in the old country i dreamt like hollywood. rifling through old dreams , i found this one. camp, it seems, is more than a way of life, it’s a double entendre.

December 7, 2010

delusions will always find their place in the cracks between us. i fill my head with your undying love, pronounced in your voice, in my own words. i’ve scripted scenes   for us to play out on moonlit docks. and maybe you have us swooning in a different setting. the distance gauged like miles of canyon between our thoughts. i’m on the edge of my own private cliff, looking at your tiny figure on the other side. and because it’s a desert setting, a leather-clad american fugitive’s landscape where the only permissible sounds are the howls of coyotes and the tinny clank of cans of beans over the crackle of a fire, maybe the papery hiss of a cigarette being lit- we stay quiet. i could yell out to you, but the echo would have me believe that at least three others love you like i do. so i crouch low, the leather of my chaps creaking, and finger the red dirt. somewhere above, a hawk throws a shrill noise out against the cliffs. my eyes dart upwards and off of your distant little body. by the time they wander back i’ve lost you.


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