I, the coastal treasurer of abandoned parkways and spacious condominiums. Air conditioned and rural are my fictitious beliefs. A domestic landlord whose crocodile- skinned shoes dig deep.... deep.... way down into the embedded soil of the rupturing Atlantic . I drown in rural swimming pools. The voluptuous daughters and I appreciate honesty, in gracious linoleum banquet halls, lacquered in adorned statues and grandiose artichokes. Lamenting organic growth is an amiable prestige of ours.
The reptile kingdom is in awe of it's subdued subordinates. Salt rimmed margaritas at high noon. Complacent grandma tips her glass beyond recognition. Self inflicted nostalgia coats the suburban perimeter of ivory shorelines, shimmering waves crash stagnantly loud upon sandy surfaces, Mesmerizing in it's languid iridescence, the sultry landscape resides remotely through cryptic lenses of touristic binoculars.
Bikini boy caught a snake in shallow woods north of the resort. To go beyond state lines with a bootleg bottle of booze, cruising the unwinding southern freeway in a-hot-red firebird convertible. The barnyard crow with it's graveyard ethics and poor posture. The illiterate horseshoe society, neighboring inbred hooker communities, and antique agriculturalists. Highway nook shops gift wrapped in artificial flavors and plastic souvenirs. Check your license plates at the screen door, to midnight casinos and stale beer, where elderly bingo is interchangeable with revolving skepticism and immoral defeat. Puzzling, the Mexican boys in the hotel lobby are immune and non-responsive to the brochure kiosk in the fluorescent foyer.
Lust issues, well I've paid my dues to society now all I've got left is an unopened pack of corn nuts, and a stomach full of homogenized milk and citrus acid.
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