She is an angel floating above Earth
She happens to be having a manic mood swing
I can see a twinkle in her eyes
Her teeth are pearly white and her smile wide
She knows something I don’t
Even her dark secrets appear wholesome Continue reading
I eat granola cereal in the mornings because it reminds me of granite
I like granite because in large slabs it cannot be easily toppled
I live in a house w/ granite counter tops that always look clean + amazing—
Powerful—something that would withstand your fist or even a cleaver or a blow of a hatchet
Superman is made of steel, and Wonder Woman wears an impenetrable belt
And then there’s Thor with his mighty hammer
Me, I listen to Daft Punk, Simon/Garfunkle’s Rock/Island song
I live in my granola world. I build fibrous walls of nuts & seeds, steel-cut oats, seasoned with sea salt
There is a certain element of death imbued in writing. All of it is a sort of last gasp. Perhaps why I oftentimes wear black. In a way I cease to exist. In the rare instances when I am noticed, then I have a willingness to vanish. Not altogether, but enuf that you won’t see me. I would like to be a fly on your wall. Maybe not a fly but a lizard, although not poisonous. Just nosy.
How important packaging has become in the Age of Bottled Water. I am a pink flower-powered Fiji female, hopped up on alkaline & properly ionized. Electro-lit! While munching on plu 8594 cranberry & cashew mix, I sip through a volcanic rock filter in an artesian aquifer.
It is Essentia to stay hydrated in the Mojave, & if you notice, @essentiawater has exquisite product design. Carry a bottle & it’s a fashion statement, as well as a declaration of social status & #hydration awareness.
Outside it is silvery like a side of fish. Books are spread before me and coffee. Both are oxygen. I sip, trying to stay alive in this muck. My cat has had it (already), asleep at my feet. I’m trying to respond to my environment by writing this poem and then it’s off to work. I’ll have to save these Scarlatti keyboard sonatas, too, for later in the day.
I get up early, around 5:30, regardless of whether it’s a workday, and I’ll do some writing or I’ll do some reading, or else make some visual art. And I’ll have coffee.
I’ll also do some thinking. You know: Hmmm, how did I get into this situation? How do I get out of it?
We are all in situations to one degree or another: a job that makes us miserable; a toxic relationship; etc. My mind is fresh in the morning and more capable of tackling such things. I read better and I write better, too, ’cause I’m sharper and more alert.
But no, I am not one to wake up and bolt out the door in the morning. Anything but.
The salesmen are tall & talk on cellphones
They pace & trade jokes; one is holding forms
The showroom floor, meanwhile, looks slippery
It’s gleaming & white like a smile w/ flawless teeth Continue reading
My great-grandmother’s woven basket—a trove the size of a bread loaf—brimming with spare buttons. The wood door to her sewing room ajar. Her threaded Singer perched like a hummingbird amid patterned fabric and spools.
The flour on her wood cutting board and maple rolling pin in the kitchen. The smell of confection, like gingerbread and breakfast muffins.
Her Sunday stroll to the corner store with her button-front smock, and her slow return to her apartment on the third-floor.
You can see as I stir it looks like chocolate pudding before cooling and setting.
You can hear it sounds like water when you’re alone in a quiet tub (high-caliber audio via parabolic reflector).
What it looks like is this after it’s baked: (closeup of sedimentary rock, the color of clay pot).
As for texture, think of a hunk of banana-walnut bread.
It was something I enjoyed eating so much that I constructed this hut using this material.
And now I am sitting here in lotus position, passing it on like a sort-of Siddhartha.