Monday, December 20, 2010

If its Thursday it's Friday, and it seems if I think blue, it's green. It's never warm enough, until it's too warm, especially under the covers; that when me feet traipse the cooler edges of the beds frigid edge, and reach the brisk cool that wraps in between toes like a wedged sock, I am for a split second appeased, and then all at once too cold.

Music abounds, drearily as a hazy faded image of a distant vision, that words all meld toegether to form one amalgum of a holiday song that teeters the intelligble realm of having a set denomination. Christmans time is Christmas time, would be the safe descriptor for a snowless mid December, and slipping in and out of the work day through the branches of the month, lingering to close on the edges of the weekends limber branches, we again slip off into the vast abyss that is Monday, reminded of the fact that weekend has past and we must endure through another week to the more mild and relaxing confines of our weeks repose!

I shutter for the fact that my words are all too often drenched in a mildly stringent vapor of epistemological, primordial ooze; I long for the moments when my words stretch the length of my Saturday stroll, down an uninhabited beach around a curve, where the eyes might spy another band of beach, bookended by two Jetty's, their rocks jutting from the water, that in my mind might be too cold to swim. In this hazed scene I dip the toes of my youth in the water, sometimes forgetting to remove my sock, other times my high top nikes, and revert to a bedroom of my mental sanctuary to burn out the fuse of a low powered to hair dryers to try drying them in an instant.

I step across peeling wooded decks, partially painted, and sliver my toe, in a slight slide across the front of a house. Like a dream, it being a dream, I remember a house once dark, thick, recessed and expectant. Than later, like it's demeanor had switched, like a mid life crisis and light brown stained the still aged planks of wood that it's skin consisted of.

When I turn to winter, to fall, to school, I walk the side walked streets of Spring Glen, I wonder how it all transpired, how it all took place, what lived behind the walls of the houses that stretched my simple sojourn to elementary school. I wonder who couldn't pay bills? Whose life was cut short,having had children to quickly in their life, and possibly later was the impetus to drink too much, to feign interest and quibble at their own existence, cultivating passive agressive tendencies like high rising Sun flower heads, bulbous in the sprind day sun. I silently listen for distant noises to evoke the miniscule moments of my uneventful day. I long for the end of the day, only to recognize that I want nothing more than more of the day, but to do it differently. I cry, and I think to cry, and sometimes I laugh at the times when I should be crying, or at least contemplating. I watch time tick on tock to the next hour, diffuse daylight and scatter clouds, limit the sun and devour the day. I ride the same track of land home, across the same body of water, and never once do not think why? I am purposeful, but unable to fulfill my purpose, querying the system of MPG incorporated for the next thing, stuck in the same thing.

MPG Inc, the epicenter of the world, the center of the universe, all are hear for me, and I must take time to develop business strategy to concur the world; though in the less than well thought out extended metaphor, the conclusion is that I have concurred the world, as it is my world. I have strategized with a think tank, that I can successfully limit my output while increasing the inout of revenue streams. I do this by simply not eating, and finding ways to eat that do not cost me any revenue output.