ning marsha was the name of a pattaya girl who got lost in her head and wandered into a narrow strip of artisan breadshoppes, smelly secondhand bookstores and flakey air jordans hanging from telephony wires above streetcorners.
they say people deal drugs under the air jordans. or hand-made brogues. no one knows.
but let’s just forget mike d. and rob g. and ms. marsha for a while. how long is a while? maybe 3 postings, 2 weeks, an hour, maybe forever. let’s just talk about the place where they live. let’s just talk.
adults like to call a place like that, “home”.
they like to say, “for human beings are nothing without a place they can call ‘home’.”
they like to say things in sentences that begin with, “for …”
i like sentences that end.
that don’t have words you feel you have to ‘ ’ when you transcribe them.
a pub named after a pub in cheshire, england. or new england. a mini market that sells mouldy farmer’s bread in my literal memory. a cafe manned by a woman wearing black aprons with white cummy milky stains in my dreams. a ghost from a noh play. his name was benji. he was gay.
when you talk about a place you can’t tell a story. or maybe you can, but i don’t.
because i’m stupid.
i like to sit on a cloud and mock jupiter as he panics in his orbit around the sun.
from where i am i can see mike d. running around a blue dot on the ground looking for rob g.
ning marsha reaches out her hand trying to catch mike d.’s attention. his eyes. the cardigan rip on his elbow. anything.
but nothing a woman can do can turn the mind of a man away from another man.
from up here ning marsha’s outstretched hand looks like an emdash.
like this: –
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