stacks of multicolored blocks
lacework avenues weaving
sky touching over streams of cars
thick-trunked trees lost in shadow
bleeps and beeps choking the air
incongruous shiny signs
endless lines of legs
ceiling of constellations
click and squeak of metal wheels
linguistic rainbow of voices
center of opportunity, hope
Month: July 2011
Sticky
bathed in yellow light
their words fill the amphitheater
red rocks bearing down
surrounded by shadows of clouds, moon
my eyes will be sticky with tears
my heart sticky with hollow
long after every seat lies empty.
Farewell
Insomnia, guilt, and a conversation I had today are the inspiration for this post. Why can’t I sleep when certain thoughts creep into my brain? More importantly, why can’t I let things, people, or “friends” go?
It’s all about the brownies. If you had one day inadvertently come across this recipe as I did, you would understand. The scrumptious perfection of these brownies, modified by my specification of Hershey’s Special Dark chocolate chips and dutch process cocoa, make every morsel a delectable experience. When I first started making them, it was an occasional treat, a decadence the whole family could enjoy. But I was quick to discover that they don’t last, that from-scratch bakery items must be enjoyed to their fullest almost immediately after emerging from the oven, or all sense of richness is lost. And so I brought a few to work. The reaction was astounding, and people began to ask about them. I brought in a few more. Soon I was making weekly batches of brownies and bringing the entire 9×13 pan into work, cutting them up, bagging them individually, and setting aside corners for certain colleagues and the coveted “center cuts” for a special few.
So as I lay in bed just now, thinking about the F-bomb and my purposeful use of it under imperative circumstances when the whole FUCKING world ought to agree it is necessary, I started adding up the ingredients of my weekly brownie list. Fifteen brownies a week, four eggs, two sticks of butter, a bag of chocolate chips, one and a quarter cup of cocoa, a tablespoon of premium vanilla, one and a quarter cup of flour, two cups of sugar, one teaspoon of baking soda, fifteen sandwich baggies. What does it add up to? $10 a week, $40 a month, 10 months in a school year, $400 a year.
Now let’s talk about my coworkers, who have two incomes and car payments and student loans and childcare expenses and every other FUCKING excuse in the world to NOT have any money. And me, family of five, ONE income, NO debt (other than a mortgage), who rides my ass up thirteen miles of hills with those heavy ass brownies ON MY BICYCLE and specifically sets aside the best cuts for the BEST people, and I am spending $400 a year so that if I USE THE WORD FUCK ON FACEBOOK I GET DE-FRIENDED??
That’s it. Farewell to the fucking brownie list.
Door to Shore
she’s shoeless behind me
and he carries a load
worth a thousand pounds in gold
we coast down to the beach
(four miles from door to shore)
pedal harder home in summer rain
that tickles our backs
as thunder threatens our ears
this is the Vittetoe Express
missing a link along the line
broken into bright patches of light
as three girls, two chairs, two floaties,
one giant Camelbak,
and the love of my life
carry us home
Chihuahua
half a snake’s length
she presses against my thigh
as if it could be cold in July
one weekend away
and she whines when we leave
her Chihuahan heart upon her sleeve
ten years old
and though she still drives me crazy
she teaches love, faith, and how to be lazy!
Bloodletting
it has seeped out overnight
the words lie flat in mountain noon sun
hidden behind pale shadows
unable to fight back the bright
you say to him what i say to mine
i can feel the oozing out of veins
as the peaks disappear in the rearview mirror
skyscrapers nestling us into our nest
i will be weaker now as in those past pale moments
your secrecy lost upon me
but lighter too with the capillary release
of tiny heart drops draining to the ground
Serpent
a black snake making its way
curvacious and thick,
scales glistening in early morning,
ropelike muscles ride its back,
snaking our way
slither by slither
amidst shiny pops of dashing-past eyes,
past the ponderosa pines
into thin air above treeline
it snaps its rattle
one last switchback bite,
a venomous sting near the clouds,
but we bite back
bask in the surreptitious sun
that mocks the wind
and begin again,
rattle on top
spiky teeth taking us down
until once again
we have conquered the serpent.