and maybe even a little bit young.
snort.
bold?
yes.
beautiful?
around the edges, at least.
does the world turn?
certainly.
and do sands move through an hourglass--
like the days of our ever-shifting lives?
fuck yes, they do!
ok, I've had enough of that lame word game.
my POINT--
and yes, I actually had one for once--
was that I keep writing posts and then itching to cover them with a different post.
probably that just means I shouldn't be posting the
C
R
A
P
that I've been posting, in the first place.
but that's just my opinion, I could be wrong.
so, enough about me.
let's talk about YOU.
yes, you.
let's talk about the way your eyes look in the morning sun.
(even half-closed with dozey goodness, they shine)
let me run over my tongue the smooth stones which make up your strengths,
and the frothy goodness of your wild side.
I want to imagine in greater detail than the most powerful microscope
your heart--
its figurative content, not its literal.
this space should be filled with musings on the exact words to describe the brush of your skin against mine,
or the way your mouth would feel whispering against the skin just in front of my ear...
I would walk over glass
(with heavy-soled shoes...)
just for one taste of the lips I see in my dreams--
tauntingly;
forever out of reach.
(also, I dare you to use a semi-colon today--properly)
I should build a statue in your honor...
but that's not your style.
I should...
at the very least...
whisper your name,
to test the theory of self-granting wishes or psychic connections--
or.
smile a little brighter today, just because.
maybe I've been writing "crap" because I'm sick of what I'm writing
doing
thinking
wearing
eating.
maybe.
Or maybe it's just my way.
and I suck.
(but at least I'm good at it)
and I should decorate my body with pounds and pounds of silver jewelery--
and dance under a full moon, to the beat of the music my costume makes.
trees...
I miss trees.
I think.
that living in a place that so shockingly is NOT home,
for so long,
sucks.
sorry, I couldn't think of anything better to go there--
is not...natural?
is not...right?
is not...what the fuck i want to be doing.
or thinking about.
or caring about.
it WAS my choice to come here...
and I DID marry a local.
so I should quit my bellyaching.
but when that's such a fun word to say/type/think/scream--
then it all sorta evens out.
laundry to do
floors to mop
would rather sleep
or maybe shop
instead I sit
chained to this desk--
willingly...fearfully?
oh, go fuck yourself, Lisa!
(ok, don't mind if I do...)
I really like sticking a tap in the side of my brain and letting it drip,
messily,
all over this place.
I like messes.
I crave order.
I make both.
(how very Zen of me!)
if there was a dusty roadside stand,
on rt 1,
somewhere between Belfast and Bangor...
selling freedom?
I would swerve off the road, skidding through loose gravel,
lurching to a cloudy halt mere inches from that plywood shack.
I would not bother to compose myself before breathlessly stepping from the car.
I would leave my purse on the seat,
windows down.
I can hear my sandalled feet scuffing across the dirt--
leading me eagerly.
I would lock eyes with the vendor,
and glance again at the sign
Wild Maine Blueberries $4/Pint
a wave of excitement would surge through me then,
confirming the magic of this place.
my tan arms would slide hands into back pockets,
my smile would creep out.
I saw your sign...
a slight waver in my voice--
giddiness.
there would be no little green boxes of little blue berries.
there would be no cash box.
just a beat up pickup truck,
a mangy little mongrel, lying in its shade.
the man inside the stand would have a long weed in his teeth--
golden wheat, and completely out of place here.
his grungy denim overalls would cover most of a bright green t-shirt reading:
"Follow the Yellow Brick Road"
...at least that's the message I would read.
His dusty, sweaty skin would smell sweet like tobacco,
as his lips parted to show sparkling white teeth--
We're all out, for today.
He would glance at the sign with the big blue circles on it.
yes. I see that.
my excitement would grow, as our eyes connected--
a chill would rush through my whole body.
my breath would shallow out,
my hand would reach--
(hold your breath)
for his.
Without seeming to have gotten it from somewhere,
He would drop a golden key into my hand.
A skeleton key, shiny and new.
He would nod his head, slightly,
Gooday, ma'am.
I would open my mouth to speak--
What words to use here?
What expression of earthly thanks would be enough--
Or anywhere in the same league as enough?
I would blink--
Maybe because of the bright sun,
Maybe because of the dust on the shoulder--
But in the lazy moments of the slow-motion action of eyes closing and opening--
There would be rows of blueberries on the counter,
And the man's shirt would be long-sleeved and plaid.
He would clear his throat again
(again?)
and ask if he could help me.
My fist would tighten around that key--
it was real--
and I would mumble something about having left my purse in the car.
In a daze, I would retrieve it.
And buy every last pint in that stand.
It still wouldn't look the same,
Even though it was as empty as it had been...
Before.
I would press the key to my chest, and squeeze my eyes tightly.
I would know.
And my would body would tingle with the knowledge,
With the vision.
Freedom.
No, you can't buy freedom.
And NOW.
Now, I'm smiling,
Ya sweet lil fuckers--
No comments:
Post a Comment