Saturday, December 3, 2011
Ouija Poem
Long is the high to healing. Plunge wanton, into the desolate scar deep below the acacia heart. A missed casting? Like a school play from junior high. Circumstances are weather. They move as concerts and become a restricting embrace. Coral. One's rustic city, builds. The tree's heart yet arises, within a tower of emerald green.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Plastic
If you think about the winter without considering the cold, it's actually vey pleasant. Consider, no bugs, consider, being comfortable in jeans. Cloth snaps when you walk, coffee animates with steam. Skin doesn't itch. You don't perspire. A body in the winter is almost free of the coil. You might as well be made of plastic. Hair stays in place with out humidity to foil it. The folds of skin make no odor without sweat. Clothing can be layered like a preschool doll with no discomfort no redness, no oil, no itching. Aside from cold, winter is a festidious paradise.
I noticed something last week. In the tropics it wouldn't have really meant anything. There was a bug out of place. Yes, a bug. Why is this strange? It was a big huge stink bug, about the size of the last digit of my thumb. Also, the bug was kicking on it's back, right in my path. Furthermore, the bug had the distinct look of being, fat, happy, and dying all at the same time. This bug had survived something, it was so proud of surviving, that it didn't even mind dying while I watched. It probably wanted me to step on it just so that its accomplishments could end at the pinacle of accomplishment. Glorious, profitable, radiant and kicking.
Oddly, the bug wasn't my first clue that my world was about to change. It was all starting to add up, like the scene in a movie where the protagonist is being hurled by a rocket sled on rails into an iconic brick wall, flipping through prequel memories. In my case, I flashed back to leaving the house. I put on a sweat shirt this morning. It felt TACKY!
Tackiness.
Tackiness, bugs, clouds in puffs not wisps, ground that sinks when you walk on it. I know what this means, what does it mean? Think back. Think! before Hawaii. This happens every year. This phenomenon, I think I remember. I know it's name, "Spring". My days of perfect skin are over.
Ha ha, but maybe, so is the cold.
I noticed something last week. In the tropics it wouldn't have really meant anything. There was a bug out of place. Yes, a bug. Why is this strange? It was a big huge stink bug, about the size of the last digit of my thumb. Also, the bug was kicking on it's back, right in my path. Furthermore, the bug had the distinct look of being, fat, happy, and dying all at the same time. This bug had survived something, it was so proud of surviving, that it didn't even mind dying while I watched. It probably wanted me to step on it just so that its accomplishments could end at the pinacle of accomplishment. Glorious, profitable, radiant and kicking.
Oddly, the bug wasn't my first clue that my world was about to change. It was all starting to add up, like the scene in a movie where the protagonist is being hurled by a rocket sled on rails into an iconic brick wall, flipping through prequel memories. In my case, I flashed back to leaving the house. I put on a sweat shirt this morning. It felt TACKY!
Tackiness.
Tackiness, bugs, clouds in puffs not wisps, ground that sinks when you walk on it. I know what this means, what does it mean? Think back. Think! before Hawaii. This happens every year. This phenomenon, I think I remember. I know it's name, "Spring". My days of perfect skin are over.
Ha ha, but maybe, so is the cold.
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