I get the feeling that we both don't want to be there. He's tuned out, so am I, and mostly we're going through the motions. I try to care but only feel tired.
Silhouetted against a glass door, he offers up a four-armed embrace. Or maybe he's just sweeping his arms open wide as if to say, "Look around! Walk the crazy corridors of my mind." He's asymmetrical; on one side of his body he has one arm, on the other side three. He's also completely nude.
Wide-eyed in Isaiah Zagar's Magic Gardens: a small dense maze of mosaic faces, walls of bottles, bicycles, and random statuary, lettered tiles, colored tiles, flowers and lively figurines, stairs that spill down into lemon, pink and emerald grottos. My reflection is a starburst on mirror shards.
It's been recommended to me to take a walking tour of the Philadelphia murals, but so far I've resisted. I like coming across them by chance. Turning a corner I face a small parking lot bound by chain link fencing, and above it blooms a beautiful mural of dancers, magicians, and enchanted flute players.
Long and languid afternoons spent reading.
Night, lamplight, a text open on my lap.
For dreams half-tended and hopes half-fed.