Saturday, April 28, 2012

heartland in spring

Sycamore land marks
Heartland pasture lane bike trails
Thoreau blessed mist ponds

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bing image:
American Sycamore tree bud

Sunday, April 22, 2012

song of the open road

She poured his coffee and the steam rose. He was pleased, and he looked up at her just for a moment.
'I'm done roaming'. He lit a cigarette, and she wanted one bad herself.
'Oh'? she said disbelievingly. He sipped slowly and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. She pointed at a napkin two inches away.
'Coming off the road are you, vagabond?' This pleased him - vagabond - he'd never been called that before. It was like his nerve endings flared. 'You'll never leave that on-the-road kind of life. Speaking of the road', she continued, topping off his cup even though it was already at spill level, 'I had this dream of mis-judging a curve, pavement dry, and flinging through a guard rail into a pond, thrown from the car and flailing about, unable to retrieve my breath'.
'Oh', he replied familiarly, blowing across the top of the yellow porcelain cup, 'then what?' He blocked the approaching coffee pot with his left hand. She set it down on a square scorched-edge oven mitt.
She shook her head and smiled. 'You know dreams. It was just dark. I was looking at the stars in the sky. The belt of Orion. Strange - those stars are hurtling away from our Earth at enormous speed, yet Orion still has a thin waist'. She touched her own waist and looked at him, and he thought she was blushing now. She was silent in nostalgia. It began to rain hard and she looked out, and he turned to watch too just as sheets of water pummeled the window. He wondered if his windows were up.
'Go on,' he prodded, interested. She watched his exhaled smoke rise and continued watching as it climbed.
'I survive and I'm stretched out, doctors over me. And the only thing that's bothering me - I don't want them touching me 'cause I haven't any clean underwear on.' She poured and spilled coffee over the rim. She looked at him sideways and he was laughing.

magpie image by Alex Stoddard

Saturday, April 21, 2012

women and children first

Rest in time, my love
fate reserved on sixteen boats
no broken hearts float

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Monday, April 16, 2012

1040 long form, 3:12AM

704. one half deduction for bowling shoe disposal______
705. 100% Charitable donation for re-sold bad art_________
706. Are wedding bouquets caught half-risk or total loss?H____T____
707. Glue deductible dog and pony circus tickets here:
708. One-half of line 704 plus line 705 hidden in mattress_______
709. If this is a joint return, was your double-jointed daughter a dependent on last year's return?Y___N___
710. Travel costs to attend bad lectures on travel deductions_______
711. Depreciation for returned big pants that made you look fat______
712. Have you checked any checkered boxes?Y___N___
713. Your favorite stooge:______WHY?(use back of Schedule3S)

Sunday, April 15, 2012

april fifteenth nineteen twelve

Send down some life jackets
time and the unsinkable stopped
'berg white corsage souvenir
tossed through the porthole
burial gift from a dark monster
mysterious steward
jagged dreams, go back to sleep
water rushing in
as life rushes out

Friday, April 13, 2012

the visitor

A monkey in a green flight suit just appeared at my front door. From what I can gather he parachuted out of that North Korean rocket. I gave the little fella a banana and he's napping on the couch.

the movie I always hoped for

Midnight In Paris

song:Si Tu Vois Ma Mère
by Sidney Bechet

Thanks, Woody.

Sunday, April 8, 2012


a tale of the Magpie, witnessed by someone with a high fever....

There were those ominous clouds, and if one took the time and looked up to see the chocolate an vanilla swirl, then they would've known as soon as she noticed.
She sort of had the room with a view, perched high up in the egg float as the Easter Princess. An impressive float, yes, paper mache-d by Local Teamsters 502, out-biding Local Girl Scout Troop 4, risen and placed on an approved licensed trailer in a bed of cray-papered purple bonnets, surrounded by six pallbearered positioned little children in bunny suits. She was Princess only because she was the only one not frightened by its shabby-constructed-lazy flimsiness. Those little children were the first carried to the storm cellar under the paint store when everyone started shouting alarm. You know, since they could not run in those little flapper bunny feet.
She bolted from the egg. The music did not stop immediately until she ran ahead and pointed like a first lieutenant leading a charge. It was quiet then, except the triangle player still chimed his solo in disbelief as the funnel cloud came into full view as the parade route turned west. The panicked ones ran opposite, dropping the hard butterscotch candy wrapped in yellow plastic the little bunnies had weakly tossed, others huddled into the movie theater.
No one knows why she ran towards the storm, peeling away her outfit, passing her house with her dog running and barking after her with a mouthful of leftover butterscotch candy. She was always a rather odd girl anyway. But I loved her. We had our private vagabond club, a bulls-eye for getting bullied, and the only time I ever saw her smile outside of riding in that giant egg was when I imitated the voices coming over the shortwave radio in her garage. Some fascinating guy with sandpaper-weathered elbows off the coast of Scotland. She was missing once for three days because she packed a small suitcase and climbed the Thurber's water tower. As we exchanged brown bag contents one day she just blurted out it was because she wanted to be closer to Heaven. And then she started to cry silently. I hugged her and kissed her cheek. She hugged me so hard it hurt. You could tell her father took his belt to her horribly for that adventure.
The storm doglegged and set upon another course completely missing the town, except skimming the Jefferson's greenhouse, causing tulip petals to fall like pillow stuffing for weeks to come, Bertie Doyle said one landed in his beer on his patio.
Witnesses said she just disappeared running along side that tornado. About a week later at the diner an old guy turned to another old acquaintance and surmised that just maybe she'd always wanted to go to Kansas, and they just nodded and sat for another hour thinking about it.

Sunday, April 1, 2012

shoes at the door

I won't ask how much you paid for your walkin' shoes, as mine own are creased, cracked, and not for sale. Kick them off entering grandma's house, she insists, leave'em at the mat, ignore the scent of burnt peonies as you enter. She's lost her sense of smell at ninety, but is in full faculty of her ancient funny bones. She'll tell you of the redhead stomping grapes barefoot, black farm mud oozing between her small toes in 1922, or looking over her shoulder in Atlantic City, imagining the phantom of the beach step by stepping into her playful duck prints. And don't get her going about a favorite eccentric uncle teasing a wide-eyed wonder of six just how there's only one proper barefooted way to prepare scrambled eggs.

Study of Nest, 1994
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