Name That Propellant

~'The girl you lost to cocaine' by Sia because determination can be lovely.

~Mac, because it's a nice story about determination, quality, values and i love to see Turturro and Borowitz (his wife since 1985) act together.


~"The woods are lovely, dark and deep./But I have promises to keep,/And miles to go before I sleep/And miles to go before I sleep." -Robert Frost because...yea.

hi gang-

looks as though yours truly will soon be buying a new bed. i'm loathe to spend so much money on something that seems like just an elevation of the floor, but what with my janky hip and collapsing spine...it's proven necessary. besides, no point in having silver dance pants if i can't wiggle. as with most things, i like firm so firm is what i'm going with. i must say, whatever that bed is that lindsay wagner advertises looks pretty choice. heck, if it's good enough for the bionic woman...
good news today: vitamin d has made an effort to peek around the blanket of clouds. it's not scheduled to last, but i'll take what i can get and be happy with it. mind you, that attitude doesn't stretch very far across topics.

getting right to it.

words: blur & bib

Seamstress

Once you get the invitation your nights are all determined.

The first night you measure your hips. They're sad and alone and strangers to touch.
Competing for attention is your crooked bust. The trick is to hide it with a velvet lattice bib.

Night two and you're polishing shoes. Blur the scuffs with wax and sticky ribbon. And that'll just have to do.

On night three you pink your complexion with all-over dreams that make you smile. For the darkness your teeth are thankful.

The fourth night finds you in curling bows. Your hair looks littered with moths. Practice sitting and sidelong glances and don't forget to breathe.

The fifth night he never shows.

~~

words: ridiculous & nectarines (didn't use the word nectarine, rather, used a type of nectarine- august red...just fit better in a more poeticalish kinda way)

untitled

3.15 in the morning and there's no light spying.
I tiptoe down the dark hall, into the guest bathroom and flip on a nightlight.
It's enough.
My hair stays put in a makeshift knot. Seated on the tub, the water's running warm but quiet. I shave my legs with a leisure almost, by now, unrecognizable. This kind of unhurried moment is so foreign I nearly panic. What's my excuse if found here?
This is my time of year: the temperature of honey. Honey, which never spoils.

These ridiculous guest towels -satin clamshell embroidery- they've never been used.

'Scarlet Cathedral' redefines my lips. I debate over whether the towel should be folded and placed back on the shelf. Yes. Yes it should. In my mind it's just courteous.

By the back door, my sneakers are co-conspirators telling me to hurry.
True to season, there's a bowl of August Reds on the table. I take one. I take another.


In his room up the hall, the baby starts to cry.

I slip off my wedding band, leave it on the kitchen sink and lock the door behind me.

~~

always lock your doors, kids.
cheers. fin.