SUNDAY BREAKFAST

Pony Girl drinks before she continues her rides to the high frontier – or maybe she is ridden to the ragged sky and up a cloudy draw – certainly motivated by her own driving inner soul, lost but found just as Sunday now finds me in a condition of giddy disheveled surrealism were all control is lost and I take my instruction from gravity and the flood and I am pleased to comply because it is a indoor relief in these externally dire times to be able to stop making sense and let the sentences spill into the clear September air, unconstricted by the confines of desperate isolation. The rain comes and goes to the point that I am no longer required to believe that it will rain forever, and I will again sip a Campari and soda at my leisure amid the bright blooms in garden of earthly delights, and there will always be water for Pony Girl when she pauses.

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The secret word is Harness