come on baby- I know you got a mouthful o diamonds n a pocket full o secrets. don't worry- I believe
Sunday blog
It's the morning after nothing last night. I'm waiting on the Marta train to come, and take me to church. I was gonna be there early today so I could get a good seat in the back like I like, but it's twenty till the service starts, and I'm still in Candler Park.
There's a woman who could be my aunt in front of me. She's flirting with a one eyed, black man in snake print loafers who's carrying a bible. My aunt has a voice that tells me she buys cigarettes by the carton. Her hair is blonde curls in gel with three inches of brown roots, and her lips are colored to match her scrunchie. She gets off with the man it seems she just met at the MLK station.
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Ok- I made it to the SLC. Opening your heart, he says today is about: what love is: not outside, not obedience, obligation... [look this up on the podcast]. True love never ends, it just changes form. To make the leap from loving one person specifically, which we all understand, to being able to love the whole world.
Blazers on women with tees and jeans are like DJ from Full House.
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This Sunday at the park- Everybody's starry eyed. I walked around my usual spot (under the little tree at the end), looking for something different- but didn't see a spot that brought as much emotion, and emotion's what I'm for. Were all here: I've got my sunbathers; my fat people tossing balls at each other; the toddler and his fathers; my romantics are under the trees on their blankets- the same blankets they'll be cuddling in a few weeks from now, picking grass from it while watching a concert on DVD; my gay boys, just gettin out after a long night- the shirts are different, but they're always tight; and my singles with their dogs- creatures of their reflection.
Streaks in the Mayfair's sky- white trails playing tic-tac-toe.
I got a bottle of wine, a whole pack o cigarettes to smoke, and two books to read. There's about five hours of day light left, but not so much in this battery.
Sent from Bartholomew, my iPod.