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July 17, 2007 Pink Shirts Pink Shirts. Pink shirts, and the look of the eye, because she knows things. Army shorts and triangles green with white speckles, just because. Gates of freedom, and arteries in the night. Flowing moons over and above the cosmos, and underneath some angels sing, welcoming in the new. Showers forever. Moments of goodness. Velvet smiles by the brick parks, where the steel monsters go high and far and bravely. The overgrown ravines and there are a hundred Chinese people that walk there. Humility. Spiders. Green faces of watches. The world is so hardened. Where is a cool candle and chair by the sea? Gowns of brides. Water on the shore. Agile minds. Warm hearts. Cork shoes and the darkest of red nails. Ankle bracelets. Generation gaps. Shark’s tooth. Are the piers still there and can you see the sharks? Mexican women dancing or swimming or laughing in the dark light of the early A.M. I.D bracelets. Corners. Cabs. Coincidences. Shells. Songs. Ships. Pink shirts, and the look of the eye. I saw her walk past, and her look reminds of someone else, someone long ago. Conduits. Clichés. Couches. Soaring. Sapphire. Sand. Put your hand on the back of your neck and close a chakra or kill a fly or something. Pink shirts. Eating Water In A Funny World It was a funny world. He walked along by the fields and to his right the trucks came rolling along. One eighteen wheeler was a Dempsters Bread truck, and the Dempsters lettering on the side of the trailer made him think of his youth. While thinking about this the truck conjured up large amounts of dirt and dust. He then had to close his eyes and mouth as he walked through what the truck had left. It was like holding one’s breath under water, and when he took a breath and opened his eyes it was a moment too soon; the clouds went into his eyes and mouth. Walking on, the cricket creatures, or whatever they were, made those high-pitched sounds in the tallness of the wild field growth. Blue skies and puffy white clouds. He thought about how people were like ants on the earth, and worried that his existence might only be like an ant's life. The trucks certainly didn’t care. If it had been raining it would have been water that he had eaten. Eating water. Something had bitten him in the back, or stung him, and the pain was so intense and sudden he felt like someone had stuck a pin into his back. He had visions of burning, of fire. He worried that it might be a metaphysical thing, that someone had just spoken terribly of him, or betrayed him, and he was receiving a dagger through the ether or some other realm. He walked on, and again he felt the stinging, and in his mind’s eye dark orange colors appeared. He had a cut on his foot also. There was a certain amount of drudgery in things that couldn’t be gotten around. His head felt heavy. Earlier, he had burned his mouth on his food, and was now risking another burn because he gobbled his coffee as he went along. Gobbling coffee. Yes, the world was chills, spills, dirt in the eyes and mouth, stings, cuts, and much more. Those puffy white clouds were all right though. Somebody, he thought, should paint the clouds, and paint the whole scene so well that even the cricket sounds came through the painting. ------------ 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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