You are currently browsing the monthly archive for October, 2007.
When I eat crazy
trans fat, hot wings, donuts, all
sucked into the void.
When I eat healthy
it’s cottage cheese rye crispbread.
I’ll live forever.
My husband raises
African violets, purple
faces raised towards him.
7am could
be midnight. Kids stand on street
corners like hookers.
Every year they say
they’re too old, but hit the streets
for that sugar fix.
I answer the door.
Offer kids cooked broccoli
They demand candy.
Moving furniture,
the Bermuda Triangle
is under the couch.
Only buy the good
candy because you have to
live with leftovers.
My daughter channel
surfs, feeding her ‘Scrubs’ habit.
I’m no Superman.
No pumpkins any
where, except for Wal-mart which
wants ten bucks a pop.
We have never met.
And yet, reading this, you know
who I really am.
I crave silence like
most women crave chocolate,
dark, deep, bittersweet.
Wearing the mantle
of autumn. Cold starry nights
days of leaf-strewn gold.
Organization
my goal. Utter chaos my
sad reality.
I type furtively,
blogging an addiction as
bad as crystal meth.
An apple, as red
as it is crisp, awaits on
the blue floral plate.
This is the dance in
side my head. No two left feet.
Only thoughts, spinning.
I must be up in
five hours. It’s like walking a
tightrope…or knife edge.
Argued over what
candy to buy. She wanted
KitKats. Blow Pops won.
Only quiet time
to read tea ceremony
book is in bathroom.
The new furnace kicks
on, and I rise to the warmth
like yeast bread baking.
My small gift to my
self - a few words at the end
of a busy day.
Every night I
play Russian Roulette with sleep
instead of bullets.
I said I’d be in
bed by ten. Then midnight. Now
it’s one. How ’bout three?
I lock the TV
behind the armoire doors so
I can get work done.
Some days it feels like
all I do is sit on this
couch and write for hours.
Home sick, she lies in
bed, stomach queasy, still in
her day-before clothes.
Halloween spirit
eludes me, like the ghost of
someone I once loved.
It took eight weeks to
wrap the baby outfit and
give it to the dad.
Ben liked the armoire
worth $12,000, I
paid a fraction for.
Wi Fi whore, I go
where there’s access, drinking bad
java just to surf.
When the going gets
tough, I end up sleeping on
the couch, fully clothed.
Turn the clocks back next
week? I could use that extra
hour of sleep right now!
Decorations for
Halloween still not up. Life
seems scary enough.
The review called her
‘fetching’ - wrapped in bandages,
convulsing, bleeding.
Suddenly it’s too
chilly to wear a tshirt.
Autumn’s in the house.
My eyeballs feel like
they’re wearing socks - thick, itchy,
uncomfortable.
Where would CNN
be if breaking news ceased,
nothing to report?
Hurricanes…wildfires…
tornadoes…earthquakes…not here.
Safe beyond measure.
Back east, the skies are
clearing, blue unending. Cool
dampness. Leaves changing.
Miraculous. Fire
missed Anne’s house. She’s back at home.
The worst thing now - smoke.
Never in all his
films has the Governator
seen such destruction.
Anderson Cooper
Singed hair not an issue when
you go gray so young.
Nighttime landscapes blaze.
Lines of fire on hillsides trace
borders of life death.
No word from Anne. I
am not one for prayer, but
put hands together.
Ever seen music
videos for opera?
They’re really quite strange.
My daughter thinks she
is misunderstood. Really,
she’s too smart for me.
Oh, God…CNN
is in Spring Valley, shooting
by Vons grocery.
Hunkered down on the
couch, I watched Katrina and
9/11 here.
Googled North Island.
A Navy dentist, Dick and
Anne can shelter there.
Evacuated,
one woman watched her home burn
live on CNN.
Anne is heading to
North Island. She carries our
thoughts, prayers and love.
Kindred spirits drift
within the net and sometimes
meet by accident.
Sisyphus and his
rock are nothing compared to
teenagers’ laundry.
I’d never cheat on
my husband. But that smells so
good one sip won’t hurt.
Seductive silence
wraps me past midnight. I crave
the absence of sound.
Drought parched hillsides. Drenched
rivers nibble collapsing
roads. Some thirst. Some drown.
A walk uphill at
4am to say goodbye
to the neighborhood.
Cup of pleasure wafts
aromatic steam warming my
lips pursed for a sip.
California burns.
Your life separate from us?
Now just smoke and ash.
We visited once.
Soaked in your hot tub under
the lemon tree’s shade.
Spring Valley is bone
dry. Here in New York skies rain
tears of compassion.
What’s necessary?
The triage of memory.
A pyre to the past.
Photos first, then the
baby albums. Love letters.
We can buy new clothes.
Her view from the hill
- once so fine in good weather -
just blackened landscapes.