Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Journal 45 - Charleston Green
Tires screech in the back of my mind each time
I contemplate the nature of this or that and
my truncated words smell like burnt rubber.
The street is a place for fat cats and car-jackers -
te streets of my brain are riddled with pot-holes
and mushy hot ta. And afternoon for you is an
afternoon beside the sprinkler and warm summer
scents of herbs mowed grass and barbecue grills
with children sliding down the yellow banana
peel in the wet yard with true-joy smiles on
their inexperienced faces. It's a shame that ex-
perienced means droopy-eyed sullen hard-shelled
thickness; why must experience break us down into
pieces of entangled parts always on the lookout
for the smelly wet deception? I want experience to
wade into the ocean at night and laugh at the
salty darkness, glowing in the dark Charleston green
of the waves under the thin cloud thrown moon.
Is it so difficult for a smile to mean something?
A smile on the face of an adult without all the thick
layers of social make-up and botox mores? I
suppose it is too much for the only animal that blushes.
It should be simple to walk into a group of fellow
sojourners and commiserate in our serendipitous
solidarity. We all should see the world in close
solidaritous filters - I need Photoshop for my mind.
It's all a dream and I should live with out-of-tune
crickets. I think my teeth will be the death of me.
A back-rubbing hug with scratching fingers is a
beautiful thing to be given. Human touch can
mean so much no matter how trivial or cliche.
I'll take the cliche of her touch any time of any day.
I hear the distant sounds of footsteps stepping in
a funeral quick rhythm marching for my wet
forlorn soul. they sound like footsteps of a dark
suited slick-haired executive in black Armani,
smirking through the smoke seeping out of his mouth.
I see the sprinkler spraying water on the banana slide
in summer fostering and fertilizing wide imperishable smiles.