Really, what makes you sing? Is it the stroke of your heart as your lovely rejoins you in cool sheets after turning back the clocks for fall’s assent? Is it the glimmer you see in your mind’s eye when you pledge eternal devotion? Is it mingling fingers with that lovely as you both reach for the last praline? Is it the rice? Is it the oats? The sweet and salty on your lips?
Whisper to the Trust what it is that makes you sing. They’ll start the parade. Take down the black top to their lemony Jag and come float aboard. As you settle in and make yourself comfy, you hear the pops of the bass drop while a hand smoothes the lambskin under your slippers. All the castanets and light-skinned coffees… You are the King and Queen of their Petting Zoo. It’s always been about you. And you.
Love can only happen where two are. Trust can only happen where you are. Your taffeta crown is so blue. You’re radiant in the navel orange cloudless clime.
They want you there when they go, honey. With arms, legs wrapped tight, the density drifts sweetly over the antennas of our Emerald Trust city.
Trust creates the cinnamon persuasion. Trust in mirrors because it’s often you. You pine for Trust in the dung and din of totaled hearts. You’ve always wanted to waste yourself in your old town. Now wish your Trust a sweet life and commence with the move. With a simple twist of Trust the blinds open and your map’s revealed.
Yes, Trust squeezes better. With every thrust and parry the cockles strike five and soon every conclusion comes electric, each sticky caress brings a new fancy.
Trust makes us who we are - wide awake, pony tail aching, left leg shaking, dying to escape the scorn and dreams of never ending stories. All knobs agog on whatever future history matters. What little we knew before these sounds serves well to what we now have.
Trust has new work for you - BE occupied by sounds. Move your rocks, carry your water. BE the animal never resting. BE the one bothered by half-truths, gossip and jean shorts. Spill your milk and cry joyously arms akimbo in near absolute fertility.
The broth is stirred, ready and sweating.