Laugh With Me: Marathon

One of my coworkers, who is a very funny lady, is a lead teacher at the preschool where I work.

She is a tiny woman with a Rapunzel like sheath of raven mermaid hair, saucer eyes that breathe fire, and enough height to make her forehead touch my nose, haha.

Today, this tiny fairy made the subject of her ire, a lost little boy. During writing and dictation, The Lost One dawdled at his desk, writing a shortlist of letter K’s as if they were contenders for a prize.

When her gaze rested on his paperwork, with all the K’s numbered and bulleted, she said:

“1K, 2K, 3K, 4K we are not in a race. Like he is sponsoring or something. 1K, 2K…”

He was supposed to be writing about insects.

It took me a while to realize what she’d said. I couldn’t believe the quick blade of her wit. Poor thing, he was blindsided.

He was like a runner grounded by a clip right in the Achilles tendon by a ferocious competitor; The Lost One was left with all those K’s ahead of him.

Turns out he couldn’t see the board, so I dictated to him personally, and he churned out some very good work. Although, I think I like his first paper better. ūüėā

Thunderstorms, Tornado Watch, and Poetry! Oh My!

It’s a stormy night, and I’m in the mood for a light poem. Enjoy!

a periscope rises

from a trigonometric

matrix of cloud bluffs

a glass tunnel

looks down to see

a multiplex of stars

shining

on colorless

water / water looks

downward intro-

spectively and sees * * * *

stars swimming * * *

in an interplanetary * *

system of longing *

Monday Fun Day: The Diary Files

Here is a scandalous excerpt from my personal, juicy-licious diary of 2 1/2 years:

Whitish light makes a jigsaw puzzle: a porcelain necklace of sky behind the trees. The soft, supple, bold, fresh color of plant flesh reverberates lowly. The little hands of the profoundly green trees make the sky into a gem of logic:

The sky is a thing of serial beauty: of bone tinctured leather cut outs; of fulgid negative spaces; of mien and curvature akin to the quadratic alphabet: such is the bone sky.

Picket fence white apartment balconies make tire tracks on reality. Between each blanched piano key of the balustrade is a sliver of colorless air; is a [silvered] coffee cake of metaphysical substance.

Every transparent candy-stripe of oxygen hostels sequestered chunks of life: invisible triangular lines ramify, in the lingua franca of [semantic consciousness], the anatomy of a broken house.  Life is broken into [sweetish] pieces, like peanut brittle.

Weight of the World

Atlas, a sumptuous nude,¬†drops the roquelaure of the world in a river; shows me bare shoulders as thick as Frida Kahlo’s brow. Where¬†the world of his¬†burden once¬†was, a Launchpad in macrocosm has been built: a¬†fleeting trireme,¬†in titanic scale,¬†launches from Frida’s translated¬†brow. O caryatid,¬†the map of your Na¬†Pali¬†shoulders!

Soaring ship¬†climbs¬†noctilucent clouds¬†on¬†fishing lines of latitude; this watercraft is¬†Peter Pan the prestidigitator.¬†I’m an astronaut astride¬†a levitating bicycle;¬†sorcery of flight. I’m trying to outrun¬†leviathan in the castle clouds. In my space helmet,¬†I lose my breath like so many¬†nimbuses: Nike’s wings spread-eagle from the ship’s¬†gunwales. I see Atlantis¬†on the wingtips of¬†improbable color.

My breath is flotsam in the ocean of infinity. As the flying ship hoists its revolutionary flags, my breathing undergoes metathesis: at this altitude, I no l1onger breath in and out. I now only have one lung; its shape is the figure eight flipped horizontally. This one lung will recycle one breath, in a glissando, forever.

My Happy Place

There is a big, white wicker chair. The cushions are soft and deep.¬†Floral prints abound; my legs are sheathed in¬†a garden of quilts. In my arboretum of cloth, I huddle near the small caldron in my hands: a cup of warm cider. The sunlight in the room is the color of a naked soul. It’s bright and tranquil. Flutes of yellow spring to the floor as clouds pass by. Green grass¬†runs breathlessly to the other side of the world. I have a big window that sparkles flawlessly. It’s just me, my big comfy chair, my steamy cider, and my citadel of quilts.

This place is perfect. Nobody bothers me here. I’m not lonely here. I can see it. I have a bureau of a thousand teas. I have beautiful china in a wooden cupboard.

When the rain falls, I open the window and let the rain kiss me a little. I let my body lilt, my posture slump, on my throne of ease. My beautiful, sapphire eyed cat is named Muffins. Muffins gives me the best love advice and looks like a snow ball.

At the end of the day, I¬†recline¬†in a claw-foot¬†tub. Foam like cumulus frosts the fragrant,¬†heated depths of the vat I’m in. And the most handsome angel carries me to my bed. He places me on the wonderful, deep tissue of a thousand clouds. I sleep with an adorable, furry¬†baby seal (the seal is¬†totally clean and smells good) and together (together, I say!)¬†the sea pup and I¬†sleep peacefully under the warmest down man ever touched.

My happy place, mmm. Where a handsome angel ferries me around in the sedan of his arms, and I never gain weight.