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Sometimes I wonder what the beaches of Rio are like. Or maybe the forests of Haiti,. The smell of fresh molasses and rum flowing through the trees like hot ash in a winter’s camp fire.. So how am I suppose to imagine such a thing, or place, or feeling or smell? I guess listening to Hawaiian music found in the $1 record bin in the local thrift store is a start. Or maybe, looking through old issues of National Geographic. Exploring the globe through the lens of a piece of glossy paper. I see wildlife occasionally, but I get my drama through television programs about the plight of the young forest elk.

What was in like in the swinging lounges of post war America? Spending an afternoon with the Rat Pack in lovely Los Vegas. Sunglasses on, useless tanning oils and a cerveza with lime. Perhaps a few palms in the background. Swingin.

But instead, I wait and wait for something to come my way. Or maybe I'll be on my way to something other than a ringing in my ears and a sharp pain in my head.

I can dream all day sometimes, but when I wake up it's gone. It's always as if nothing ever happened. The landscapes can be so surreal and the feeling of exuberance more than an unconscious manifestation. But always, the end is the same. I awake in a place that is supposed to be called home. Walls, streets, lights, sounds, a soul killing exercise occurs every morning when getting out of bed. Step out of the unconscious world and out of imagination as you feel it should be.

Dead birds lay everywhere as a reminder that we were not all chosen to fly. Instead of flying home, we stand around pecking the streets for some sort of nourishment. It becomes more than habit, but a way of life - this ceaseless pecking order.