gathers her big belly until, unrestrained by incontinence, her water breaks into a fit of violent rages. She is the hurricane. She reveals her tempestuous easterly by birthing, ‘he who is the wind that splays the lightning bolt from the Prussian of storm’. Westerly is born sunburned, whipcord thin, he is an angry ginger-brown. This westward child grifter repels his mother easterly homeward. The union of this coffee stained wind is as unwanted as the deed. Dodger becomes his Facebook persona; this westerly wind is a true gypsy orphaned at birth, feeling assertions with the vindictiveness of a willful childish dust devil. Gypsy child swindler, smiling mischievously with pleasing eyes and a pinched whey-faced starving hollow of deprived, steals moisture away from puckered cactus and desert grit, pocketing puddles, drawing the shoreline evaporated to deceived. Gypsy child born, he is the
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wind that chaffs dead skulls white of flesh floating in oceans of dried grass, tumbleweeds and the desiccation of silent emptiness. He is the tested dust devil that vacuums the frail. I am the cliff top Oracle. Drawing in all from the windward blasts I read their thoughts in weather reports. Molest me the frigid king of the north or the sexy knave of the south; suffering the sultry witch from east and the gangsta’ delinquent of west. The gypsy winds force me reading their wordy twists. Read them like words on a page of blue sky clotted with clouds. They tell me their wayward stories chinook, tales blown hard and buffeted about. The core of their stories remains solid but the sides have been worn to soft shoulders as the familiar of everyday comes from afar to my present location. I scent their stories. I taste them in the everyday of mowed grass and hot pavement, the sizzled of BBQ’s and hot tree pollen drifting over me in a fine yellow talc brought to me in my isolation, brought to me by the gypsy winds.
