Hold a Hair to My Head
At the grocery store I fawn over pyramids of perfect oranges. I crawl beneath the dais, holding one in each hand & roll them over my fingers, gloating at their smooth luster & admiring the image of myself, a circus performer, juggling two copper comets as an audience sits charily awaiting a mistake. The people walk by, curtly making sly remarks; meddlesome customers that go on about their business & I leap from my imaginations, back to the strangeness of everyday life before taking one & dropping it into a plastic bag.
Hurriedly, I gather my senses & begin pacing the aisles, leaving one hand free to graze the packages & cans stacked up like an edible Times Square. I stop occasionally to read a few of the labels or haunt the shoppers in their silly consideration for prices, a few of them crouched down to read the invisible sale underneath.
I get to the cereal aisle & stop. The way the boxes look, all festooning one another with their colorful characters make me believe, somehow, that it's a group effort. I wouldn't know which one to pick. The sailor? The captain? The talking bee? All decorated in the same arresting manner, it's too confusing.
Holding my tangerine, I walk slowly & finish prowling the aisles, secretly avoiding check-out. I see men with heavy crates lifting & pulling & jostling the packages, making room. I don't stare though.
I come upon an opened package. It was a two-for-one deal but somebody abandoned the purple kind, leaving it orphaned in the potato chip aisle. I pick it up. "I'll just buy this too."
Approaching check-out is no small feat. You're overwhelmed with financial dread, the possible embarrassments of not having enough cash or accidently forgetting to grab your wallet; your purse. You wonder about the clerk, their demeanor, their friendliness. It's terrible. It's terrible.
"Hello," the woman says, perched over her register. She looks tired; mean. I try to avoid the greetings. I look away. "This it?"
"Yes."
"Paper or plastic?"
I don't care. It's two items. I forget to talk. The boy puts the orphaned moisturizer in a small blue-green plastic bag & reaches for the orange. I watch it. He lifts it up at the wrong end & my perfect tangerine begins to fall toward the floor. "Watch it!" I say, reaching up to touch the sky.
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zaiireka: At the grocery store I fawn over pyramids of perfect oranges. I crawl beneath the dais, holding one in each hand & roll them over my fingers, gloating at their smooth luster & admiring the image of myself, a circus performer, juggling two copper comets as an audience sits charily awaiting a mistake. The people walk by, curtly making sly remarks; meddlesome customers that go on about their business & I leap from my imaginations, back to the strangeness of everyday life before taking one & dropping it into a plastic bag.
Hurriedly, I gather my senses & begin pacing the aisles, leaving one hand free to graze the packages & cans stacked up like an edible Times Square. I stop occasionally to read a few of the labels or haunt the shoppers in their silly consideration for prices, a few of them crouched down to read the invisible sale underneath.
I get to the cereal aisle & stop. The way the boxes look, all festooning one another with their colorful characters make me believe, somehow, that it's a group effort. I wouldn't know which one to pick. The sailor? The captain? The talking bee? All decorated in the same arresting manner, it's too confusing.
Holding my tangerine, I walk slowly & finish prowling the aisles, secretly avoiding check-out. I see men with heavy crates lifting & pulling & jostling the packages, making room. I don't stare though.
I come upon an opened package. It was a two-for-one deal but somebody abandoned the purple kind, leaving it orphaned in the potato chip aisle. I pick it up. "I'll just buy this too."
Approaching check-out is no small feat. You're overwhelmed with financial dread, the possible embarrassments of not having enough cash or accidently forgetting to grab your wallet; your purse. You wonder about the clerk, their demeanor, their friendliness. It's terrible. It's terrible.
"Hello," the woman says, perched over her register. She looks tired; mean. I try to avoid the greetings. I look away. "This it?"
"Yes."
"Paper or plastic?"
I don't care. It's two items. I forget to talk. The boy puts the orphaned moisturizer in a small blue-green plastic bag & reaches for the orange. I watch it. He lifts it up at the wrong end & my perfect tangerine begins to fall toward the floor. "Watch it!" I say, reaching up to touch the sky.
