Journal 4 - Orange Cliché

The night sky was an orange cliché where silly men in standard manly boots strut sideways into the gasping sunset – tired of their stubble and hoping for another scene to capture the faux visionary mind. He steps on the smoked cigarette and looks into his splotchy horse’s blank eyes. Where are we goin? he asks. Neigh of course is all the splotched polka-dotted horse replies. Horse speak for everything and nothing. He places his spit-laden boot in the cracked stirrup and puts all his weight into it – just to aggravate. The horse bucks – 2 can play at that game. Again he tries to make the horse his servant – and the horse knows who’s stronger. Flat on his sun burned back he smiles at the placid horse with his stupid little eyes pretending to know something. The horse almost runs off to the next town, but doesn’t. He doesn’t know the way.