Friday Walk to the Parking Garage With My Favorite Girl At Work

Paint Job. The Midas touch. Canvas blank page and mess to clean up.
Beach time and winter time far away, never and forever, modem reaches all the way to China when digging a hole.

A whole lot of icepicks and toothpicks and deer ticks and fixodent to forget it.

Store bought lemongrass cakes, crumbs on the carpet, the linoleum treads lightly under asbestos lung migraines. Couch potato, mashed potato.

Red skin-snobs, I beg to differ. Leaving the skins in is the lazy way, the easier way to make a mash-up.

A man who does the dishes is priceless.

A minefield of mishaps makes an evening at home called for and answered to.
The movies are open doors to creaking seats and greasy-fingered diet-coke holding ice rattles in straw detailed wax coated cups.

Taking the last sip of the milkshake and the summertime lemonade, I can't back track.
The history is in the making.
A move to wandering thoughts toward sunset walks watching the pollen and the gnats and the lightening bugs cast a smokey screen along the skyline atmosphere,

one goes up into the nostril to remind me that I am part of this whole picture,
as the rapper parks his dj on the steps in the courtyard outside of city hall and rhymes about closing the rec centers and not having enough money for the 'kids.

There is enough money. There's plenty of money, it's just hidden. It's hidden and burning into the atomosphere

and carbonating the sky like bubbles of heat-infused starlight.

There is plenty of money. Believe me.