If the Phone Doesn’t Ring, It’s Me

We sleep head to hip, the shape of a T for "Touch.” Funky strings and harmonicas in the north. Beach sun comfort in the south. The cold sun streams in from the eastern cold ocean through the lacy lighthouse curtain. In the courtyard, small strong white snowdrop flowers push forth through tough ground as two bundled women walk by with a fancy pram. And beyond, the cold waves break against the rocky coast. Tiny winged patches of snow adorn some colder spots, and the wind rips at everything not tethered tightly. 

If the phone doesn't ring, it's you. Kings, queens, landed gentry, and in betweens. 

The sound of the circular saw and movement overcomes cold, busy blasting rock, and the pussy willows move stiffer in the backyard vines. And nothing ever lives long enough. I feel nimble like the squirrel on the fence, yet I remain motionless. Contrast all around. The squawks of the seagulls against the impactor hitting rock, and the cicada on the near branches. And talent never replaces loving yourself. Too bad the way things work out or don't. The real problem for olive lovers is when you skewer one, and can't get it past the goddamn ice cube.

I hate talk radio. It seems to serve no purpose other than to place people at opposite poles of thought and egg them on to do battle, but maybe I'm wrong. 

Did I tell you I love onions? So much about me, let's talk about those tits. I mean Mets. It's 40 degrees in the shade and she'll call me when she can.