My Western Wall

My walls are a lattice of impressions, an un-narratible story, from the copied small portrait of children born of a far away daughter, half-erased with white crayon to the rushed glimpse of a poorly maintained stopsign and the dream of a bullfight. Alex, in her white dress is glaring into a display screen in the booth for having your say, the image poorly rendered, scribbled and pressed to the bare wall with tape. A vision of a spider's orb made into a torch by the sun amid the green and black of Long Island's trees, an over-processed photograph rendered in pastel. The stark prairie earth abstracted under the fluid sky. I have lived amid many walls which are quickly covered with the inside of my eyes.