Camelights

If you don't have one thing, Then you May have any thing that is other than that which you don't have. 

--

I have no problem with the use of those words which elaborate on, and allude to, shades of, offshoots of, happiness. And so I'll describe my thus-far journey in my seat, on the train, as Wonderful. I've de-seated myself several times, for the washroom once, for my bag in the storage compartment, more than once, for my laptop, for my notes to be put away, for my earphones to come out with me. I have no issue with the use of those words which elaborate on, and allude to, shades of, offshoots of, happiness. And so I'll describe my trending motions of usefulness as being enjoying. As being supremely enjoying, even. My motivation broils enthusiasm. My enthusiasm broiled gives me excess, even, even. I am productive. I am productive. I am productive. I harvest my smiles in later-ness, pouring over my filing cabinets like the morning's leafy storages of dewy, plump rain-beads.

Slowly my mind-pot and hand-pans begin searing into oxygen, that energy will deplete, and that motivation alone will not suffice the bridge to Doing, without energy. The harsh sound of that brutal steel, heated as it is, needn't. I evolve from my complacency to only breathe, and move to that kitchen in my mind's heart, that one that is slow in deep chestnut, long-board wooden flooring. Slow in dull shines of cleanliness amongst the aluminum appliances, dusked by the knot-wood cupboards overtop. Slow in the loving family, whose joy I am to be a toiling genesis for, that I've yet still to assemble and build preservatives for, out of Robin-bird wing-feathers, and in-tact Acorns, bound in the swing-branch of a Weeping Willow that dried in Pine sap. I evolve from my complacency to only breathe, and move to that kitchen in my mind's heart, that one that is slow, and deep, and long, and in honey-drizzled memories a'fable. I take the pot and the pan from their burners, by their stick-out handles. That burners are of use, is there, but if time is a geography of usefulness, I descend from that summit once hearing the absence of what end I climbed at all. The sweet whistling that was harsh sound is my socked-foot evolution, from a room into a room, across a floor onto a floor. To recall in the exhaustion and clean, well-water bucket of appreciation, at the chair, from whence you Did - to where you'll Now. Drawing the smile like the wetly-dew of a leafy green, that smothering your Forward in the coyly obnoxious redeeming gratitude is rich, Milk Chocolate, and your being wholly endured for, in your wealthy joy. 

I'm back on a familiar porch, riddled and knotted as it is in memory. Toxic in its remittance of questions ending in insufficient sighs. What will you do? And there's no Samuel Jackson about this place, no Robert Duvall from Get Low - but closer, I'll admit, to the latter.

I've got a cigarette between my fingers as I'm typing this, using my middle finger as my index and it seems to be doing the job. Tennessee Honey in my mouth. Who are you? Butts and casual indifference; still a friend pulls into the driveway out front, and I can here the 4.2 litre. 

What is this to me?

I'm stirring in a hangover from the night last, thinking on the couch about an axe I just bought and the animal[istic] splitting I did with it. It's a damn sexy axe, with its black, carbon fibre - hollow - handle and shaft, and a deep charcoal blade. I raised it over my t-shirt - head and felt the happy weight in my shoulders, all taught and poised. With a human's roar, I throw down the axe and split into a fallen tree. Wood cracks--

I go to swing again, with my entire body, with so much upper - lateral - vigour,