pyrus calleryana 'Chanticleer'

It started out as a good dream because even though he was homeless he was sleeping heavily in the loose saffron folds of a muslin sarong on a mattress of moss and hearty dichondra under a bud-laden pyrus calleryana 'Chanticleer,' the ornamental tree that smells like semen, in a lush mediterranean cancer survivors' park. Green bottle flies the size of hummingbirds droned their white noise of optimistic dirges and lullabies, as if to lay paving stones for oblivion to rock along down on its squarish wheels. A grease that acted as courage-in-a-vessel for Nature glugged sloshing through art-ceramic channels to every life in a nirvanic system which bid a deserved nod of its fertile date palm fronds to the stylized irrigation ditches at Al-Qal‘at al-Ḥamrā’.

But next thing you knew he'd found a length of masking tape blown from one of the costume trailers in the sanitation district's haunted village. With a chunk of abandoned picnic charcoal briquette, he wrote in caps with the sticky side imobilized in grass: I WAS A COLLEGE PROFESSOR.

We found him sitting in his own shit, autobiography unbecoming as a headband, speckled with the organic spray of chaff and seed and grit that invisibly sandblasts the open night and all those who may be closed up in it.


by Mike
"having encountered Ilyn in the midst of an expression rarely sensed by humans. Just by luck. On the way home from a medieval-themed piano bar near the run-down shops along the sea wall."