October Composition #1 With her eBook closed and moonlight watching her sleeping husband, she returns to planning the book she will write in November. Last night the protagonist and the bass-playing love interest followed the rules and made love at last. Because the broad strokes of the story should be firm in her mind, she will now replay the scene. Why should fiction have all the fun? The morning sky will not appear to be blue. Unless blue is flannel soft and Confederate gray. The river may show lavenders, pinks, a trace of something like yellow, and in silhouette the great blue heron flying from home toward his favorite breakfast place. The train will call from the bridge. The mud bank will always give sound to the water.
Goldfish on Jupiter's Nose like a princess whose tiara is sunk in the mire like a pacifist, high on Liberation wine like a pail on a fence post, envelope unstuck like an marching army singing Jambalaya on the Bayou, I have been questioning my position here and where and which flip of the coin or crack in the sidewalk is to bless or burn. Not that it's answers I'm in line for: just reviewing my companions in fate.
Shall I Go Mad? Should? Would? Will? Shall I spend this drippy end-of-summer day watching yellow birds flutter down from high branches to low and then flutter up? I could clean house. I could pray. I could sit with my loved worthy spouse drinking hot or tepid tea, exhuming Hume, Pepys, Cervantes, Lyndon Johnson, Ian Fleming; pausing to wonder why those crows are grousing and in such loud numbers. High-density chaos speakers on this semi-rural dead end. I could go to town. As if there were “town” to go to. The center did not hold. Bake. Eat. Fantasize myself thinner, smarter, able to leap tall buildings-er. Is this a brown study? Yesterday there was a red and green rainbow. Tomorrow is the first day of autumn. Where does time go?
Faith Came VIA Rail from Quebec City Summer was in Destin with Jack's family, playing Parcheesi when the call came. Half an hour, and she was backing from the parking slot, more rain forecast, Verdi on NPR. While Jack's mom waved from the condo window Dad still tried to inhabit his body. Charity, in the hostel in Bremen, was sleeping. For her, hope was aloft for a few hours more.
/Appointment with Death Or rendezvous, if you please. And while searching that reference I forgot--oh, yes: my original intention: A few years ago I was (only mildly) crazy, and spent all my time doing nothing but playing video games and adding my name to mailing lists in hopes of becoming rich. I also had symptoms and doctors. There were tests and procedures to keep track of, and they interfered with my self- administered anti-anxiety treatments. I began by being early for appointments and became so troubled that I lost track of the day and showed up at the wrong office once, a day early. Why I feel need, now, to recount this may or not be worth exploring, but no--the days of suicide are long past.
Definition: Character Clarice Starling has been subsumed by Jody Foster, who somewhere learned how southern and mountain differ. Any East Tennessee drama teacher knows a fool can fake the mountain drawl by locking down her lower jaw. That doesn't fix Scarlett O'Hara, bias of any sort, chronic unemployment, or the skin and teeth of inherited poverty, but verisimilitude is an inch in the right direction. You see: I was taught you could beat the past with increments. Now, though, I'm old. My spotted skin and all my flaws sashay across the stage sporting one-piece swimsuits, spike heels, and satin labels: Miz Bigot, Miz Hypocrite, Old Miz You Can't Get There From Here 1947. Still I sigh at new SUVs bearing heirloom Confederate flags and flaking Trump decals, knowing all reaction's a tale about chicken v egg.
Chord and Discord Sat on a Fence A man who could translate Water to Wind met a woman who only spoke Fire. He cooled her. She sparked him. He fanned, she inflamed: desire with no earthly understanding. But they slept in each other's arms like two lullabies, demanding nothing, content to share dreams. The Fortune Deck fool is born again with every breath taken and given. A body trusts that air, sun and rain will continue. It only knows living, and life will or must derange. It’s reason that's strange.
April is Poetry Month. Words fill the air like pollen and change. The senses are deranged,
and the mind plays along, making sense where it can, taking nonsense where it is needed.
I intend to enjoy it. You come, too.