Bleary blue eyes folded into crepe paper skin, translucent crinkles that nestle into crevices around bleary blue or grey eyes, notiving everything the same; perhaps always noticing too much… Once a face puffy and purple-red, a beard, not a frail little man like a shed exoskeleton but a substantial form. More than knees under a hospital blanket and wide, broad knuckles that we all inherited.

A wandering face, taking fluid trips through time and space without forgetting it was attached to your head. Eyebrows raised in question, high on the forehead, lips puckered in spite at being old or ginless or a warm smile giving way to bare gums and a younger face, sharp cheekbones and a triangle nose, small trim lips, jutting chin. Always a wandering face, a wind and sun face.

“Whadda life,” sometimes Ray chuckles, tossing back two shots of the strongest expresso in town with a nearly webbed hand, the skin a mitt far too large for the bones, runs it through tufts of hair, perfectly snow white and dandelion looking… there used to be a great big beard but now ears huddle naked on the side of your head.

Always talking of boxing or one of the wives, the word spangled with your wives like spots spangle your wizened countenance. Every old woman who walks by the room says, “hello, Ray!” and you wave sometimes. Your face is lit by the window overlooking the smoking patio, you gesture towards the fake tree and ask if it’s real, I bring you a plastic leaf and your eyebrows shoot up again. Always surprised. How did I get here? Why did I get here?

The earnest, sad eyes that win everyone over and later earn scorn, the hollow spaces where the past is stored, drifting like down. All features so familiar and so foriegn, holding stories of tumbling from place to place. lali-and-george-at-recent-rupture-radio-hour

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