Running away slowly
Sitting in front of an ancient fan and holding beers against my skin,
swapping them for cooler kin
and drinking none.
Now, maybe some.
Posters melt off my walls in this damn heat,
a testament to good renter's intentions
that are haphazardly applied,
forcing naked ladies to fall at my feet.
That part is not so bad.
On my dinner plate
sweet plums tease sweet red peppers,
lending their chill to mojito-sauced chicken just off the grill
salad dressing is declared a stereotypical bore
(thick and unwelcome)
my fork hits bottom and wails.
With ravishing sunset-endings to each day,
(makes you want to learn horseback riding
for that soulful cowboy silhouette),
Summer becomes an old man's season.
Smoke drifts between stories of the past and the sun's dying strokes,
enough to tie your butt to a porch seat
listening
while the air cools inside the house.
I learn so much from listening.
Story-tellers, for instance, don't care to swap words
Sole-speaking becomes more important
the older the tale-teller.
After all, they have heard everything there is to hear;
there is nothing new
if you declare it so.
I have never said so,
just squinted until recognizing the pattern in an anecdote
then tried to shut up before its conclusion.
That part will always be a work in progress.
--
Life is.
I have neglected job-hunting. Sifting through so many exciting--but ultimately not living-wage paying--ideas and dreams is more depressing than an empty piggy bank, but not than an empty bank account. So I will hop on that tomorrow.
Yesterday we ran across a carnival and pooled our wallets' resources to throw balls at milk bottles and ride the Zipper. Another position was invented* involving pillars and walking up them backwards, proving that creativity isn't always a curse.
There is a rad performing arts group doing Lullaby Moon X at Gasworks on Wednesday at 8:15. Alice in Wonderlandy stuff. I have a meeting earlier that night for TIG because I need to get off my duff and write again, but hope to be there by 8:30 or so.
*The yet-unnamed blog will be up later this week, sans illustrations until the weather cools down (you feel like a frog in a slowly-boiling pot if you stay in my room too long).
swapping them for cooler kin
and drinking none.
Now, maybe some.
Posters melt off my walls in this damn heat,
a testament to good renter's intentions
that are haphazardly applied,
forcing naked ladies to fall at my feet.
That part is not so bad.
On my dinner plate
sweet plums tease sweet red peppers,
lending their chill to mojito-sauced chicken just off the grill
salad dressing is declared a stereotypical bore
(thick and unwelcome)
my fork hits bottom and wails.
With ravishing sunset-endings to each day,
(makes you want to learn horseback riding
for that soulful cowboy silhouette),
Summer becomes an old man's season.
Smoke drifts between stories of the past and the sun's dying strokes,
enough to tie your butt to a porch seat
listening
while the air cools inside the house.
I learn so much from listening.
Story-tellers, for instance, don't care to swap words
Sole-speaking becomes more important
the older the tale-teller.
After all, they have heard everything there is to hear;
there is nothing new
if you declare it so.
I have never said so,
just squinted until recognizing the pattern in an anecdote
then tried to shut up before its conclusion.
That part will always be a work in progress.
--
Life is.
I have neglected job-hunting. Sifting through so many exciting--but ultimately not living-wage paying--ideas and dreams is more depressing than an empty piggy bank, but not than an empty bank account. So I will hop on that tomorrow.
Yesterday we ran across a carnival and pooled our wallets' resources to throw balls at milk bottles and ride the Zipper. Another position was invented* involving pillars and walking up them backwards, proving that creativity isn't always a curse.
There is a rad performing arts group doing Lullaby Moon X at Gasworks on Wednesday at 8:15. Alice in Wonderlandy stuff. I have a meeting earlier that night for TIG because I need to get off my duff and write again, but hope to be there by 8:30 or so.
*The yet-unnamed blog will be up later this week, sans illustrations until the weather cools down (you feel like a frog in a slowly-boiling pot if you stay in my room too long).