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These doughnuts are spelled with an “ugh!” and were mine. But they are are pinkening Sara’s fingers, and I suspect the cinnamon twist of Ben-shaped treason. Last Tuesday, dishes began their own grazing and I’m pretty sure it is not my turn to wrangle them from pasture. I do not know how oregano sprouted from our ceiling. In a few weeks, when it hangs low enough, I will ask if it belongs to anyone. Then clip some for eggs. The best is when we’re all postured as if we had a sofa. Legs comfortably skewing. Our palms taking charcoal rubbings of the carpet. Overstiff elbows. Once Ben had the idea that all windowsills were Baptist Preachers…the first steps toward the light. Sara said he was transcendental. And I just swallowed my bagel where it sponged...
Read More-Sunny Vignettes-
The sun plays doubles on a clay court, while I open. Condensation marches an upheaval- sun closes blinds. Thumbs on antipasto plate scraping crumbs into trash. Sun rafters support only dust, contractors worry. Place the eggs next to the watermelon. Wait, leave them in the basket. Wary of its reflection, sun shatters ocean in disgust. Orders tequila. She wears plaid and is not afraid of overalls. A flat tire and we are baffled by the carjack. Sun dry is tamer than the sundry it sunders. Can’t carry a sun with only crash cymbals. Oak branches crease and fold effulgent origami. Coffee is sun’s shadowself only warming inward. His galoshes and duckprint boxers. +40 Share...
Read More-Tangle of Ivy-
When did formicating vines, their unrelenting hugs and suckerroots pall in our imaginations to price cuts and overlit mall floors? A plastic mold with five pushbutton pow!action movements may be a choking hazard to tall children under the age of hypnosis. It only costs something that ends in nine and looks small like millions of chemicals and the livelihood of faraway folk cents. But it will never be as fun as letting a slug beslime Kelly’s arm when she’s distracted and the following guffaw-shrieking. Somewhere we lost it, the hours worth dirt digging. And we switched to touchscreens. We no longer mind the vines, what they strangle. It actually looks kind of nice there against the brick, corroding. There isn’t a victory. General Tzo marching and the toppling of a...
Read More-Just Outside for a Breath of Fresh Air-
Our memories take out their kazoos. A buzz, maybe it went humm humm. But the tune is in there, this tin membranophone. I lean back and let the chipped paint railing bend under my hands. And someone can’t make it go, puffing their cheeks. I tell them it uses your voice; a synapse connects, they relax and go timbral. We were figuring if we poured enough foam down our throats, something would burble up. Make a claxon. And be free. But the string section has lapsed. Horsehair bows tangled with splinter and misdirection. There is half a violin vibrating no more. And just edging the proscenium there’s a fuzzy…it could have been clarinet, but it shouldn’t bend that way when headlights flash past and a red metal squeaks around. I am now thinking it’s just a ketchup...
Read More-13 Reasons You Won’t Believe-
What happens next to this dog chewing a garden hose? Even a stick of butter has no yellow lipids if it isn’t part numbered list; it will grease none of your pans, nor be largehips good on toast because it is not worth enough up. Spreading with knives is something you need to unlearn. Every trend says smothering is now done by survey. What did you get? I have a scone, baked with craisins. It means I am hungry and Virgo is rising in my vanilla latte. I have seismic eyes, my friends will be large thumbs. The hose turns on, flails. Dog is cute and drools like youtube. And you won’t click on this. I know because I used denial and second person. Plastic is killing. So are you. Who will guess what new crumble will fall from my scone or if my plate will catch it. +470...
Read More-Vernal Picket Line Shenanigans-
Watercoolers had a protest today filibustering my spring windowfiction. Rubbermaid stole the megaphone and made loud chillhood memories so I couldn’t hear the breeze. It seems plant sex was too risqué. Pollen a bill before its time. I had just dusted off Robert’s Rules of Shorts Wearing. And we are annealed. I can barely remember being molten and anyshape. Ready to pour. I had printed leaflets, ready to drop their flowers and sway in the trees. Somewhere across the street I could see you mouthing: Fibrous and flint for picnics! But I am awful at lip reading, and cold fronts kept blocking my line of sight. At any rate, we wanted out of there. Together we could bloom radiators. Stretch out our metal coils and convect. 00 Be the 1st to vote.Share...
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