My room is filled with fruit. Mom came down today and brought a basket full of peaches. Said they were from our front yard tree. Smelled real good when I took them from her cradled arms, but now all I can smell is feet. Because the rain soaked my shoes and reminded them of when they would sweat. Lots of smells surface with the rain. Got pears too and an apple. Nesting in my collapsable metal basket, they keep their smell to themselves. If I had bananas and if these bananas were overripe, they'd be sure to mask this feet smell, but I have no such thing. And it's wet outside but not raining, so I'm having trouble deciding about riding my bike, though the seat is saturated.
A man approached a group as we left the dining hall. Said he went here fifty years ago. It's some sort of alumni weekend, and they're all here in their colorful suits and white, balding heads and tripping over the puddles in their pointed shoes. Each has that giddy smile, that too happy with himself look that cannot fathom rain. Because they are going in to their old dining hall to eat, because of the newness of it all. He stops the group and asks if we still sing the school song in there on Sundays. A few words dribble from their mouths, almost a song, almost the right words. No one sings over meals. But I like to think that we did. I like to think that the we of it all extends from me back to this man who is likely retired and likely lives near a dock, lined with old tin cans bobbing in the water, catching what they can catch. A man who welcomes rust. When you're that old, you tend to appreciation the discoloration of falling apart.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Tree Frogs
One time, I told a woman that tree frogs sang to me in the evenings. The words sprang without though but with a full sense of knowing. They were each other's companions before they were mine. And when I tried to include myself in their thinking, I was undone. I proclaimed disbelief and hardened my lips.
Since then, I have found many brown frogs grass-squatting and small, only the length of my thumb. With their legs sprawling, which rarely occurs. Unless they are jumping and one measures that split in time when their legs are not pocketed in their bodies.
As these frogs are my witnesses and as there is no lack of trees in my vicinity, I can only conclude that my words knew themselves far better than I did. And indeed there are tree frogs calling to each other. And indeed the crickets join. But these are two distinct, unblendable hoverings that sound outside of my glowing bay window.
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In more recent news:
I walked that path that curves today, disclosing it to another of the few of those meant for knowing. I still have kept it from that boy I sometimes call a man, the one I cannot help but spool my arms around each time his long arms reach up in stretching. I drank tea and tea and coffee, and I read a poem I wrote aloud at a particular literary society. And someone said they would want to live in my poem, in the way that sometimes cartoons seem more real, more livable, than real life. And I smiled out small parceled thank yous. Small, because I didn't want to draw too much attention to myself, I realized as I passed them. I thought about inking glass to press prints, but I declined action. I marked books with check marks and forgot the equation for a circle.
A full day.
Since then, I have found many brown frogs grass-squatting and small, only the length of my thumb. With their legs sprawling, which rarely occurs. Unless they are jumping and one measures that split in time when their legs are not pocketed in their bodies.
As these frogs are my witnesses and as there is no lack of trees in my vicinity, I can only conclude that my words knew themselves far better than I did. And indeed there are tree frogs calling to each other. And indeed the crickets join. But these are two distinct, unblendable hoverings that sound outside of my glowing bay window.
-------------
In more recent news:
I walked that path that curves today, disclosing it to another of the few of those meant for knowing. I still have kept it from that boy I sometimes call a man, the one I cannot help but spool my arms around each time his long arms reach up in stretching. I drank tea and tea and coffee, and I read a poem I wrote aloud at a particular literary society. And someone said they would want to live in my poem, in the way that sometimes cartoons seem more real, more livable, than real life. And I smiled out small parceled thank yous. Small, because I didn't want to draw too much attention to myself, I realized as I passed them. I thought about inking glass to press prints, but I declined action. I marked books with check marks and forgot the equation for a circle.
A full day.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Fallen Faces
There's a picture of you and me and one other, and the implication of another from some time when birds nested. But it's winter there and all color is ignored. It is difficult to say if the eggs of the nest were from robins without a blue. It is difficult to say if there ever were any nested eggs, since it is empty.
The wind blew this picture from its point of leaning on my ledge, which is not quite large enough for comfortable sitting. The wind blew the cardboard backing and our faces fell forward because this picture, this matting, is not in its frame. Because the frame and its glass were not securely protected on its overseas flight. Nor were they secure from Chicago to Cleveland. And the glass crumbled. There are probably still shards in my luggage. Because unpacking seemed more important than forgetting the presence of glass. And then I never reframed the piece. So it leans lightly and is moved by slight wind.
The wind blew this picture from its point of leaning on my ledge, which is not quite large enough for comfortable sitting. The wind blew the cardboard backing and our faces fell forward because this picture, this matting, is not in its frame. Because the frame and its glass were not securely protected on its overseas flight. Nor were they secure from Chicago to Cleveland. And the glass crumbled. There are probably still shards in my luggage. Because unpacking seemed more important than forgetting the presence of glass. And then I never reframed the piece. So it leans lightly and is moved by slight wind.
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