Archive | March, 2011

with no help from woodland creatures

21 Mar
Even fairies dream

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this morning i’m certain there was a gnome with a magnet under my mattress,

and his little friend the troll did some digging at dawn to make sure i had the right pole facing down, down into the softness.

i’m positive a pixie of unconvincing cuteness has alighted in my head and turned all wishes of attentiveness to sparkles and dreamdust,

and with the help of her loyal steed the unicorn, who specializes in clip-clop-clock management, this day has turned to dust with naught but the groceries to show for it.

if it weren’t so dreary outside my window, i might be tempted to slip it open and offer a plate of woodland-creature treats to lure them away.

but as it’s already evening, i think i’ll let them stay, curled up with me in afghans, surrendered to their flighty ways.


march is for travelers, part two.

19 Mar
Woman drinking a coke underwater during performance as mermaid at Weeki Wachee Springs

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dramamine and gingerale accompany me to altitude. the non-drowsy version sends me head-bobbing by take-off, while the bubbly stuff rouses me mid-drool for a chat with a hazy flight attendant.

i only drink gingerale when i fly.

well, then, and in holiday-themed ice-cream floats. but i rarely order those in the air.

it’s not just the bubbles i crave when i rub elbows with the beverage cart, my head falling hard from dream to this straddled space. traveling requires such a stepping out. it skews the readings of all normalcy, pulling hesitant routine from its rut, and forcing sleepy skin to face its fear of an uncertain shower head.

like my favorite wizards between portkey and land, i’m less than solid en route.

i hold hands with strangers like terry my-friends-call-me-teaspoon on the back row of her turbulent first steps to freedom. she smells of gin, joints and open-endedness; i float between comforting and wondering. my airport filters of purposed distance disintegrate in her honest questions.

“is this normal?”

dream clouds part just long enough to think, for teaspoon and myself, the answer may be hidden in the wheel wells between take-off and landing.

kitchen poetry

14 Mar

i watch the kettle for boiling and the sun carry dust in its beams.

nothing’s ever really clean in the brightness.

yet even a vaguely tidy kitchen lends its freshness to my spirit.

order asserts herself as the chaos begins to bubble.

i close my eyes & await the whistle:

whatever comes pouring out, i sip with joy.

for this home rewards rest; this kitchen turns mayhem to mist.