bra panty: skirted swimsuits big bust bikinis Monterey June 12, 2008 shapewear

big bust bikinis Monterey June 12, 2008 shapewear
I visited Monterey on June12,2008 for one short day. I wish I could have stayed longer. There was something in the air that drew me to this place. In this heavenly slice of California called Monterey it most certainly does. Here the air is different. It is at once relaxing and invigorating. It imbues visitors with a sense of timelessness that is mindful of yesterday, but very much enamored with the here and now. The air in Monterey can intensify the taste of food and wine, anchor memories to your subconscious and create a sense of well being that you will undoubtedly crave forever more. Alive is the air. California Burned by your chaparral box canyon brushfires, shaken as a baby in St. Andreas arms, we have danced upon your plates and lain buried in unmarked mudslides beside the bones of those Indians not found in any Mission records. California, the lighted exit signs shine from the corners of your darkened theaters, we are up the nowhere staircases down the shrinking hallways of your Winchester Mystery Houses. At home among the disorientation of your cloverleaf freeway ramps and business park sprawl, we were born on any one of your ten thousand El Camino Boulevards. In your deserts littered with chunks of turquoise, obsidian arrowheads and the ground glass of coolie opium vials, we have dug through your strip mine tailings, sailed cold dark water, the flow of your underground streams, your seeping fissures, your water flowing upwards into deep ocean trenches to bathe your cabezon and monkey eels, your fragile, catacomb-structured jellies which hurl themselves upon your shores and glisten like puddles of mercury in the sand. In your blonde hills teeming with thirsty garrapata and the crowns of oak, where Ishi and his wise sadness finally descended to Parnassus long after the gold was gone, we have sunk our heads into your skin and drank of your buried sluices, rusted pans and busted bottles, your shovelheads, your decayed handles, hands long ago grated raw while screening flakes of a hidden dream through the 1/16th-inch mesh of our desires. Among your woodpiles alive with black widows which crawl upon our arms like shiny bulbs of blown obsidian while we carry your grape stakes from one end of this property to another, in your Fertile Fields of sharp boundaries and lines, we were fed upon the calluses and folksong of migrant labor from a Golden Age of pesticides. We have weathered the wind, the arch and crash of your boom times like winter waves in deep northern bays where tides rip through thunderous mist and the dazzling light of low-rise sun, weâ€™ve witnessed the infants clinging to your breast of steel and brick like things revealed on a minus tide, their mouths spray-painted wild with murder and renewal. And after each gold rush we hosed the blood back down the storm drains and into brown Bay Delta of rich black soil, its water still and warm and sticky, big mouth bass hovers fat and calm in the Central Valley sky while we wait for the thunder to peel all the way to Fresno from here. We have sucked your fumes and held our breaths while we polished the detailed chrome on our automobiles, we have lost our minds wandering your deserts with empty birdcages of wrought iron, we have developed skin diseases to bask by your side.
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