No one will call me --
Hear a music for some. Kill the plexiglass. While staring at the sun. Find some ambition. Clean the bathroom tiles. Make pretty sounds by running a fingernail down your hair. Yanking off those split ends. Like those holy hypocrites wanting to own my body. Rambling down a path on a mule I looked for gold growing in the trees. The map showed me where it was to be found. I trusted. The sun was hot as usual. In my spare time between path-finding I doodled. Curves, straight lines and hoods over it. Imagining things not there are really there. Feeling a new cavity in my mouth.
Gold colors proved only to be a fool variety on one of the branches I encountered. It was pretty though, if nothing else. I stumbled over rocks when I decided to walk alongside the donkey. He looked like he needed some human company down there. No noble deed-doer myself, but I climbed down to say hi, to the poor old tired thing. I could see the relieved look between his eyes. No more wrinkles.
My search was thwarted a few times along the way by a pack of wild bull. I overcame though. Sure that over the next hill would be what I had been searching for.
My stamp album ran out of space. Supplemental pages were too complicated for me to insert, besides they wouldn't have fit anyway. Having mod nails were no longer "in". I found out by reading a fashion magazine. I am still pulling hairs out of my eyebrows. It is an old game where you start and never stop until not one is left in your damn head.
Then there's something to talk about when friends drop in.
The curtains and walls, white, and a spider web in a corner part of the ceiling, in two corners, musical instrument stands unplayed -- no one knows how. But it does look pretty there, against the wall. Two mounds of apple cream sauce poured on top, spilling to the rug.
RIVER BED 33
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