(no subject)
This summer has been here before.....lonely and dumped, with the sour and sweet smell of freshly painted white-picket fences searing my nostrils and bones aching as I mow deadened grasses...sweat hot and sticky and covering me like a wet blanket. Hair drenched and emiiting odors of a shampoo she once gave me and a sense memory almost unbearable. My thin Hanes medium sticks to me as my father's had years before, hunched over as if in a Millet painting (or copied years after by Van Gogh in wide eyed admiration). His chapped fingers held Marlboros as he tended to his garden, ashing in them like some sort of fertilizer. Surgeon General's Warning: This pack may cause indescribable beauty and one would never doubt it as Spring came and from the gardens rose buttery golds, fiery reds and just a hint of cerulean blue. These colors come back and half-heartedly mock me now as I sit in drab gray rooms that close in on me like medieval torture techniques and I am wondering if I have time to read all my books that sit there on my shelf, dust covered and musty as the Velveteen rabbit had in a children's story half remembered from a time more than half past. Memories of my mother now strike me in rhythm and tune to the hum-chirp-chip of battling outdoor cicadas and rolling Mack trucks along the freeway. One soft velvety hand turned the pages of those half-remembered stories while one delicately touched my hair. Her night robe smelled of baby's breath though that could have been my own.....I.....held.....so.....tight. These memories had all but faded me and this tale was supposed to be of lovers long gone and my wants to head West....a travelling virgin taking it slow.....but probably just dreaming of Californication. Metallic colored pinwheel memories swirling around as I take in sights and smells not limited to this 10' by 10' room. Proust only had one cookie. All I have is time.