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Miramite, UNIS kiddie,
deadly poetic if in the right mental condition.
She sings sonnets of woe. Eligiac whisper, wave goodbye without a care then spit in the face of eternity.
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RI=ghetto island with identity issues.
We sit on the roof
Alfie and I were up on our balcony, gazing at this oddity where we resided. The smoke billowed from the towers which were right outside our apartment, the steam mixing with the crisp night air as heat mixed with the cool winter breeze.
Pass me that, taking his peipe, breathing in deeply and exhaling as the towers did; beautifully. He points out structures to me, structures you only see when you look through the eyes of another.
“There†he said, pointing to the Lebanese deli near the park, about half a mile away. “I painted a tribute to the starts in a name only they can know.†I hear him whisper habibti under his breath, sweetheart, in Arabic.
He points to the little bridge leading out of our desolate island and says “There I shall paint my tribute to the sunâ€. He laughs heartily, his curly hair bouncing to beat of his smile. “It is up to you to paint your tribute to the moonâ€.
He takes one last puff, coughs and spits a huge glob of red truth into the abyss below. The trail linking the truth of the moment to the mythology of the past. Snow starts falling, which is strange because it is warm. I imagine his smoke forming clouds of pure, white snow.
And there, he says, pointing to the snow which he catches on his palm, his body temperature low enough to keep the snow from melting. “there shall be the words I tell you now, as my heir. Remember them as you fall. I will fall, as you will after me. Remember, no one flies forever.â€
