Chinese man, sprinkles of grey in his onyx hair meanders into the cafe sunspots sprinkled across his face like freckles and his eyes, half starved match the sounds in his stomach. He’s a verbal supernova of Cantonese ramblings crashing into the harsh ears of dirty concrete San Francisco. He is being eaten away by the impending day The anxiety decay lay bare in his inexplicable racehorse vernacular. After a short rest in a beaten armchair catching patches of warm light, he disappears. Only to be found timelessly in another old armchair in a used bookstore in the Mission District. He, resting between coffee and books. We, Strangers hung on different hooks, Wearily. I am the slow roasted American pig growing tender over the fire
Posted on: Fri, 14 Jun 2013 20:19:07 +0000
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