Peachy and Cream

Two dollars for a basket of Ontario peaches; butter, in a Russian lettered wrapper, sat in the fridge for over a year. I don't eat butter, but it made a good peach pad.


I'd like it all to be peaches and cream, a flesh colored horizon over a good vibe landscape, the land of coffee and boiled eggs, dry toast and water and then a basket of ripe peaches. Wipe the juice as it runs down the chin.


Ok, dry toast is like the old Puritan preacher going out on a black horse of doom, to warn about the unpardonable sin and to get people to join the cause. Boiled eggs is the no nonsense man who works hard to put bread on the table. Peach gets ripe and melts all over everything, washing away coffee in a wave of sweetness.

The yin and yang, doom and gloom of boiled eggs and dry toast measured against soft, moist peach of joy, the old body and soul, religion and the way of the world, work hard and go shopping, over eat and then go on a diet, get laid and then quarrel, duality perpetuated for ever and ever amen.