Left of the Market

I watched the moon come up behind the old chicken shack. It was a slow rising moon. She would have loved this moon. It was the kind of moon that makes your belly ache... not unlike the deep twisting sting that you get from too much Beef Stroganoff. I sat there on my fat ass and thought about why everyday I wore the same multicolored vest that she had bought me while we were both studying arachnids in Laos. The finely woven garment was blessed by a local Witch Doctor and was believed to protect against machete attack. What became of that doctor I will never know. I'd like to assume he has awoken the inner child within his soul, and thus finally found peace... but most likely his mind is still bent like a rusted corkscrew. I can imagine that his poor family still sits and listens to his rambling on and on about the complexity of the oyster and the amount of time it takes to open a bag of Fritos. I can see the looks on their faces as he drones on endlessly about his obsession with cinnamon and his hair-brain theories about the dawn of man.