A Fiat. Model '88. Monument to my extinction. A ruin capable of grace. Only a trace of what's dead survives in such kaleidoscopes. The bright colours cause a headache. But this substrate of old ways stands at the edge, beyond commiseration. Rickety machines don' t burn Mondays to keep themselves warm they forget. The only… Continue reading Fiat. Model ’88.
I slow down brake reluctantly maintain my dignity one eye on the road another on happy people on smiling billboards hoping at least one of them would sell me what I actually need a reason to read poetry during work hours and wonder out loud with my colleagues why the world is a safer place… Continue reading I slow down
On the road once again through the towns known and unknown to another pit stop at the end of a never ending journey passing red, green, blue, black cars beacons on the path to something illuminating or just machines with machines in them the trees that relay the news of my arrival stand still, dancing… Continue reading Thoughts on the road