Love. Love. Love.
The Bakery Girl and big soft man-child BEING.
Morning The Bakery; sweet muffins, coffee.
Said she “Wouldn’t mind, you know, were he to ask…”
BEING left his bong, showered, combed. Destination bakery.
“Wanna go eat and maybe a movie?” asked BEING.
She said, “Sure.”
Soon in the apartment regularly BEING and The Bakery Girl, companions.
Not stun-drop beautiful, not Magazine. Hip-Heavy, soft, like BEING. Harem girl allure. Love in BEING’s room. The Bakery Girl partial to men and women. BEING her first man in a year.
Daily meeting at Life Cafe, across from make-up trailers and wardrobe stations of The Stars.
Apartment, cigarettes, beer; chips, smoke, cakes. The Nation destroyed The Enemy still, yet, again, on live TV.
Iconic deep time sex genius, The Bakery Girl, eons beyond BEING. Proud lover of men and women (BEING shy about all that).
Summer rain and thunder; television; weed; pedestrian sex toys not too funky for BEING; The Bakery Girl’s musk girly-girl heat sweat estrogen flesh of Venus 30,000 spins around the Sun before the virgin births of Jesus, Elvis.
Shelter in Time closed tenderly around their days.
Hand-written notes tacked to the bedroom door: “Knock, Don’t Knock;” “Come In, Beauty;” “Garden Under Sky;” “Afraid Of Free Out There.”
Love. Love. Love.
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