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. 😂

The Time-Yogi

Atlantis is a microbial glass carousel, an artifice precipitated from frozen tears.

Herculean sunsets:
they snow
fractals of fire on
the ghost-geometry
of full dark.

Light’s diameter is
a split honeycomb
caught in Jurassic amber;

illumined: the time-yogi
splices seas of dark;
conquers tiny ice castles
that dully glow, all
bent like faces in a house
of spoons. 


Lips of Croatia,
satiny with rubies
lining the vulva.

Night’s flower is a
crocus shaped
wine chalice
dribbling stars of fire:

ethereal blooms
of violet tint Eros in
the sky.

Borealis, bewitching
and fey, grows a
crystal garden
of emeralds that
are as plumb and
lambent as buttery
Sari silks.

To be kissed
by a feathery mouth
as beautiful sounding
as Croatia is
Tea and Sympathy
in and of
its self.

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.