Parade for one

A balloon man walks down the street on stilts. One large balloon dangles from a stick and a girl walks underneath along with an entourage of friends playing instruments, there are dogs too. I whistle to get them to stop. Can I have a card I say? Beckett would love this tiny parade dedicated to one person, her. The balloon man on stilts hands me a card, as soon as your done with this girl, can you please give me a call? Beckett is going to love this. I watch the girl smile as the balloon above her head bounces. Then I slip into a vintage store and peruse indigo textiles with friends and the boss above my boss. She's trying to be friendly, shows me all the stuff in the store she wants for herself. I claim I'm not buying anything and skip around the store taking pictures of things with my old camera with a viewfinder. It's difficult to frame things up at a distance I tell her. I take pictures of textures, rocks, the bathroom floor. I hope the balloon man calls.  

Run

My friend lives with his mother in a suburban warehouse somewhere in Ohio or Tennessee. They have separate beds positioned close to each other. I assume their relationship is closer than any other mother and son in the world. I smell the sweetness of this, my heart burns for my own mother. There are several artist friends who begin to trickle in and out. We talk about things made and things to make. Laughter doesn't belong in the conversation. Someone says Go! I begin to run down a hall, seeing myself from behind, I notice my gate, the slight askew position of my hips as I run with one foot in front of the other. Hips even out. I run faster and am surprised how normal I look from behind. 

Kids and war

Floridian landscapes surround our vacation shack. It's boggy and hot. A tall man in a black suit stands inside the threshold. I hold Beckett's hand and turn the lights down low. Gun shots pop off outside. Outside the window we see pickups trucks drive by, their beds filled with young gangsters holding machine guns, faces covered in bandanas. It's war. They are all over the city. I try to lock the door before a teenage boy rips through the house to attack what he believes he should.  

Work it

Big box stores surround me. In the middle of the clothing section at target or Fred Meyer, an executive leads an aerobics routine. She wears a headset and carries paperwork. I'm prepping a photo of a baby in a diaper with a heroin needle. He wears a pompadour. There's a bottle of milk in his hand. Perfect I say. It's more authentic this way.