I went to bed late last night, like many perhaps, following the coverage of Alton Sterling and Philando Castle’s passing and subsequent events in Dallas. Woke up this AM, went about my affairs of life, grateful and blessed that the good Lord has allowed me to see one more day. We are all here. One planet. One being. One blood. No need to hurt. No need to hate. No need to divide. Treasure and respect each other. Hug. Appreciate life. Be kind to it. I bleed. I love.I pray. Peace!
It came to the point that I would look at the refrigerator and it would look back at me, I would say hello and it would reply back, I would ask “what’s for dinner” and it would reply back, “I don’t know. There isn’t much I can do for you.” We went on for a while, repeating the same jargon, looking flashy and studying the script, imagining the day the door would open and I would see the flower in the garden.
Chopstick, the bird, gyrating bottle circumnavigated around a bubble of champagne soap, a shower of perfumed flowers engulfing the garden, a river serenely piercing the aqueduct and a horse journeying around the countryside. But everyone deliberately failed to remember that once upon a time, it was a gateway of caramel calmness that surrounded her crust, a glamour silk translucent light – oyster fountain of juice, lemonade of darling lollipops and a dishwasher of elevated gospely pedestal.
She artlessly succumbed to the hollow, consenting to the demands of her obnoxious asserted generational wantings . However, as strange as it seemed, repulsive as they may have found her, they were ready to give her props and entertained the idea that the bird was actually being candid for once. Yes, she was. The revelation was so intoxicating that it prompted the other birds to quickly deduce what went down with Chopstick and despite the sturdiness shower of jargons, the detective work went into high gear anyway.
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