Serpentinarium

A semiotic blonde in a Jeep Cherokee behind me on the commute in this morning: Shorter hair to the bottoms of her ears, like a spy might wear to avoid being grabbed in a fight, turned out a little disheveled like a lover, sunglasses covering intent, hiding motive, lips upturned the slightest bit at the corners signing knowledge of plots, schemes, seeing through me and others around her on the highway, undoubtedly the only one to know what may happen today in the city, seminal events of great import secretly occuring underground, in backrooms, vaults, smokey bars where negotiaions of life and death transpire and evanescently fade on direct view.

wheels within wheels, is not what I see the truth? rashoman asks. things in the new market, the old market, commerce thrives and contours (to steal a word I'd have never used that way before) civilization with its writhing life over (never)yonder. thoughts flying through my head: a writer with a gift for words, a filmmaker with a gift for vision, musicians with exquisite touch. breathing notes into, out of, an instrument that vibrates the air with sympatico delight, sensed by ears on heads, heads in a crowd, smokey blue air hanging over those heads while the sound flies across the bar tickling them all with bliss: heads leaned back or down, eyes closed. they get it.