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July 10, 2007 Wholesome She looked well. It looked like rain. She looked like she did when she was twenty-five, though she was almost thirty-five. She had her hair pulled back, and was tanned. She had the earth or some wholesomeness in her eyes. So humid it was before the rain. So quiet it becomes. What goes on out there in the sky, in the meadow, in the fox’s den? Grand trees pulled over and the root systems exposed. One time we went to a lady’s house in an old part of a town, and saw quiet trees and grounds waiting patiently for the rain. Sometimes a farm animal in a field, grazing, can remind you of the earth itself. I thought of nature and time, and of the term Indian time. I thought of how it is to wait. Waiting waiting waiting. Root systems. Slugs. Stoic tombstones in the dawn. She looked so well, and was well. Well enough. She reminded me of when she was twenty-five. She had somehow, at some point, decided to kick off ten years. Willpower. Dimples. Brown eyes. A good complexion. Honest to a fault. Somewhere is Sedona. Somewhere there are grids, workers of the light, and so on. But it is enough to notice how she looked. The world is fast, but I noticed. It doesn’t rain like it used to when we were young, when the good storms came, and there were actual rainy days. The rain that shows up for a meager time span disappoints. It’s better than nothing though. The world is like a few boxes of waterproof matches. Lots of chances in there to bring some light. She has an earthy light around the eyes. She looked well. Journeys Through The World Through humid summer streets in the sub tropical myriad of dreams in the middle of days. A strong black mechanic sings a song and I can hear him exclaiming as I look from the car windows. Gun ranges and defunct towns where the roads are swift with sadness. Knowing graveyard heights, and the paths meander, and I like to think all souls meander on their way to enlightenment. Feverish nightmares, and the suburbs still house the ravines that have seen everything, and housed everything, and been everything from spray paint days to hanging grounds for souls in too much distress. Oh, make me a terrace and a cold cut sandwich. Oh, give me nicotine and a new dream, where we are allowed to give the sea our ears and eyes and everything else. The way can be difficult, and the way can be light. One time, sometime, we will go though humid summer streets in the sub tropical myriad of dreams in the middle of days again. ------------ Email: Brian1750@Hotmail.com Comment on this article here! ------------ All articles are EXCLUSIVE to Useless-Knowledge.com and are not allowed to be posted on other websites. ARTICLE THIEVES WILL BE PROSECUTED! |
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