This Lustful Life

“Life? ‘Course I’ll live it.
Let me have breath, Just to my death,
And I’ll live it.” Maya Angelou

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You tear at the corners, rip it open, just to see what color the stuffing is. White, but every kind. Ghost white, snow, ivory, old lace, vanilla.

This lustful life –

Your cheeks are packed full of orange and yellow sweet potatoes. You’re gunna choke, but manage to wash all the mess down with bitter wine – so sour and slick with tang.

Manic Mondays and Tuesdays, that bleed blood red and purple into the rest of the week. There’s so much color and texture, that your eyelids are sore to the touch the next morning.

You rub them at your alarm. Your head aches, from your temples, down your spine. Time unfolds like helix coils, unzipped. Tap your tongue to the top of your mouth, then glide past every segregated tooth.

Coals from last night’s bonfire glow in the mid-morning light. With a rubber hose, you wash them black and run through the sizzling steam. You want every part of your jacket to smell like that.

There is a wall of muffled sound: Trains screeching as they slide to a stop, cars humming on the freeway, doors opening and shutting, honking, talking, rustling, music playing.

You write poetry.

Speak a native language.

Play an instrument.

Use public transportation.

Transport yourself.

Listen to music.

Converse.

Talk friends out of suicide.

Paint.

Draw.

Rap.

Snowboard.

Skate.

Swim.

Hike.

Take pictures.

Read.

Watch the sun set.

Eat home cooked meals.

Sleep.

Wrestle with Faith.

Believe in God.

All while you live, this lustful life.

God with a lowercase “g”

They swear worse than hockey players and sailors. There’s not that many of them, but the whole warehouse is somehow filled with their insults flying back and forth, damaging each other. They only let on like they’re slightly damaged. Sometimes, they let on more than that.

The young ones all the way up to the old men, rip and cut and shit talk. They’re professionals, at least at something. Yeah, well fuck you toos and holy shits and Dammit! I hate waking up so goddamn earlys. It’s like a chorus. Or maybe it’s a refrain. All of it rises up to god.

Not the God you’re thinking. This god wears a hard hat and stands 60 feet tall. Well, that’s how tall the lift is. He sways slightly when he shifts around and you can’t really see him, except for his hands.

He hears all the weak ones below him. He works quietly and diligently. His motions are swift and efficient. Now, this guy is the fuckin’ professional. And he knows it too. He lets the underlings bicker and banter and when he’s had enough, he lowers the arm and descends slowly. The clouds hover, suspended just above his head and his glass ceiling.

He comes close, but still towers above them. Calmly, without raising his voice he says, “Get back to work.” And then he’s back up where he belongs; his head makes a home with the clouds.