Desperately throwing on loose knit clothes, helpless in a closet of black attire formed by use into some sort of geological strata of futility. Mainly, and I mean almost totally, gripped by a happy missing and longing aimed squarely at the summers of past and the friends that strung upon them.
What I wouldn't give to have woken up this morning in a kiddie pool, outside the frat house, beers floating around my sun baked corpse as we while away the hours with Frisbee and drinking board games, horrific forties of malt liquor brandishing our defiance to the sun's rays.
Or, cooked and gasping, a thin layer of sweat resembling desperation, lurching onto the living pale streets of Chapala, Mexico. Gringo skin somehow radiating heat like a highway mirage, every waking moment driven to the next cold cerveza and three leche cake.
Or perhaps this day could be bartered for the company of Halifax, the cavalcade of performers, improvisational life, drifting through tangle of SpringGarden road and the rocky shores. Maybe the silent mountains of the yukon, and the stillness of days stretched across your eyes, a sun that no one told to sleep.
Sigh, Miss you all, life is exultant, but summer days, well, they always remind me of the glories of the past. Yours, nick
1 comment:
Summer in Van doesn't need you either. fucker.
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