Birds Gotta Skim
Was down to the Bayou St. John this morning where it is rumored the jumping fish glitter at sunrise.
Those are my steps first after the Dumaine bridge but I have never challenged anyone for this right because there has never been anyone to challenge. It is my bayou alone for small stretches of time at any given sunrise. The water is oily black and still and does not invite the notion of living organisms but my trained fish will defy this Cheneyesque reality for this is true--the show must go on.
To the right is that aged coppery green dome which one suspects might harbor followers of a religion.
To the left is the Dumaine bridge, the purple striped paint job much faded now, and grey primer spots mark where the great anti-grafitti anti-artist has done his deed.
Beyond the bridge--obscured from view somewhat by two large live oaks--is the now almost completed renovated American Can Company, which will be housing for a pricier clientele than yours truly.
A pretty woman with ample bosom defined clearly behind the sheerest garment is across the mason dixon, I mean bayou, from me. She waves and I wave back, sloshing some coffee that has gone cold. Her two Rotweillers are doing their business and she steps carefully in the tall wet grass, plainly aware that her's are not the only one's who do that business there, and as it is not in fashion, or mandated, that owners scoop shit, caution is warranted. My side of the bayou is not conducive to shitting and although not unheard of, mostly is not an issue. And of course I do not stray as walker, runner, or sightseer too far from the parameters that define my spot. I've been coming here, not exactly frequently, but consistently, for seven years, and I haven't seen everything there is to see so why would I stray too far and risk stepping in someone elses shit.
Well, my fish, yeah I've missed you too, are done now, some good jumping today, and their legacy of foamy bubbles like that one might see in his toilet bowel after a night of sex is all that is left to remind me that fish gotta swim and birds gotta fly, and vice versa
The birds I can't hear anymore because humanity is a great distraction/attraction to me, which is to say I'm not alone anymore and sure that's as it should be but what was it they were saying this morning, the birds on my side talking to the birds on that side?
Well, I just left Rocheblave to get that coffee and sure I can greet the morning's glow on the bayou but you are supposed to wean yourself from this junky-like jive you doing here and get on with that work over there, but there's no talking to you, you autonomous son of a bitch. You will find your excuses to do it just your way.
Come on you two, don't fight, you'll wake the others.
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Was down to the Bayou St. John this morning where it is rumored the jumping fish glitter at sunrise.
Those are my steps first after the Dumaine bridge but I have never challenged anyone for this right because there has never been anyone to challenge. It is my bayou alone for small stretches of time at any given sunrise. The water is oily black and still and does not invite the notion of living organisms but my trained fish will defy this Cheneyesque reality for this is true--the show must go on.
To the right is that aged coppery green dome which one suspects might harbor followers of a religion.
To the left is the Dumaine bridge, the purple striped paint job much faded now, and grey primer spots mark where the great anti-grafitti anti-artist has done his deed.
Beyond the bridge--obscured from view somewhat by two large live oaks--is the now almost completed renovated American Can Company, which will be housing for a pricier clientele than yours truly.
A pretty woman with ample bosom defined clearly behind the sheerest garment is across the mason dixon, I mean bayou, from me. She waves and I wave back, sloshing some coffee that has gone cold. Her two Rotweillers are doing their business and she steps carefully in the tall wet grass, plainly aware that her's are not the only one's who do that business there, and as it is not in fashion, or mandated, that owners scoop shit, caution is warranted. My side of the bayou is not conducive to shitting and although not unheard of, mostly is not an issue. And of course I do not stray as walker, runner, or sightseer too far from the parameters that define my spot. I've been coming here, not exactly frequently, but consistently, for seven years, and I haven't seen everything there is to see so why would I stray too far and risk stepping in someone elses shit.
Well, my fish, yeah I've missed you too, are done now, some good jumping today, and their legacy of foamy bubbles like that one might see in his toilet bowel after a night of sex is all that is left to remind me that fish gotta swim and birds gotta fly, and vice versa
The birds I can't hear anymore because humanity is a great distraction/attraction to me, which is to say I'm not alone anymore and sure that's as it should be but what was it they were saying this morning, the birds on my side talking to the birds on that side?
Well, I just left Rocheblave to get that coffee and sure I can greet the morning's glow on the bayou but you are supposed to wean yourself from this junky-like jive you doing here and get on with that work over there, but there's no talking to you, you autonomous son of a bitch. You will find your excuses to do it just your way.
Come on you two, don't fight, you'll wake the others.
- jimlouis 6-16-2001 1:54 pm