Oh the sweet warmth that comes from my Mother the Earth. My sweet nurturing, smothering, cloying "Big Momma" of an Earth. I circle her in some sort of endless dance. Since the dance is circular in nature I can only assume it is some sort of cake walk. I do like cake. Sweet, sweet cake iced like a woman's bossom that is frosted with a light layer of talcum powder and sweat on a hot Mississippi night. People love cake. The only appreciation I will ever know comes from the ants that scurry across Momma's rugged flesh as they marvel at my now scarred beauty. I was a beautiful boy once. Smooth skin. No signs of the impact that eons of neglect can leave on a lunar surface. So I take comfort from these ants.
I look down on a small fishing village in Mexico and see lovers. If love ever had anything to do with the acts in which they engage. Then again maybe it is love. Or maybe it isn't? Wait, I think it is.
Sorry I have to sneeze. All this dust.
Where was I?
Love or maybe not, maybe it is, and then maybe it isn't again. I will stick with maybe it is, check back with me later, I may change my mind.
I turn my head to a southern platation and here I find a man and woman who will never touch. Not in a way that is real. Not the touch of lovers but the touch of liers and the self deluded. He drinks and she tries wearing different costumes to please him. She has put on a set of football shoulder pads, cleats and a helmet. He keeps drinking. And drinking. She asks him to call her "Skipper" and he just keeps drinking. I could use a drink about now as well. And where is that cake I ordered?
Suddenly my attention is drawn to a fellow yelling in an alley somewhere in New Orleans. My light shines down on him. "He loves the light ! See how the light shines through him ? ... I shouldn't be partial, but he is my favorite one." I just wish he would stop mumbling. How can you scream and mumble at the same time? Damn odd!
I'm sorry did you offer me a drink? No? I thought I heard someone offer me a drink. You sure you don't want a drink?
The night is moving on and I have places I need to be. By the way those two in Mexico, I am pretty sure they love one another.
One last stop to make. I must be a gentleman and pay a call on the Wingfields. I hate the mother.
My sister is about to rise now. We only see one another in passing these days. See I call her Rose because she rises. She is the one woman I love. I miss not being able to spend time with her, but I suppose that reflecting her light down on those ants is some comfort. All those kind strangers who look up at me and find beauty in a scarred, wandering soul.
To paraphrase myself, "Why did I shine? Because I found life unsatisfactory."