The Ecphorizer
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Dawn breaks over the Andean mountains and the marketplace awakens to its daily life. Bright red, blue, green designs adorn coarse homespun clothes displayed on wooden benches in artistic disarray. Sitting on sun-warmed stone steps an Indian woman lazily spins her wool. From a tiny coal stove standing on the curb rises a delicious smell of frying fish. Voices, shouts, laughter, music resound a cacophony of orchestrated noise. As people go by, an old Indian watches silently seated in the recesses of his tiny stall. Hidden in a dirty adobe corner a sad little boy plays his hand-carved flute. Dark braids, rosy cheeks, young Indian girls send shy gazes to parading soldiers. Dressed in black, two old ladies embrace each other as they stop by the door of the old church. Throbbing with life, the marketplace gathers vendors customers spectators. More Articles by Phyllis Bourne |
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in iron of the night of Christ,
when Florida thru keys is cased in 1 ice-cube, I-swoh summon the summer night not far from Dimplestone, night when Ohio forests of fireflies line the insides of chagrin, its valley. "Luxury Mayonnaise," Mack intones to Lore & me, for we whirr on blacktop thru the greening blackness, munching slim Spam on whitebread with the Hellmans dry tractorgrease clotted. thru windows of Ford Woody the woody dampness, cool within warmth, deluges us wolfcubs. |
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