Blood And Breakfast [9.28.2014]

         The Boxelder across the street is the first volunteer on the block to make the switch from green to orange, and allow it’s tiny leaves to fall. Littering the street with its sacrifice in this most unwanted Indian summer. Another in a sequence that seems so prevalent these days. Fluttering down to the asphalt, almost mockingly, as if knowing just how desperately a change of venue is desired.  
The front of the house is like a broken face. Brutalized and beaten down by the fists of abject poverty. Bruises left to fester, introducing black mold and rot, like an abscess tooth in its structural jaw. Tiles in the bathroom peeling up like diseased skin.  It’s had a cheap make-over or two, over the years, but the diabolical duo of Time and Use have proven much more detrimentally adversarial than initially expected. 
“This house is sinking.” said the Lord of The Manor one particularly dismal day.
“Never buy”, answered his trusty jester, “always rent.”

The sun, with its superior infiltration strategies, always manages to maneuver its way through the curtains. As if my eyelids were a tomb, and the rays were a cadre of natives prying them apart with pickaxes. Keeping it under the mountain, so the right ones fail to comprehend.  
Make breakfast while you bleed. Construct reason while the sovereignty forges absurd mandates. 
       
       Accept.