A Clay in the Life

I count the salivating seconds until it's time to properly wake everyone up. On a good day, my internal clock is outsourced by the soft sigh of a new recruit, rolling over next to me. They are usually young and confused; uncertain of what exactly our ever-expanding organization has to offer until a quick head rush and some cunnilingus helps to extinguish the first wave of expected doubts. I have to say that I've taken a liking to blonds in the summer months, simply because the dawn's early light reflects a panoramic view of this new era, even more so if the carpet matches the drapes.
I am usually dressed with a joint in my mouth by seven A.M. sharp, marching up one of the many hills to sound the low-pitched dinner bell dangling from one of the three lone trees. Those who stir from their earned slumber early are then usually given the best duties for the day. Intake and lectures are limited on most mornings depending on who decides to wander in and furthermore what kind of mood Ken is in. The cultivation of crops, border patrol, and routine upkeep are then less sought after, but at times, offer the best latter day rewards.
Certain chosen few (by Ken, never me) are also allowed free reign in and around the complex, and most of the time, are allowed such extravagant freedoms, because they are getting bred for special assignments outside of our white picket fences. These skilled deviants usually excel at some form of flattery or allusively drift toward their intended function within the collective spin. Most are grateful for whatever sampled point of view they are given, while those who resist either learn to succeed within such rebellion or are forced to forget in the fields with some of the other up and comers.
Meals occur by choice and are prepared by Mary and those she decides to save. These long-legged muses radiate from square to square, and boil my blood every time they pass me by. Dinner is a shred experience for all, taking place in the main house or hall on rainy days, and out atop the hills when the light is still visible on the horizon line. A reading then follows, and a sermon and then communion in less traditional forms. The large government shipments of Gen 25 arrive promptly in our walk-in freezer at noon, before being routinely marked and placed in the baskets by Joe or one of the other trusted originals.
As the sun sets and all of our illusive vibes bounce back and forth off of each other in conversation and flirtation, I try to keep my mind dead set on the task at hand. Ken will want time alone with Josephine or sometimes with David and Isaac, trying to make them understand the loss of consciousness at such a young age.
It is then usually mine or Arlo's job to occupy Mary with an overabundance of philosophised paperwork while Emmett and Linus begin to round up circles of musicians to help better test the product. Ken trusts them both more than he should, and I believe this will bite him on the ass later, but I'm one to quickly forget about predicted hostilities. The moon is shiny, and so are my heels as they scratch off the group with each burlap thump on the ground.
I'm not looking for necessarily, knowing that my once devoted Maude will never seek out such answers, but I can live with the shame of a temporary solution. These replacement parts are rusty at times, and more often than not require the proper amount of lubrication in order to truly function within our explosive bubble. But I enjoy how new they taste; swiping my time card fifteen minutes early, before smoothing out the crowd with technicolored accuracy. They all know me better now and we will dance like choreographed pagans before the slaughter and dry-mouthed headache the following morning.