09.17.19
there are sunflowers growing outside of Rosalia's and the quotidian pedestrian has no sense to rejoice in this undeserved miracle. a crazy woman is carrying bags of expired ethnic grocery store bread and deploying a long cultivated strategy of carefully crumbling it in a single movement contained in a single fistful of palm. she tosses it against the curb and sits at the stolen bench smoking a cigarette, enjoying the victory of making birds appear from thin air. these dwarfed idiots peck at the bread like they are helpless infants sucking on a voluptuous and vulturous mother's breasts. she is the everyday magician of poor posture, disgusting gas station coffee, bruised knees, and a Wiley tote bag celebrating the perverse publication of academia's own enslavement of hundred dollar biology textbook purchases at the hands of the three hundred lecture hall students. does she feel victorious? is this a revolt against everyday simpletons, such as me and such as you? I can see every single abrasive imprint of bruise and mark on her forearm now, from the drawstrings of each individual plastic bag stuffed with sugary white processed breads. is this her private ritual protest? do these birds contain special powers, pan-psychic messages that are audible to magicians like her and not inert bystanders like us?
every city has this woman who goes mostly unseen, unchecked, unapproachable nor appreciated, as do the sunflowers tall and proud outside of Rosalia's cafe. she is on cigarette no. 2, posture stagnant like an ugly and clever crow. by now she has turned around and noticed my table and notebook through the glass window: begin scene.