Another Peregrine Comment From The Prairie … The Happy Ending.
I believe all the cheese in the center of the pizza and the heavy doses of greasy meat are worse than the thick crust. I believe that because of age, a diet heavy in these items, no exercise, that I have become friends with my fat. I also believe that I will never be thin or skinny again, but I make up for it with my tremendous personality and my personal charm.
Closing my eyes I can clearly see your profile, you are such a lovely vision of beauty, swaying in the dim light of the room, you fill my world. I come close and feel your body pressed up next to mine, with my lips I trace the nap of your neck, and your fragrance excites my senses. Your scent drives me to the brink of consciousness. You smell so delicious I am on fire and I desire to consume myself with all that is you. Hopelessly I know that I am a prisoner of your love and affection.
Skillfully I will work my way around the coach with a wipe rag and copious amounts of elbow grease, pull it outside, and immediately watch the dirt and trash of man coat it again.
It is my very own personal Black-hole of the Bus Community.
The shower felt good, it was hot, the water stinging his back was a welcome relief to the end of a hard day. Patting himself down with a fluffy towel, he put on some under-arm deodorant and a splash of his favorite “Foo-Foo Water” just in case, and then he went to bed. Continue reading
California and the Bay Area. I am sitting here in the quiet tranquil morning time, drifting off, and thinking back to the “Good Ole Days” one of the luxuries of life I can still afford. Stirring up the dust, blowing the cobwebs out of my brain … Turn right and head on down Harder Road or up to Mission Blvd, maybe to the Plunge, how does that sound? Maybe walk the long trail to the back of the park, check out the hollow dark cavities of my mind …
Sitting out front of Dad’s house, on his redwood fence, smoking a Marlboro, the cool breeze coming in off the bay, carrying the smell of tomato’s from the Hunt Cannery on B Street.
Saturday’s (and sometimes in the middle of the week, don’t tell Mrs. Ormsby) on the beach in Santa Cruz, the surf pounding, a gull swoops down to steal a potato chip off the blanket. An ice cold bottle of wine at the end of the string, buried in the sand.
A teenage girls’ husky laugh in the dark in the balcony of the Hayward downtown. Two slow dances with Marylnn Matteson-Stith at the La Vista Cafeteria on Friday night. Squatted, Indian fashion, on a boulder in the Sierra Nevada’s just outside Lake Tahoe. A sky full of white wispy clouds and dragon flies.
A stolen kiss at the Grove after a Lancer’s Football game.
The smell of fresh cut Alfalfa wafting into the cab of the pickup in the valley outside of Manteca. 12 years old, sitting on top of the Hayward Hills, looking west to San Francisco, and seeing the city clearly, along with the Bay Bridge. Remembering back then, how it used to be, not like it is now, with the myriads of people and the pollution.
Sitting in the shade of a lofty majestic pine beside a deep hole in the Truckee River. Hooking a big fish on a trip to Clear Lake. Sleeping on a blanket on the grass in Golden Gate Park. Working as a pool hand at the old swimming pool at Tennyson one summer.
Back in the day, back in the day.
Need to wrap this up, I am getting carried away.
Time to go, I have rambled on for long enough. Having sufficiently increased my word-count, I shall now retire, only to fight again, on another day. Back to the real world … I have rats to kill … checks to pay …
Life, what happens when you are not looking.
Letters from Home … Today I will share with you something really special. I have been considering this for a long time. The month of February is almost complete, and I still have a lot of things I was going to do, left to do. That is nothing new with me. Continue reading