Saturday, January 22, 2011

Crazy Happy










The sun is out! No WAY! Oh my goodness, life has been fast and furious lately. And wet. And cold. And dark. And wintery but not snowy. Just piles and piles of rain.

But today, on the 104th perfect Saturday with a perfect life partner, the sun is OUT, the sky is BLUE and I am jumping in my jammie pantz, watching the birds outside the window & just plain happy to be ALIVE!

I'll start a new job in a couple of weeks close to home -- so close I can ride my bicycle to the office! I'm set to graduate with a master's degree in June. I finally bought a sweet camera -- used but semi-professional and an awesome deal on eBay. And I joined a creative writing group again! And...and.....

Oh, and I gave my brain permission to play......and this is what happens, when that happens:

Depravity of Gravity

There is little chance this will mean anything to anyone at all except perhaps the black cat, who told me this morning that I talk too much. Choking clouds of Gobi dust clog our lungs as we trudge toward the summit, the rhythmic crunch of steel spike in blue ice making my heart beat fast, oh just take an aspirin, will you? Hannah’s wife just stares at me unbelieving when the cat tells her that the yellow snow on the top of the mountain is Chinese. Funny, I’m pissing the whole time and nobody even notices, so who knows because gravity is just a lame explanation for insanity, which would make you bonkers unless you’re confined to a chair with a brain the size of Jupiter, bobbing and weaving for days on end, surviving only on salt water taffy and bird bones in the vast sea of inexplicable oddities, just hoping against hope that the bus will stop this time, before the storm closes in, before we’re stranded with our torn bag of frozen treats. You said last night we should get a sharpie pen and write poetry on your dick, the trouble being that my handwriting is hardly worthy of the “golden staff” Hahahahah! I crack myself up! Don’t worry! I summoned the angels on the heads of ten thousand pins to perform a ballet of amazing cock calligraphy, which they say in case you haven’t heard, that it’s the best gig they’ve had in a long time. The furious beating of their wings is making my hair fly all sexy like a cover model. Back to piss mountain and Hanna’s wife – what a joke! This morning a latex glove flung into the street flipped me off when I had done nothing but try to parallel park. Of all the! Gravity is fucked! Put that in your wife and smoke her! So let me know when the angels are done and yeah, it looks like you’re enjoying their enjoyment. I can hardly wait to watch the words appear, as if in a dream.

Politicunt

Desperation calls for salted caramel
and crimson ribbons tied like arteries
into our hair. Times like these demand
a certain eau de tra-la-la ditty-fucking la,
if you know what I mean.

What we need is a whiny bitch with a
plastic mold injected smile and chrome-sucking
super shiny lips frightening the wild things
right out of the wilderness…...
because she loves them so.

The bug-eyed old toad recommends
banishment to the north with cocked head
and twisted smile, so go ahead, bend over
and take it like a man. There’s something
fishy going on here, all cheap cigars
and green cheese oozing yellow slime,
the unhealthy kind, polluting the water supply
like a toxic plume.

Yeah sweetheart, spread your legs for the moose
and keep it up. You’re on a roll. You know what
the American people want, dontya now?
Sugar in their tea, bibles for their breakfast,
money for nothing and bullets for butter.
‘Cuz that’s how we roll.

The darkest, wettest winter on record

This morning the sick bastard weather man informed me gleefully that we have had forty-nine days of rain in the last fifty-seven days. When the squirrels chased my tires like dogs back in September I already knew we were in for a doozy. Winter is like a drinking contest. Who will be the last man standing? The weather man likes his statistics even more than his helicopter and enjoys that fact that his radar beams make my skull ache and my brain scream for candy. At times like these the only hope is to pick fleas and pretend we are Russians, bundled in piles of furs and drinking “wodka” by candlelight, selling secrets to the Nigerians, and digging holes beneath the snow, just to keep warm. We’ll have beans and caviar again for supper. We have just enough money left for milk chocolate. The coffee is getting cold. On the news a stranded calf is being blown by the force of rotor blades across the ice to the lakeshore. We sit on the couch and cry. It’s too wet outside and cold and we have to keep the squirrels in the house to keep the fleas off of us. The fledglings will fly in the spring when I am not looking, when I am sorting stones down at the creek. When I come home with pockets full of rocks, they will be gone. I will eat cheese and watch the leaves spin in the warm breeze. I will wonder where they went. I will dash myself against cliffs in a bright blue wing suit and search for them. I will find them eating the crumbs in my kitchen. It is cold and damp in the ringlets of my favorite wig. By the time the midnight bell tolls, we will have 60 days of rain to mourn and the “wodka” will be gone. Where is my fur muff? Where will we go from here? Let’s plant the beans, fry catfish for dinner, listen to the branches, tuck in the worm ball of children, kiss the weather man goodnight, and sleep it off until spring.



Street Smarts
Under the bridge where the homeless camp,
a man in a black knit cap and torn army-green kilt
is demonstrating kung-fu moves, or perhaps it is karate.
One of his eyes is as
black and purple as the storm clouds
and swollen shut. A gusting wind rattles the pane.
Joggers, bent into the weather, trot along
the river path, oblivious. A spotted dog in a little yellow
coat darts unleashed around karate man’s ankles.
I sketch a leafless tree on a yellow pad
and remember that the rent is due and I am all out
of bread and eggs, but there is plenty of wine and butter.
The thin glass is streaked with rain and shudders
with leaking cold. Wind whips the branches as the street fighter
leaps into the air, spinning, kicking, jabbing.
I don’t know any moves like that,
wouldn’t know how to kick my way out.
Then, the demonstration is over.
The man waves goodbye to his friends,
pats the dog on the head and walks away
across the tracks, smiling.

4 comments:

Erobintica said...

I like how your mind plays. Great stuff!

Craig Sorensen said...

Keep playing! Love it!

Besides, who wants to be too serious?

Gina Marie said...

Wooohooo! Thanks, you two. I love how your crazy brains work, as well. Robin, did you enter anything in Seattle?

Erobintica said...

nope. for several reasons.