Pregnant with thought I drive rapidly away from the airport and towards the city. I speculate on what album is profound enough to listen to until my enthusiasm is eviscerated by the obtrusiveness of my destination. I am going to work; while somewhere above the green hills of Georgia M is tending to a vomiting baby and jamming her ears into the headphones that my clumsy toes broke.
The lanes flood with cars full to the brim with pairs of oxen, lions, and goats, all of whom are love-struck and bridled with gaudy affections. They claw upon each other in backseat frenzies of schoolboy passion until their backs are ravaged with sores and wounds encircle their throats. The doves have been absolved of their duties and are necking the swine.
The levies have been stretched to the limit and are unable to suppress the desire of her fingers to make haste for mine, and the sentimentality of her clicking makes it unlikely that the gaps in the wall will be repaired within time!
I get off at 5 and saunter towards the river, watch it fertilize and fecundate its own mysticism, watch it swallow a tug boat that chugs on down the line and squeals at me.
“Brother you best put on that fig leaf and thank the big guy for letting your lucky star drop so gracefully to you. And don’t doubt your premonition that she’s more than just an ampersand, because if you ever lose her you’ll regret it till your blue. And if you’re dapper and you’re proper and her senses do not stop her, you might be lucky enough to snag her before you’re through. But don’t ever dismiss her likeness and the way she’s done you righteous or the fruit she feeds at midnight from her womb.”
A bum sings a bad rendition of a James Taylor song. He only knows a few lyrics. I walk by a nonsensical piece of modern art. It looks like a giant silver jungle gym. “Maybe they built it to attract lightning bolts,” M whispers in my head.
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