the brilliant white Asiatic writing or calligraphy that scarred the slick black screen in his closed eyes when he laid down in bed to sleep

                                                                cued in him to woander if it wasnt a message from the other side or some other-other side

wanting him to pursue it

it went so far in his thinking that he woandered if  as the characters were rendered  were they rendered  inscribed on the screen on his side as he might write them  or were they written backwards to him  executed for the purpose of whomever inscribed them

as one might exhale on a windowpane in the cold of winter
then etch their message with a naked finger on the glass that they could read  though it would appear backwards to those inside the warm house on the other side of the glass

to make matters worse  and hopeless for him

the characters inked  stroke by stroke

revealing themselves smartly

quickly dulled  and evaporated

almost before he could make them out

he hadnt a pen and pad with him to draw blindly on

transcribe

and they appeared randomly  no rhyme or reason to their placement

as a small child might scribble with a crayon anywhere on a page

and make up what it was they committed 

                                                                      then moments later

make up something else for the same commitment

Pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey

though after you were blindfolded the donkeys reins were dropped and it could wandered wherever it wanted

so he laid still 

                        and enthralled

watched the calligraphy struck and fade

reminiscent of watching fireflies against the night or among the fragrant hedges in the Chicago neighborhood of his youth

Then                                          

          he didnt worry if they had something to say  or not

 

maybe he should have

                   early AM, Thursday,  5  3. 15
2015,  Thursday,  5  3. 15