I wish to trudge the mud

A distant rumble of a car engine
A whisk of wind
A bird chirping
The flip flop of my flip flops fittingly sounding off as I walk
The sun is high.
The day is hot.
Few leave their air-conditioned caves,
But I walk.

At night now I hear the dull roar of a plane overhead.
Those same cars whish by.
I hear the hum of the air-conditioners.
But otherwise still night
The birds have gone to sleep.
There are no crickets in this town.
Two young girls peddle by on bikes gossiping about the inane frivolities of a somewhat pointless life.
And then the sprinklers go off giving life to this desert.
The cool water makes the air thick and refreshing.

The day as always, has been full.
Full of work mostly, and little reprieve.
I hope to one day get a little and I think the day is vastly approaching.
I see the twilight of my summer work just as I see its promise emerge.
It has been interesting, consuming, and altogether a bittersweet symphony.
I don't want to think too much on it now because that is all I do.

I'd like to escape life for a while.
Run free from the restricting bonds of time to do anything or nothing and not feel guilt, pain, or pleasure.
To be free of everything with meaning would give way to nothingness.
It would be drowning.
It would suffocate life and make it worthless.
Oh worthlessness! I envy thee.
Well, we can't have that.
So onward I trudge.
Wishing it were through mud, but only sand in this desert.

The Reader

I suppose I am my own worst demon
Controlling my every thought and perception
I mold my reality like a ball of clay
Supple and malleable; it does what I want
I suppose some could say I control nothing
But I do control my perception of control
If I believe I do, I do
And that's really good enough
I think I can feel more than some people
But at the same time I think many see me callous
I am constantly watching
I observe the world
I live within my own snow globe
And shake it up from time to time
I can allow myself distractions
Or I can be closed off to just one
I can sit by myself, but I'm never alone
I constantly think of someone else
It just seems impossible to think of me and only me
Why should I be so important to myself?
If I serve no one in serving myself it is futile
But I suppose the fact is that I do
When I think of me, I think of you
It's strange how some people affect me
Not bad, but peculiar
Some are fat, stout, tall, lank, lean, or absolutely delicious
I am led to consumption of some types more than others
I feed on the lively ones
Their energy is contagious
But it does not infect me, for I have it already
It recharges a battery already working
Skin tones, eye color, hair, curves, faces
Patterns behind the eyes
Mannerisms and inflection
There is little that escapes me
We are all so transparent
It is impossible to avoid inspection
Just give it time
Your beauty is exquisite
You intrigue me fully
There are so many facets unexplored
So many shelves and tombs that you don't even know
You have so many blank pages
So many full pages
You cram some things between the lines and in the margins
And other things go ignored
But on the whole you are delectable
Not in any way of impropriety
But you create a fascination
A growing fascination
And I think by exploring you I will find myself
A peace that I have not felt yet
A calm that I want
It will come
As I am an open book or books
Let us read

Jam and T

Poor sopping wenches slicing

T slippery jam

Masking lost dreams of surrender

TO SEE FOR a DAY BEYOND

Self-love gone from panes

Broken by inconsequential    Butterflies

Remember the CALL

Of the chosen lamb

Chops

Liver or deceiver but giver of life

Lost in frenzied silent romance

BY Beethoven bridged the gap to twin

Cities on a Hill

A BEACON to beckon the lost and found

 

She calls for more T

Renaissance

Spring.  Easter. Rebirth.  New life.  Not perfect birth.  But a beautiful birth.

Buds.  Blades.  Blood.  Suffering.  Renewal.  Cleansed by death.  Made pure through pain.