Drawing blank French bread on a typical Thursday after a harsh rainstorm. Sometimes I feel empty. Sometimes I feel as if my soul is an unbodied mortal shell, a cistern with but a drop of water. Whatever can I gather from that? This. Wayward thoughts. Banana leaves. Golden taco trucks sunning themselves on the streets of Los Angeles. Gray buildings. Courtyards wrung by iron bars. Adobe, stucco, yucca plants like spears. Stones for grass. Clay pottery. Faces half immobilized. Staring eyes. Field trips of social anxiety.

It’s gray outside but my mind is lit up by sunlight. I see the southwest. New Mexico. Roswell. Real Roswell, yes with the aliens, but not all of Roswell is aliens. It’s an actual city where people live, not just a playground for science fiction fans. Fiction? It’s not fiction to me. I’ve seen things in the sky there, experienced paranormal breakfasts and late-night fear fests accompanied by energy drinks and baked goods. Because I used to live in that town. Slept and woke up in that town. I felt angst there, joy. I experienced laughter and pain. Death threats and tribes of backstabbers. I took long walks in the old parts of the town where the big mansions stood. I had bouts of paranoia and nailed all my doors shut.

But that was 20 plus years ago now. What? How? Seems like yesterday.

By

Aaron Echoes August

Special thanks to Edge of Humanity Magazine for publishing three of my poems recently: Coffee Shop Rain, The Translucent Wander Pain, and Space Curtain. Please go check them out! Also, a reminder that my new e-book is now available for purchase: The Apocalypse Pipe. The print edition is now available! Thanks for reading and supporting independent creators.