easter [a poem]

and it will be that when I die
I'll remember
till then I wonder
how can it be what makes me cry
is not all very somber.
yellow is the daffodil emerging from the frost
translucent in the morning sun
evanescence lost.
this fleeting feeling once familiar
now forever thrown
I believe we're stars
we're light
but hell
to each his own.
the violent pink of the morning sun
same as them eyes of yours
it sets the tone that marks another
day passed inside doors.
and reminiscing of the days that we'd sleep hand in hand
and chin in neck and lips on cheek
ashes lost in sand.

sugar skull... sweeter than s'not

when words won't flow 

one works on waiting for

what wisdom will come

while watching

Maverick Radar's lofty etsy shop

a score is 20 years

     In the twenty-plus-two days since last reporting for duty, 

I have done a few things many times over.

The bandits in the kitchen of Más Tacos Por Favor

have taken me as one of their own.

I spend the daylight hours learning the trade and testing the tacos.

 By night, I creep about below the floorboards

fixated on affixing bones to metal to wood. 

Learning to "appreciate the impermanence of the human condition." -droot

Between the taco stand and mi casa, there are homes.

There are lives and people and everything that happens

will happen today.

Durante los 22 días de mi ausencia,

he repetido poquitas cosas varias veces.

Los bandidos de la cocina de Más Tacos Por Favor

me han secuestrado para ser una de ellos.

Me la paso aprendiendo su oficio y probando los tacos.

Por la noche voy trepando debajo de los pisos

enfilada en fijar hueso a metal a madera.

Aprendiendo a "apreciar que la temporalidad de la condición humana." -droot

Entre el puesto de tacos y mi casa, hay hogares.

Hay vidas y personas y todo que pasa

pasara hoy.

read between the lines

Rusted is the copper chime, her spirit gone for now.

Not to the stars, heed not the lies, the murmurs of the crowd.

Her echo is loft across the map but listen! For it isn't loud.

She belongs not to the sea nor land, yet uses each at whim

to tune the notes. The fire is stoked, yet she soars with her kind, the wind.

And, as the moon, the seasons change, thus shall the rose turn, too,

back to the ones she calls her own. Tho she fears it won't be soon.

what's your sign

Where are you from?

my aunt and uncle just called...
they've been in DC for a few days now -I stayed here to take care of the kitties- and they come home tomorrow.
they didn't say it, didn't have to, I heard it in their voices the desire to get back... the anticipation of arriving at the house... to their home... to security and comfort.
it made me sad... made me jealous... I don't remember the last time I felt that. At home... nor when the next opportunity to feel that will present itself...
belong somewhere... to someone, maybe.
I don't know how to answer when someone asks:
where are you from?

me acaban de marcar mis tíos...
llevan unos días en Washington DC -me quedé aquí a cuidar a sus gatitos- y mañana regresan.
no lo dijeron pero escuché en sus voces el deseo de regresar... la anticipación de llegar a casa... a su hogar... a seguridad y a comodidad.
me dio tanta tristeza... tanta envidia... no sé la ultima vez que sentí eso. en casa... y cuando me presentará la chance de sentir eso...
pertenecer a algún sitio... a alguien, tal vez.
no sé que responder cuando alguien me pregunta:
de dónde eres?

bs

Bar Soap and I have never exactly seen eye-to-eye.

His feeble bubbles, aided by accomplice Washcloth, never quite seem to work up to the lather commonly pushed on television commercials. 

Even when set up with Sponge, and the bath runneth over with suds, there is one dingy memory from childhood that, for me, stains Bar Soap’s reputation…

As a child I was sent to summer camp on top of Lookout Mountain in Alabama.  The lush rhododendron’s essence clung to the morning mist and dew that hung heavy around us; we sat on soggy fallen trees and peered out across Little River into the fog.  As we awoke with song and reverence to the surrounding beauty, the director told us that there were problems with the plumbing. We would be bathing in the river until further notice.

We were no longer asleep. Yay! Hunger pains were swept away and breakfast was forgotten. Bath time was not to be hassled with fear of spiders nor the hesitation before braving the icy low-pressure trickle from the showerhead. Not today!  The river was to be converted into a natural bathing spot just as it was used by Native Americans long before.  I deeply felt that in doing this we were honoring and communing with the previous peoples of the land. 

Though we all donned bathing gear and our suds could be seen along the bank for days, I felt as pure and connected to the Earth as I ever had before.  But then, an older girl came and asked me if I had any liquid soap she could use. No. I had been borrowing the bars from others or merely using the suds that flowed past me as I swam against the current.  The look of disgust that froze her face and the words that flew viciously out of her mouth seemed to personify irony.  “Bar soap is dirty.” I listened as carefully as I could to her explanation of germs, her knowledge surely distorted from some other older girl, I became horrified by the little solid scum breeder.  Thus began a habit of washing the soap before using it.

I have no qualms, though, with sharing a toothbrush.

flashbacks

Like depicted in movies and on television, tunnel vision and hearing loss set in without warning as I fleetingly relive a moment from my childhood.   I relish these trips down memory lane that are most often triggered by the olfactory glands.
One of the most distinct and frequent memories that I recall is of taking baths at my grandparents' house in Oklahoma.  The undercurrent of well water is lacking, but every time I use Noxema face wash I revert back to that mini-me with my cheeks and chin lathered up just right; Papa's Colgate shaving cream and his old, razor-less Bic poised for action.
There are two perfumes that have the power to spike my senses and send me sniffing around like the best of hounds.  To be honest, though, I have no idea which specific scents they are; I only know my history with the women who wore them.
There are moments when I am back in the house from my McDowell Elementary School days.  The perfume my mom would don before going to a show in Nashville with dad or before her Thursday bunko nights was a spicy floral and I am almost certain it came in a delicate bottle with a tiny golden lid.  The closest I have come to finding a similar scent, that doesn't come in a ninety-nine cent aerosol bottle with a name resembling that of a romance novel, is one from Tokyo Milk.  Of course I don't recall the name of that flavor, either.
Sometimes I stop and look around to make sure my babysitter from preschool days isn't standing next to me. Naturally, she isn't, but once I accidentally smelled a woman onto the next aisle because I wanted to have Miss Tammy around just a little bit longer. Iced, sprinkled, strawberry Pop Tarts and Full House jump into my mind when I smell her perfume.  I think of teddy bears and my first roommate in college, too.
I believe that our lives flash before our very eyes daily.  More often, if we are lucky.  I know my eyes remain open and my motor skills haven't failed me, yet.  When it happens in the car, I keep driving but I confess what I see is not the scene I am passing. What I see is being projected onto that part just behind my eyebrows and forehead. That part of the skull seems to be where I look, as if staring at a movie screen.  Don't judge, everyone has been driving along and then suddenly wondered how they arrived at their destination.
Memory is the trickiest of characters.  I lose my keys within moments of entering the house but, when a waft from back in time drifts up my nose and into my memory files, I am suddenly eleven years and singing, word for word, Juliana Hatfield's Spin the Bottle while wearing my best friend's Flapdoodles.