Music on the Mountaintop this weekend. I’ll be the one, dancing the funky-chicken, in the Alex Gray dress. Don’t worry. I’ll be okay. If you see my dad in the fetal position, give that man a Budweiser! He’ll be okay.
lord, mama’s got a new digital camera. prepare for the photographic onslaught.
damn, i love chipotles. i’m making pineapple and cilantro, chipotle and habanero, and yellow and red tomato salsas. tomatoes are from the garden. i may chop some pico de gallo to throw into the sopa de pollo. tonight, we feast like princes!
I should start painting again soon. I’m thinking a series of painted mugshots from the local police blotter will do nicely. Also, Craigslist needs a professional matchmaker. I see all these maniacal, sex-crazed people listed three or four postings away from one another, and all I can think is “Don’t you people read these? Go get ’em. Your 500-pound honey bear with some similar STD awaits you.” This is the stuff of dreams, and to my sweet missed connection, thank you, it made my day.
Oozing magnanimous, your molten
talent slithers across the walls.
Leaden meteors melt, folding perpetual,
leading back to primordial tumult.
These are the liquid sculptures you dream
and understand deeply,
but you say your hands muddle intention.
You say your pewter splash is too grandiose.
I need you to remember the morning
you placed flattened musket balls
deftly along my spine. You flitted gentle
as you positioned each exploded flower
onto a vertebra with fingers
steeped heavy in grace.
Some mornings you will find me turned toward you–my nose barely touching yours, my chin tilted upward–enjoying your sleep. You curl fetal, a small animal (chipmunk or flying squirrel) as it clings to its mother (pseudo-goosedown pillow with blue piping). I trace your temple; you whimper. First melon-tinged light sneaks past the blind slats as you squint one reluctant eye open–a gold-flecked iris in bloom. Pupils unfurl like clenched buds bringing my day break. I breakfast beneath your vast lashes. And, when dawn’s light is just so, I understand the big bang theory, your pupils–my universe perpetually expanding.
Sky-Lanes at 8pm. Be there or/and square. I want to see how well my bionic, plate-laden arm works. They better bust out the fog machines and black lights because it’s going to get nasty.
