Lacking Intimacy

A blues standard. Something got me thinking. Birds making love on a transformer, then another pair of salamanders wrapped in a curious embrace. Went for a beer with Anthony and K. He was at my place last night, fed him a variation of the pork tenderloin dish, with asparagus and potatoes. Went to Kroger to get fish, but I didn't like the look of it, and bought another pork tender instead. I like to try several variations while everything is fresh in my mind. A big event, International Museum Day, coming up next month, and I started cleaning corners, doing a little patch and repair. The janitor surveys the scene. I was mopping what looked like spilled soda in the main gallery today, had finished, actually, and was leaning, with my mop, against one of the free-standing (by definition) columns. Ornament, in this case, fake columns, but it has a nice Greek feel. I like leaning there, with a mop, the iconic image. The worker at rest. Anthony and I talked about the little gallery again, wanting to do an installation there; it's open, we were just going to hang some items from the permanent collection. I expect we'll conspire on this. There may be foam involved. We both like foam. I've cooked for the last two nights, so I just snack, some brie, some black olives, an avocado with a dash of really good balsamic, some fancy crackers. It's good, I love grazing. Always a cheap date, I prefer saltines to almost any other cracker-like thing. The vehicle of choice for the various liver spreads I favor. Something bothering me all day and I can't put my finger on it. Beal Street, a solo harmonica, longing. An old story. Seems I dig out an embedded tick for every morel I find. Mississippi John Hurt and that slack delta guitar. Rhythm. Cory Harris. That scene in the movie. pregnant with emotion, poignant, where both your lover and your old dog are killed when the pick-up stalls on a railroad track. That kind of thing. Everything in play... both the nickel and the dime... butterflies cover the ground. I move commas around. Only a life by extreme measure. Note: the napp at the spillway could drive a turbine, three hungry ducks looking for a hand-out, a solitary crow, in a snag, across the way. Nothing means anything, or anything is nothing. I don't like being used, I'd rather just spend my time alone, but I'm drawn back to the world, the tangible natural world, where I spy a cluster of mushrooms and consider my breakfast. I'm human, after all. I need to eat, though I tire of chewing.

Tom

Small flowers seem
to say something,
a burst of color.