3-18-10

“Good'ay, neighbor.” An elderly gentleman in a grated familiar fire red plaid shirt and useful sky blue jeans.
I know I am the only one who would wave back with a genuine smile in my stomach. I also know I am the only one to use the peripheral vocabulary to describe such a trivial event.
I had never seen him before.

The sky is like a fan. Such turret like trees are its folds. And lamp post yet unlit...I am still deciding what it is in the grand scheme of things. For I am merely an artists finding metaphors for perfect art.

How is it impossible to laugh with my best friend? My silence is not forced – it is automatic. In my awkward stage of a sprout sweating fruit, my tendency is to brag and to protect without social skills.

With decision, I extract my beauty into my art and words. Why else is my hair knotted, my eyelashes whipping with thick paint? Sores on my feet, sores on my hands, I just unintentionally tasted my own blood. The ceiling of my mouth is scaled like seaweed.

I miss my peaches n' cream kiss my face lotion. I loathe the thick smell of mystery I tote with me. For it is liquid and not soul evoked. And I cannot find my tweezers.

Today, lack of sleep feels good. Accomplishment and fulfillment with every additive caffeinated coffee. But I fear premature wrinkles and envied white hair.

I know this doesn't make sense, so please don't ask. I keep my monk-esque life to myself and selfishness. Just another day imprinted in the ground after rolled over by a barrel.

Is it a sin to offend?