Skies like freshly-pealed orange halves
A precious and pulpy atmosphere like a sun-bleached birthday
The flat-flat horizon with oblique shadow-showers in the hazy distance
As a raindrop cracks the glass gladly, skipping along in jagged half-anticipated grooves
Trying to catch that sunset at 120 kpm
Fleeing the event horizon of solitude like outrunning a winter storm of blizzard swarms

(ice-cold blizzard-swans)
Neatly stacking miles upon miles like silhouette dominoes with ceramic clacks

Proud profiles of ancient trees under the sky of technicolor gray or maybe the mysterious magnification of a bubblegum marble
A child’s pipe-smoke settling on the horizon, curling up quietly and closely like that greyhound we saw in the stray streets of Chacabuco on that humid, luminous Friday afternoon in September
In between those two-dimensional building facades that seemed to be hiding exactly Nothing behind their delicate decorations and cotton candy cracks

Off-white and cream, olive green shutters and pastel pink parasols
And that drenching, blinding sunlight of loose demons on fire
There’s nothing to do in towns like that but fall in love
Or close up tight like a fist or a desert dog with dead-eyes
Sit behind half-drawn curtains in shallow shadows, watching the world wither (and warm intermittently) through iron bars supposedly for your possessions’ protection but really for the peace of your misanthrope-mind

Curtains sewn twelve years before you were born
Once crimson, now rose

‘Always dress in your Sunday best, even if you don’t leave the house’
Mocktails with ginger ale and maybe even mango when you can afford it
Leave the back door cracked for the cat that comes only when she’s desperate

All the while liquid gold hangs on the horizon, reflected shakingly, stirringly, in the brown swamp water that doesn’t look so brown in the late-afternoon lemonade-light
Road signs you can’t read, mortal muzzles and empty beer cans in the back seat
The wish for an after-six cigarette which is almost as good as an after-sex cigarette but you’re in the backseat of a car and not the languid cotton sheets of last night

Perpendicular parallels and unidentified floating lights in unlucky skies that look like serious stars at one moment but break into a thousand pieces under the defining pressure of an Enlightenment glance

A familiar name for once, but Santa Fe isn’t the capital of New Mexico anymore like you learned in third grade innocence-shade, it’s a province of Old Argentina out here on the goddamn planes

Not paradise, mainly the same pain, Jane
Just transposed onto this freeway of fantasy
‘And your image is a Ferrari’

Leaving this Volkswagen in the somehow dust of apocalyptic lust
Lacing up my gaucho moon-boots, I set foot on these never-ending-nothing pampas
To claim a small step for me, a great leap for my sincerity
Organic land with toes-in-sand sensations, holy intonations, rapt meditations
Until the rest of this falls away in the friendly familiarity of solicitous solitude
Where the lachrymose longing of the lonely plains is just the after-effect of rum-and-coke and sun-stroke


Abigail Lynn Klinkenberg

Abigail Lynn Klinkenberg

Abby Lynn Klinkenberg is a writer based in Berlin, Germany. She graduated (summa cum laude) from the University of California, Los Angeles, in June of 2015 with a B.A. in English and Political Science, as well as with a minor in Global Studies. She is currently pursuing her M.A. in Global Studies at the Humboldt Universität zu Berlin.