Fish are jumping and the cotton is high. So are most of my friends. High on the weather, the light. Talking about going on the river with a cold six-pack and the sweet yearning for a cool breeze. Just drifting, aimless, talking easy, looking softly at the world, our wildness mirrored in the water, the world.
We burn more light before seven than we get in a whole winter month. It is a glut of light and it feels good to just waste it, let it stream into dark crevices; scatterit-willy-nilly about like easy money paydays. I wake to a bright morning pouring into my trailer door, lighting my couch like a movie star on stage. My door is open to the cool night and I am snuggled into my bed-cocoon awaiting the new day. The stars are out, the stars are out. The galaxies abound and drift endlessly. There is majesty in the air and it goes on forever. It is a feast of a hundred dishes and we say it's great, but where is the wonder bread.
Today I will butter a croisant and eat it slowly.
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About Me
- roberto kiam borderlineartist@gmail.com
- I live in a quaint, little town, plagued with the specter of speculation and commerce. I am trailer trash,with wishes for good dishes. I shoulda died long ago, but like a rescue dog, didn't. I am indescribably scattered. I speak three languages. I walk a tenuously, true path. I am lucky. For myself, for others. God, it is said, protects orphans, widows and the innocent.
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