Breakfast With Las Locas

Old birds and heavy old glass, and me a’battle over meself, “me” fights for pits, waked up and cracking nuts in me’s teeth, handling old new feelings like new and new again ‘til more roasted art. Poached cashews, et cetera. I rode up my bicycle on the y-axis, hills and hills and saw and sawed away at these own legs and smelled laconic luster of desert, wishsinging in my nose-thrill, fumbling upwards with wind through the beard all cool and cold, fingers passing over my face, feeling heavy think deposits upsurging and winnowing down to hills once more. The windows now are closed for a time while sweet things express themselves rottingly in garbage and other areas of everyday life. Right now old watermelon, never ‘et, just came out of fridge and went under the can lid, staining my notions of health and healthy eating for a winning lifestyle. We happy three spoke of crazzy and of how the middle has no import, of bodies doing their dead thing making skin crawl, mind popping open, like steaks slowly blowing out insides on Poltergeist countertop. You note some will say that with no purpose we’re out there with the trash, living off the carcass of a dead world. It may be. So and so-so. And bathtubs show how faces screw up into themselves, transient foxholes for ducking into when guns go blazing outside the little casa. We fit up holes in our heads for putting eggs into and papaya, too. Signs on the wall collaborated to make the breakfast restaurant feel like a tribute to itself. Little amounts of coffee kept coming keeping the conversation coming. La ciudad grandly warped its arms around me and I felt light, excited, new-intentioned, clamps loosening on moldering idea structures, a brushless carwash for the body.