Ricardo Trinidad

Hedges formed the long limousine a Tampa sky could die behind. A sailor stood on the wharf with a clipper ship reflected on the skin of the bell pepper he held.He'd had mouthwash at the inn and could still feel the ice blue carbon pinwheels spinning in his mouth.There were no new ways to understand the world, only new days to set our understandings against.Through the lanes came virgins in tennis shoes, their hair shining like videotape,singing us into a kind of sleep we hadn't tried yet.Each page was a new chance to understand the last.And somehow the sea was always there to make you feel stupid.