1-31-93 Another Weekend

Ate the damn time right up.  At least I was alone and at peace for a while, allowed to wander whatever gardens I chose.  One let down though.  Ah, lady luck, where are ye, and who's your favorite bass player?

The project remains mean and picked-at like a much-too-old delicacy for a bird, troubled by its symbolism, yet deflected by its stench.  Ooh, that was kind, that last one.

Here's the scoop:  Another month, then, famous last words. Fuck, who needs the shit?  Am I right?  Yea, brother.  Don't be dreamin' 'bout my sweet sugar. Yuck, yuk.

                                           She walks by
    A red, red bag,               with it in hand,
    as red as anything,         Exotic for sure,
    Shouts out like a flag,    Some foreign land,
    Flapping and waving.      Beautiful and serene
                                           it gave birth to a jewel
                                           Hair like coal yet eyes so green,
                                           To the flames 'neath my eyes
                                                     she gives sweet fuel.

The umbrella dropped to the ground and was immediately swept across the lot, as if it had somewhere to go, and soon.  Hopefully it would not be shunned at the appointment, given the state it was in, it wouldn't be surprising.  The poor thing had lost four spines off it carapace and little resembled its former self.

That's why she just let it go,  Damn thing.  She would shortly be very soaked, but to hell with it all.  The scene in that old, used book market had pushed a few delicate buttons inside of her.  All she wanted was to get home.