The planet seems to be away at one right now. Wherever there is noise and empty chairs there is one underway. The world is on recess — smoking, eating, jabbering, visiting the restroom en masse. The attendants are collecting tips in exchange for folded towels and mints. There is smoke everywhere as if in a lobby. Paper and plastic wrappers. People’s voices combine to create a din. Filler scenes as the curtains pull back.
When my cat is on my bed there is nothing left for her to attain. In her feline world, it is the pinnacle of places in which to rest and roam.
My bed is like New York City, where there is nowhere left to go. Meaning, anywhere else is a step down. So you just park yourself and enjoy the view — in this case, a skyline of book piles — some of them hefty tomes resting vertically like architectural showpieces.
My book on contemporary collage art can be the Flatiron Building, while certain stacks of literary paperbacks — built with the biggest on the bottom to the smallest on the top — evoke skyscrapers of note: Central Park Tower.; the Woolworth Building; 30 Rockefeller Plaza.
Steam rose like pistol smoke from my double shot while I gazed at the Silver State horizon, musing to myself that this was the type of place where Clint Eastwood had had it out with many an unshaven buckaroo, adorned with his quintessential poncho, woven with the colors of coffee & cream.
It’s so cool that Chrissie Hynde repeatedly refers to love as “the word” in the Pretenders’ ’80s-era song Show Me. It seems a suave intracultural reference to the 1965 song The Word by the Beatles. That song, of course, was referring to love, as well. Also, a beautiful and poetic line in the Pretenders’ song: Welcome here from outer space / The Milky Way is still in your eyes. That line makes me think of a newborn coming into the world.
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
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.
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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.
