Journal 4 - Orange Cliché

The night sky was an orange cliché where silly
men in standard manly boots strut sideways into
the gasping sunset – tired of their stubble and
hoping for another scene to capture the faux visionary
mind. He steps on the smoked cigarette and looks
into his splotchy horse’s blank eyes. Where are we
goin? he asks. Neigh of course is all the
splotched polka-dotted horse replies. Horse speak for
everything and nothing. He places his spit-laden
boot in the cracked stirrup and puts all his weight
into it – just to aggravate. The horse bucks –
2 can play at that game. Again he tries to
make the horse his servant – and the horse knows
who’s stronger. Flat on his sun burned back he
smiles at the placid horse with his stupid little eyes
pretending to know something. The horse almost runs
off to the next town, but doesn’t. He doesn’t
know the way.

2.3.09