| this is oh so blue A MAGAZINE OF FICTION, POETRY & MORE! |
| black |
| this is black shadow |
| ZYGOTE IN MY COFFEE.COM |
| ISSUE #39 $O.OO |
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| May 2005 |
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| ZYGOTE IN MY COFFEE.COM |
| ***BIO*** Adam Kane was born,1972 in Sydney, Australia to Northern Irish Immigrants. In the mid nineties Kane moved to Los Angeles, California and worked in numerous bars and on building sites and lived in cheap rooms in both Venice and Hollywood. Restless and dissatisfied Kane travelled the U.S and then Europe, Britain and Ireland writing and recording his experiences with a disposable Camera. He published his first stories at the age of 23, and his Photographs have been exhibited widely. He currently lives in Belfast, Northern Ireland. |
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| © 2005 zygoteinmycoffee Ink. |
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| letters passed down through the colonies and delivered to my flailing sanity |
| by Adam Kane |
| splintery cryptic language
falling from my eyes and onto these pages from memories, adjacent verbs that make me recognise that a time arrives when you must look further within self to realise that it is more simple and virtuous to die young in a car wreck than to bleed translucently from the gut age 65 or 70 having lived a purple lie. I remember hard now when I was 23 and living in a small room in venice. living off beans and corn bread drunk everyday by 11 lonely half mad I used to receive letters from females in Australia (place of birth and childhood) that I hardly knew or had met twice, declaring solidarity to me claiming my vigour and honest brevity. I used to take these letters down to the beach with a bottle of port wine and take off my shirt and shoes and lie flat on my back in the California sun burning. drinking that port wine down and reading those letters aloud always finding something mildly humorous or significantly interesting in their words and wondering what I had said or done to these females so far away sending these hot words down through the colonies words laced with want and need like a refugee. separated by an ocean, those girls with all the strength for me so far away, me drunk on the beach clutching those letters being ridiculed by the bums and madmen. the tourist, looking at me like I was a rapist because I was young and drunk and reading aloud and becoming conscious of it all, the attention from the bums and the madmen and the tourists and the young females in Australia. immediately becoming sick of the sand, sick of the blue sky and sick of the world. feeling that I wanted out but knowing I was already finished. soon after the letters stopped. I never replied maybe that was why. life was taking care of what was left of me. I’d return home and my landlady would be on all fours cutting in the turf for a new location for a Tulip to die. I’d walk by without saying a word and check the mailbox. “desperately empty”, she’d say. the corners of her mouth turned up with lucid mockery her face playing 35 but her complexion savage with bitterness fabricating a declaration of 50. I’d walk on in closing the door quietly behind and look at the faded calendar hanging by a nail. with that relentless Californian sun falling all over the place, and my buttermilk semblance- I’d laugh. for all the answers were passed over to the sane or fare from the reach of my simple grip. |