For me, Labor Day means the return to school. It's the day when summer clothes are 80 percent off and school supplies are in limited supply.
If Labor Day had a smell, it would smell like a freshly mowed lawn, or the sweet breeze of the ocean on a windswept morning.
This is a roving captain infiltrating the fatherland. This is a machette guy on the motorcycle, sneering at a passerby. That is the magnet bride encircling the wounded knight. Infiltrating the warrior zone. Obeying the blowing winds and the hidden declarations of the motherland. “When something happens, seek me.” This is the musician wannabe limping through the foyer room. Guitar strings are pluckable. Doorway dwellers step inside. Crouch. Creep. Sneer. Outcast punks are aging before my eyes. Raging. Fueling inevitable heartbreaks. Oxidizing desires and lubricating their trigger-happy hearts. This is the fatherland. That is the motherland.
This is the vortex. I’m slipping in to the fourth set. Swinging like a villain in the porch deck. Recreating myself for the hundredth time. Establishing my rule through the scorched earth. Overcoming challenges like a prize fighter. Dwelling on my failures for the last time. Embracing pleasures, escaping measures, pushing back the Bible thumping forces. Wishing for another prime. Hoping for a little time. Skipping out on banal social cohorts. Things are shaking loose out of their foundations. Traditions crumble down to dusty block things. I’m in the vortex. I’m in the fourth set. Drawing on my inner child hope-sets. I’m casting visions and I’m and reeling in realities unforeseen.
Let’s get together over tea and maybe we can talk this through. My sarcasm was meant with the highest intentions of love. Belief clouds cause real rain. Thought patterns drive real decisions, and I was just trying to make light of your impending doom. Theology is no laughing matter. Priest jokes are for drunken juveniles, not for serious people sipping tea. I post a comment, you respond in anger; then I defend myself. Things are complicated when they don’t need to be. Things are simplified when they can’t be. It is easy to splat-crackle on the frazzled cracker. It is wishless to whisper amidst the blended seekers. I speak too loud. You calm me down. I sip some tea. You strain to cause me pain. I shrug it off and now I sit back down again.