No Rest Until Tomorrow

November 13, 2010
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It is the feeling of the calescent shower water trundle downward past the stressed indents on your forehead, run across your stiff nose later to be awakened by the playful steam and assuredly make it’s way to your squinted gems standing arm and arm with charcoal smudges of left over eye liner teasing your tear ducts and making sooty drops of yesterday on your cheeks. It is an ebony state of mind when you can’t seem to open your mouth. Blank tunnels and no words. It is still dark outside. The rushed hums and do-whops from the paranormal fireflies outside of my stain glass bathroom window molds a fatigued gulp of exhaust in my esophagus, sigh once more like every other Tuesday. My towel is in good health, it is Christmas wrapping paper, and the coils and complications, also referred to as my mahogany split ended cow licks, is the bow, tied over and over, making it clinically absurd to open the gift. I rummage my way through out my wardrobe, drastically searching for my child’s thick bodied, stimulating palms to open my bow, my hairbrush. For the first time in my season, I license my creativity to attribute to the cause. My arid sense of humor awakens with a battering bruise. Let us fancy a day of theatrical foolery. Perhaps a day in the park. Some ice cream. Watch a movie. Revert you attention to my humor, that was just it.

My outfit of white and black tugs me aside. They look at me with acrimony, no pity with a side of forgotten patience, “You are a profit seeking enterprise. Patronage. No time for play. Stealing the clocks arms will not seduce the big picture, so don’t even manage to be convinced, manage your business. Money. Power. You will be happy, I promise.” Liars, I muffle under my respiration. My heart pumps for the taste of frolic and free spirit. I want to parade through the slums of my town, the rain on the street corners, their own hemispheres loved by every droplet, and say I told you so. But I am held behind the stands, just like I am watching the race run for me. One leg in, don’t do it. Both legs, I am warning you. Zipper up, stop now! Right sleeve, do you understand what I am preaching? Left sleeve, wow. You disappoint me, my weary soul riots, but all screams are silenced as I maneuver the last button and buckle my left shoe. I am fully attired, right down to the Bobbi-Pen. Work today, but there is always tomorrow.





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