Robot, Scratch Your Balls.

Morning calls you to move in the same path as the other mornings you have known. Robot, fetch coffee and turn on machinery. Robot, scratch your balls. Morning brings hope that may not be attainable. Still, the Hollywood dreams that you were trained in become the blueprint for your life, but you are here, outside of Hollywood. Dreams- these tangible sweet slices of plastic gloss that spur us.
Saturday morning as children; over blown sunlight forcing its way on top of your cereal bowl. Morning was pajamas and ignorance, brilliance and the knowledge that you are a super heroine. Sunday morning sounds the church bells to warn, to praise, and to signal politely. Those within that church have good intentions, unlike those pigs outside the Brokeback premiere with signs of hatred and hell, the new terrorist is the Christian. The new terrorist is the homosexual and everyone alive is a homosexual. Robot tells me the bells mean the Christians are going to try do things Right This Time.
Everyone but me has an animal, a familiar classified as a pet. A watchdog. A security for your coveted sex organs when you lie awake at night wishing. I am my own pet.
Afternoon, too early the sun died. Two strangers, men, stand bowlegged on a rotting balcony to talk about the storm. The storm made the sky bleak and sent children and women shrieking. The flood came, washing, making streams and ponds out of the man made shithole of a street.

The two men interest me enough to eavesdrop. Both appear far enough away from each other to be honest. Honesty between them is concerning safe topics: the rain, women, and beer. My neighbors in this shaded building are bored with trampling up the stairs like humanoid buffaloes.
Regardless, the storm had shifted everything outside. The lackluster construction of the house was privy to many huge streams that gulped when it rained. The house breathed with the souls of the dead, and this energy was unappeasable.
The great fear moved across the land like a virus. It shunned the freedom it had known before. My love song for computers goes unnoticed, molesting the keys with the oils of my hands.