Bruce Lee comes over, while I am discovering the dryer didn’t dry my clothes, and one of my shorts has snagged on a pin that keeps the dryer door shut, and it has wound itself around a bunch of shirts, turning them into ropes. It requires a lot of untwisting. Bruce sits on the couch smiling, twinkling his eyes while I untangle them. He’s like a cherub or an angel, just perched there on the couch in the living room, surrounded by paintings. When I get done, I close the screen door to the patio, and I smile at him.
“Are you talking today?” I ask.
Bruce Lee doesn’t reply.
He keeps smiling and looking up and down at the magic wonder contained in everyday things. He does that long enough, I can’t resist seeing it myself.
It is like the livingroom has become a fantastical garden, clothed in endless gems. There seems to be an inviting melody too, played above.
Then Bruce leaves.
It takes a bit, like a drawn out sigh — the other reality slowly seeps back in, like a fog.
But it is as only as full of sighs or as foggy, as I’ve decided to grow up. So I keep seeing hints of gems, and I’m reminded of bits of cosmic music.
If I tell Bruce Lee about this if he comes back, I bet he’d be proud. But I don't know if he’d talk.
— -
CM Evans
Quail Meadow
this word salad
with robot dogs
a carbon neutral clown
able to cry and save the world
one flea at a time
----
