Monday, March 31, 2008

Monday, March 31, 2008. Pull the sheets back on the bed. Stretch them over the diamonds stitched into the mattress. Grab the pillow from the floor. This is your morning wake-up call.

(City streets, face of people who don't even look like they were asleep. Lots of coffee.)
I stand on Sixth and smell waking up with a rock in your side, a part of the ground rolling under a damp tent. The smoke still rolls from the chared wood, now dwindling coals. Sticks are brushed from folding chairs and birds are waking in their ways, somehow calming chirps of distress. The hand turns into a man walking and signals me to move. The smell is the start of a wheeled grill starting hot dogs. This is the life I seem to have chosen. I'm waking up.