Sunday, October 7, 2007

Love Vine is growing on Love Lane

Greetings from the Hill
79/88 NE10/20 80%H 0721/1907

What a time for the gardens, God bowling up above,
the evening light shows stroblighting silver roofs,
indeed a balcony view of awe in nature....
a bit subdued from the hurricane watches of past,
but we are not yet through the seasons.

Cats fed,floors swept, dishes done, typing begins
with juice, toast and tea and the classics from Havana,
the writer at his island outpost in the Horn of Florida.

"No moaning and groaning about the White House Weasle,"
suggests the madone with enough of politics,
the local race into a runoff for Mayor.

Indeed, indeed as Captain Conch would say, the editor
of Big Pine, his experiment in suburban outreach
for those who enjoy true keys lifestyles.

In town Cayo Dave monitors the housing dilemma but...
"Yeah, but where is Rock Trueblood," wondered the oldman,
unheard of in a month, stultified voices and no opinions,
smiling poses to the Conch Color realestate rag...
the politician prodevelopment picture editor, "Say Cheese."

The true treasure is, the daily
notes of the pirate and pastor, strange natures together,
"This pirate did survive to sixty five and quite alive..
Happy Birhday, Sloan," congratulates the oldman.

Perhaps it is the grey skies, islanders are so spoiled with
'blue skies in paradise' always walking on the sunny side
of the street, the morning music of a mockingbird,
swaying palm leaves with undulating poincianas and...
"Yes, even the nothere rich, plant lovely gardens,"
admits the madone overlooking the illegal caretakers.

Fun to play with words and maybe invent a few.

This is a page from the daily journals begun in bed...

"Not working for others...but not working for
yourself is in a definite reactionary mode,
the drunk thing could be investigated a bit more
with the mass pursuit of gambling..
a study on domestic aberrational behavior...,"
muses the oldman to the cat, surrounded by the
swarms, mosquitos seek black,..the reasons for not,
the subconscious denial of slavery that evolved
with suit rejection, then fashion for the poor..
jeans and tshirt, the James Dean hair
and the Marlon Brando sneer, but what of ..
the girls who loved Elvis, those hot things after
bobbysoxers who dreamed of being bad girls
with big tits driving daddy's new car and mommy nuts
with Ricky Nelson in the trunk....

ahhh..television and the top ten, from actual drama
to the friday night fights, Gillette and Texaco,
Groucho Marx peddling Lacky Strikes and Chrysler,
with of course a gorgeous girl showing leg
as she swung into the drivers' seat...
"The beginning.... and Groucho did it", smiling to the cat
my heavens but who would have believed how that
subtle revolution began that made delivery drivers
of housewives, this expanded duty prepping thier talents
for the fulltime workforce as well, couldn't support
the family needs with but one income abd one couldn't
expect the brats to work....
the beginning of middleclass distinction, cliques that seperated
the girls in classes and boys' sweaters with letters,
television seperated the income classes,
antenna poles were expensive
and color was to come.

Commercials spun thier insideous advertising
into a gullible nation of wanto believers.

"Well well, and that was page one hour one,"
typing was blowing up his fingers,
and five more pages of morning memories,
maybe on installments and it was screwing
up his photo gallery.

The grey sky rumbles,
the winds blow,
driving rain

In these Isles of Eternal Sun.

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