Working Breakfast

 From the desk of Vitasta 

Time: irrelevant

Working Breakfast

Exposed, out in the open, in front of people's eyes, and there you are enjoying the process. The taut tarpaulin sheets that cover the skies are gone. We sit under trees on wooden tables, a picnic of gods. We're on the right side now, the holy side. I thought we were playing a game, but I guess we were only madmen, forgotten, wrapped up in our own delusions. Nothing to see here except calm eyes, and breakfast. Eggs and baked beans. 

The second of J. Dogs and their masters. Cheating the system with shaggy tails and pajamas. We, the elite come to eat in the finery of bedwear. Keep our horses by the stables. We, the proper know the English names of breads and cheese. Something sneaky behind gold string masks and spectacles. Something personified in dirt and Christmas bells. What else can we do, but ride out to other pastures, fill out other seats, get noticed by the benevolent eyes of lesser deities, octopi and cruds. Such happiness lurks, such demesnes,  such floral shadows, shy in the sun, murals of slow death, suitcases and central jails. Where else can we sit and contemplate life? Where else but in the forest zones enclosed in our minds. Quickly forget families and shoes, quickly pass by discomfort. 

Why do you rush? Oh my! Where are your prints from, dressmakers and incense burners? Tell me, will this smoke obscure my words? Keep insects are bay? And I cannot bear to sit here empty but I too will learn your rapid way, I too will let shiny pink satin silk slip into my white. I who contemplates cigarettes and space. I who begs for corner tables and French toast. I too will indulge in coffee table parlance, my trilingual affectations and edifices, stones of carved roses and wearing cowboy hats. I hope your hairstyles are worth this affliction. 

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