burning fire insideahhh, yes, it's not the destination, but the journey
the wise men say
the journey to nowhere
from day one neurons firing
everything converted into patterns
and logged. everything. repeating patterns
emerge and are strengthened until they are learned
the great battle of resources. with abundant
resources not only the strong survive
but all resources are finite and
thus the battle begins. it
makes sense, but it
seems so dull
meanwhile, the fire burns brighter
the faint breeze of time constantly fanning.
occasionally smothered perhaps, but just one extinguisher
hidden in the depths of the ego.
nature overrides nuture
most of the time
flame and ego collide
both undiscerning of
motives for the other
both looking for fuel.
enjoying the journey.
chaste rambleAs I slide past the closing door a loosely hanging skirt caresses my thigh, furtively flooding my thoughts with images of hoarded sunsets, mini umbrellas shading fruity concoctions that do their best to drown the sexual tension between us. Or maybe provoking it while slyly chipping at the walls of inhibition.
I enter the sterile office, light-years away from those moments lit by firery cravings and olive-toned longings. The drywall and concrete drain energy and leave nothing but will to drag the thick, heavy clothes back out the door.....into steel and neutral seatbelts. Catch a glimpse of that sangria red chasing the sun over the hills and I'm taken back to the loosely hanging skirt. The freshly woven cotton accentuates her sand-dune curves. Something as simple as a light breath across her hip might awaken a million folicles and warm the ground beneath the forest. Bring the Wild out of hibernation. Or so I imagine.
Current mood: tired
Avocadoes, Mangos...or is it Mangoes.
Must sell Green Bell Peppers before they wilt
How little time my brain has to be creative
Cilantro is looking pretty tired
Who will take those?
Broccoli people infect my dreams
Yes, Mr. Zucchini, I will find a home for you soon
I know you're ripe and ready to be eaten
No, no, would never let you go to waste
Not you, Mr. Zucchini, you're way too special for that
More milk. Looking at me with puppy-dog....lids
knowing that if no one wants them they're destined for the sink
Please sell me....I want to build strong bones in Timmy or Valerie
I'm sorry, pulp-added OJ, your non-pulp brothers are just selling faster than you. I know you have more fiber, you know it, but the people want what the people want.
During the whirlwind of the day, they all know the next pass might be a hand reaching for them. Will they be picked, or passed up for the prettier tomato next to them. They lean over the edge of the shelves in anticipation and put on their best skin. The whirlwind slows to a buzz, the odds growing larger against them. Finally the light goes out. They let out a melancholy sigh. Settle into their cool, moist boxes, snuggle up to each other for the night and wait for another chance. Hopefully they wil still be pretty enough tomorrow they tell themselves, knowing that every moment is working against them.
some of them awaken still full of life and nutrients. Others are weary from their long journey. In the soil is where they're happiest, nurtured. But they are aware of their fate. They fulfill their life's work when the fork pierces their thick skin. Providing us energy ensures their genetic survival, too. They become a part of us, re-assembled, assimilated into our biology. No, we are not that different than Mr. Zucchini......then again, maybe I'm delirious.
Gone are the daysFor the last time, no, I said.
We can't go whiskey and pillage and sharpen the night
We work and count and fill up the tank
Do I want fajitas or flautas
So many delightful choices
As my belly presses against the belt
and I placate the urges with sugar and confection
We're civilized and must act accordingly
lest we risk old age with dust and 60-watt soft-glows
instead of polished and halogens
this battle of hormone and logic
instinct and institution
the red light frays against the wall
the sonance ratatat tats inside my head
open, shut, open, shut
open and late
small victories part the waves, but cannot weather the storm
sometimes sun, sometimes not.
So I sink in my plush, leather seat
And find a false pretense to fan the squelching ardor
Until another day.
Careless utterances, idle moments
penetrate fresh wounds
healed with nothing more than a blind eye
Today we shall pillage
Because we can.