Hurriedly, I gather my senses & begin pacing the aisles, leaving one hand free to graze the packages & cans stacked up like an edible Times Square. I stop occasionally to read a few of the labels or haunt the shoppers in their silly consideration for prices, a few of them crouched down to read the invisible sale underneath.
I get to the cereal aisle & stop. The way the boxes look, all festooning one another with their colorful characters make me believe, somehow, that it's a group effort. I wouldn't know which one to pick. The sailor? The captain? The talking bee? All decorated in the same arresting manner, it's too confusing.
Holding my tangerine, I walk slowly & finish prowling the aisles, secretly avoiding check-out. I see men with heavy crates lifting & pulling & jostling the packages, making room. I don't stare though.
I come upon an opened package. It was a two-for-one deal but somebody abandoned the purple kind, leaving it orphaned in the potato chip aisle. I pick it up. "I'll just buy this too."
Approaching check-out is no small feat. You're overwhelmed with financial dread, the possible embarrassments of not having enough cash or accidently forgetting to grab your wallet; your purse. You wonder about the clerk, their demeanor, their friendliness. It's terrible. It's terrible.
"Hello," the woman says, perched over her register. She looks tired; mean. I try to avoid the greetings. I look away. "This it?"
"Yes."
"Paper or plastic?"
I don't care. It's two items. I forget to talk. The boy puts the orphaned moisturizer in a small blue-green plastic bag & reaches for the orange. I watch it. He lifts it up at the wrong end & my perfect tangerine begins to fall toward the floor. "Watch it!" I say, reaching up to touch the sky.
Previous message was not received by colour is a sin because of error: Your message was refused by the AOL Instant Messenger server, probably because the message was too big. Try making the message shorter and send it again.
zaiireka wants to directly connect.
colour is a sin is now directly connected.
zaiireka: At the grocery store I fawn over pyramids of perfect oranges. I crawl beneath the dais, holding one in each hand & roll them over my fingers, gloating at their smooth luster & admiring the image of myself, a circus performer, juggling two copper comets as an audience sits charily awaiting a mistake. The people walk by, curtly making sly remarks; meddlesome customers that go on about their business & I leap from my imaginations, back to the strangeness of everyday life before taking one & dropping it into a plastic bag.
Hurriedly, I gather my senses & begin pacing the aisles, leaving one hand free to graze the packages & cans stacked up like an edible Times Square. I stop occasionally to read a few of the labels or haunt the shoppers in their silly consideration for prices, a few of them crouched down to read the invisible sale underneath.
I get to the cereal aisle & stop. The way the boxes look, all festooning one another with their colorful characters make me believe, somehow, that it's a group effort. I wouldn't know which one to pick. The sailor? The captain? The talking bee? All decorated in the same arresting manner, it's too confusing.
Holding my tangerine, I walk slowly & finish prowling the aisles, secretly avoiding check-out. I see men with heavy crates lifting & pulling & jostling the packages, making room. I don't stare though.
I come upon an opened package. It was a two-for-one deal but somebody abandoned the purple kind, leaving it orphaned in the potato chip aisle. I pick it up. "I'll just buy this too."
Approaching check-out is no small feat. You're overwhelmed with financial dread, the possible embarrassments of not having enough cash or accidently forgetting to grab your wallet; your purse. You wonder about the clerk, their demeanor, their friendliness. It's terrible. It's terrible.
"Hello," the woman says, perched over her register. She looks tired; mean. I try to avoid the greetings. I look away. "This it?"
"Yes."
"Paper or plastic?"
I don't care. It's two items. I forget to talk. The boy puts the orphaned moisturizer in a small blue-green plastic bag & reaches for the orange. I watch it. He lifts it up at the wrong end & my perfect tangerine begins to fall toward the floor. "Watch it!" I say, reaching up to touch the sky.