In the Tibetan mountains I retired to my little cot every night, happy to soon commune with my Lord. But these sallow eyes and wan complexion in this hive of ten-thousand street lamps, only want to escape, sacrificing prayer for distant and pale dreams. And the screen projects blasphemies, spitting them onto my fallen face. Sex is sacred, love more so, but donning their hyperkinetic frock they come invading. Tickling, dazzling by flashy gymnastics in neon leotards. I am boxed into the one magic-markered CLOSE-MINDED for being bored of their routine. Their behind-the-curtain, make-up-less, off-the-clock lives are more wondrous, and real! But they’re the ones you don’t see or read about in reviews. You just know, as one looks into the eyes of a never before-never again passerby on the street, and the two share a mutual, brotherly nod.
©2011, Amaya Engleking