collected autumn leaves in downtown Seattle yesterday, noted the cyclamen in bloom. I drank a large nuttella mocha (cost me $5.15) at Seattle Coffee Works. The market was just opening. I watched the men shave off ice with a shovel, looked at the silver glisten of salmon, inhaled the aroma of fish. Found out where the apartments are for senior citizens. They are in the old LaSalle above the market, a former hotel that once was a brothel. PHOTO: Seattle's farmer's market on a grey November morning. Washington: 40.2º at 10:00. 9309 |