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| Delicate Creatures of the 30x - m4w (marina / cow hollow) |
| Cars & Trucks, Etc. : American : Dodge |
| 03/15/06 |
I board at Beach and Scott to an empty, cold, steel and plexiglass case of emotion.
The sun emerges from the low hanging clouds as we round onto Chestnut,
blinding me, as I do not don my ocular shields.
Little by little, you, these devine sprightly nymphs of the Marina
climb stair by stair, pausing time and space around your movements, and
the slower elders you so kindly push aside.
You deposit your currency and exchange looks with le conducteur.
As you turn, he catches a glance of thy forbidden bosom, sweetly rounded
and bolstered by the fine craftsmanship of small Malaysian children with nimble little paws.
The click of your heel resonates throughout the chamber, forceful yet ephemeral, stating your presence.
Gracefully, you identify a potential place of rest and cautiously seat yourself,
making every effort not to be seated in proximity of disadvantaged, disabled, or otherwise
homeless passengers; and that questionable looking fellow listening to Cold Play.
The expression on thy face carriest that familiar dry, callous sentiment, however warming as Martha of Stewart's.
I scan the disruptive forces as a result of your presence.
They run free, like little blue Smurfs building exquisite mushroom dwellings.
But, something ominous looms -- a force unmeasurable by conventional sizes.
Your woolen jacket is reminiscent of more simple times, when style did not have meaning, nor matter.
But thy boots are symbol of strength and authority, however difficult they are to extract pre-coitus.
I exchange glances with you; but your dark spectacles are much too difficult to scan through.
I cannot comprehend if you sneer or peer.
You look away.
I clamor for words, palms sweating, breathing increasingly difficult.
Stalemate -- I reach for my inhaler.
Alas I can only hear randomness consume my thoughts and visions of elusive, large shapes.
I abandon all hope of conversation, due in part to my visions and a breakfast burrito.
Looking at you breaks all commandments, but something continues to draw me closer.
I hear a pleasant tune in mine ear; enchanting.
You remove your slim, pink audio device and thumb through its functions.
A short pause fills the air.
I see your selection as you press play.
Her holiness, the Madonna cascades to your eardrums. Perhaps you are a Kabalist.
Time passes, during which I contemplate why such delicate creatures of the 30x are nowhere to be found except on this here ark.
I search the lands for you far and wide, dive bar after dive bar, lounge after lounge, club after club, drinking the poisons of this earth.
My viscera cannot continue to take these elixirs, nor barrage of older, decrepit entities with no souls!
This drink befuddles my judgement, inviting strange, ghastly beasts as my bedfellows.
These mythical creatures call to us, like Sirens after imbibing this drink.
We follow as we see the converse.
I awake from my slumber, still intoxicated, shocked at what mine poor eyes have seen.
They burn. They burn like the hot sands of far away lands with three-humped camels!
I cry out to Zeus!
Nightmares ensue waking up next to these thickset mythical brutes.
We must smote them and not allow them to partake in such deceit!
Great men, we must not be blinded by the spirits in our chalice!
I have battled through the depths of long-sleeved warriors, with finely starched, striped shirts and pheromones on duty,
until I finally see a vision of you, nymphs of the Marina, within reach.
I liken thee to the nymphs of Narnia, sweet smelling, and ever so...
The door opens, my vision promptly ceases.
The hiss of air brakes perks mine senses as you extract yourself from rest.
Your heels click with fury down the steps onto the baren concrete wasteland as you exit the rear, and I glance at your rear.
Why must we dodge these serendipities!
Cruel World!
Silently, I was acknowledged by the other warriors.
They knew of the plight that continues to plaugue our peoples.
The reign of the beast must be ended.
They drew First Blood...
but we shall draw Part Two.
We will conquer with protection from our Wingmen, the Trojans!
And capture what is rightly ours!
A call to arms!
The great Sir Thomas Sullivan Magnum III, P.I.,
also a cunning linguist, once said,
'They're great Wingmen -- The Lads, they know best.'
Indeed they do... Indeed they do.
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