The Park Bench
The small Midwestern American town that John grew up in had become a polyester shirt, and he wanted to remove this shirt and experience a new milieu, which didn’t contain so many single minded simpletons : a stomach ulcer that almost made John not want to stare at a whisky bottle again. Still,
John’s worldview was as clear as the Gulf of Mexico, and even though this saltwater was somewhat bitter, he could still find color, warmth, and light in it, especially in the cathartic, intense, and incredible sounds that emanated from the beach house John visited when life began to overwhelm him.
This house also always gave him hope, new concepts of reality,
and coerced him to never stop creating art; the future was a streetlight that wasn’t lit, and John didn’t know how or when it would become visible
unlike the light reflecting from the bracelet on a friendly woman’s arm.
And, this light helped him find order in the occasional chaos
of his mind and life, which was full of women like Gina, who was a mostly a metal bench in a park,; however, John still thought the grass touching her tough metal legs was alive.
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