Wake up looking for the sun it's foggy. Step outside squirm on wet under feet still in the emerald party of the dream replete with oak paneling. Grey a fine complement. Where are the frogs?
Pee. Breakfast. The last of the Gemini's birthday cake. Eaten - with a mug of warm milk with a splash of coffee. Habit is not having any - at the desk while writing that is revising that is cutting and pasting post-pastiche. Trade leggings for clean ones, pull on tanktop, sweatshirt, vest; load backpack. Don't forget the dishes. Or vitamins.
Roll out Schwinn. Cruise down driveway and down the road into town. Pedal fastest downhill into the wind. Stop for what seems like forever where the road meets the highway. Smile at motorists, signal left turn. Uphill but now with a tailwind.
Kanye killin it. Road work okay a detour. Three-quarters of the way through the album arrive at yin yoga. A block, blanket and a bolster; lemon verbena. Strangers in a small town. Radiating from the heart.
Backtrack. Taco Temple you don't have to bring beer in from Spencer's anymore. Fish as rich as ever and cilantro just so stark. Holy. Into the headwind. Uphill again. Toward viridescent eaves, shitting swallows, a tumbling dog on shower tiles and a visitor from the eternal present.
Oranges are Valencia. Fantasies more about San Remo than Spain. Forgot the washer. Books Made For Purposes Other Than Reading. Pink is not the moon it's the clouds. Agave guard. What's in a recipe? Approaching quilt a dream embedded in a text or vice versa.
In the two and a half years elapsed since I last did this in the autumn of 2009 details have changed but the rhythm remains.