Festivals

I opened the Parcheesi game and then there are no rules, but a wonderment of being sentimental, twenty-four hours a day; flicking gnats here and there on a chessboard, like letters in line in the grocery store picking out candy. I have piles and piles of the basil leaves and the spices of all the cilantro and the Mexican Kachinas fixing dishes that went on parade through the wild Moroccan-tile festivals, and I ate my non-meat sandwich which tasted so good that no body bothered me or threatened to clip my nails because I am enchanted with true beauty and so it went on and on through the pale mist of the farmyard morning. Never the less the Parcheesi game was in the mist of me reading a Lola book, and may be I’ll write about cream sauce and the flickering of ghosts when the sun goes down and then cast them out by the power of my Sacral Stars upon y hands which are holy and are the only stars that are holy in the whole world. My single slice of flecked cream, leads e on into the cool fridge to grab a glass of some new vanilla drink which will calm me down into the rhythm of the marshes and I don’t care much about pouring leche unless it’s got some kid of caffeine in it to make me think and wonder of painting the nataranja flavored flowers in the painted bottles with vines around them, and how cylindrical bowls chase out the madness in the city. O! How the City could hopeful because of me and the Cuban Jazz of the resplendence of a single slice of butter, and a white one landing on a carnation, peeling off the edge of the petal, and the sepal goes buck wild.