Ms. Wordsmith's Cactus Juice Perfume

When you died I was born, given fresh breeze. Mourning sun. In trust.
You washed away my plans to fall in line. Find a louder call.
My heavy eyelids matter, when toothpaste in my hair does not.
We burn with mutual respect.

Spending time alone with trees and wind, flanked by flies drawn in by sweetness.
Passing not a single soul on a tangled path.
Crashing into dark just to see the barge's other side, the honey pot boat.
The landscape is renewed by a pan-seared sun.

Hot, warm, cool. And you. So far, you make me swoon.
Window-well guts fill up. Still, you make me want more.
Can you find room, the space to take it in?
Splashing back vague.
I sink. My underwater eyes gritty, opening very slowly.
I want excitement that comes from music, not from new.
Water meets the shore, the rocks, the spray...
... the end of today.

Pretend Pigtails and House of Honey

I don't understand fake hair.  I especially don't understand segments of fake hair.  In random places that you wouldn't think there would be hair.  I'm a little bit grossed out by it actually.

Yes, those are blonde ringletty pretend pigtails coming out the sides of this chick's helmet.  Huh, never saw that before.  But you know what?  Now I believe in all those People Of Walmart photos.  I used to think maybe some of them were staged.  Not so.  Because sometimes you can be driving along and you may see something "different" and exclaim "What the fuck is THAT???"  And you may very well have your camera in your purse, so you could say to your friend "QUICK!  Get my camera from my purse!"  But then ballsy chick on the bike is too fast so you say "Oh shit, she's too fast!  Wait until I get closer!"  And then you're a little bit tailgating the guy in front, but that's okay because man, what a photo op and you are just finally close enough to get a good picture, but the left lane is slowing down and "Shit! Hide the camera!"  So your friend makes the camera disappear (where did it go, did she just sit on your fucking camera?) until you can slow down enough to be just behind biker chick, and the girl driving behind you in the Cavalier looks a bit pissed off, but it's okay because finally again you are perfectly positioned for a perfect picture, so you scream "OK!  TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT!"

So yeah.  I totally believe in hilarious candids now.

Sidenote to the biker chick:  rock on mama, if dudes can put purple mohawks on their helmets, you can totally pull off these curls.  Also, have you ever considered getting pink highlights?  Just a thought.  And, how do you clean the bugs out of your hair?

Now, lovelies, I will be heading to an apiary in the country for a few days.  Shocking, I know - I bet you didn't know I love honey!  And how cool is it that these people have built their house with straw bales?  Very cool.  Because my bed and breakfast will be made of straw also!  And timber framing (probably, unless I decide to build a "Nebraska" or load-bearing style house), and plaster, and a foundation, and a roof, and so on... so please, no more stupid Big Bad Wolf jokes.  Honestly, you aren't the first person to think of such a dumb joke.  If you can think of something creative and witty to say in mock of my dream, then by all means, mock.  But really, if you're mocking my dream I'll probably think your stupid anyways.  Best to keep quiet maybe.

Love Light and Bubbles!

Lyrical Roundabout to the Extreme

Full of alone woe, essential grounds.  I did not bury, so I cannot harvest.   I wish to squish openly.  Homemade itch relief, I have a hard time asking.  So this is how to form the perfect fine-face-disguise.

Ripping apart, crushed skin is being shed.  Who besides me would care to see underneath?  I am selective of my loneliness due to what I need, understanding is not at hand.  Until it is and I find myself growing more concerned about myself.  More attached and wanting to spend and speed.  Near.

Double downhill to the graveyard pond.   Funny how the red shirt thought we could not be real, as much as we thought it of him.  Grateful for no reply to my reaching.
I make of my own struggle what I will.  Setting aside preservation to face the useless appendage growing inside.  I want to stay in it for now.

Open Weave Dance

Walking with eyes almost closed.  Posed in a wishing place.
The woods smell busy.
Keep me buoyed up to go, the toad breaking away from my palm.
The chipmunks breaking in to see, to smell.  They will tell me their truth.

Oh, I’m going to miss this kiss of light falling down on grey purple ducks.  Asian strangers taking photos.  Me, getting one of the group then disappearing by the side of the trail, falling down, into the marsh.
Meeting a savoury physician.  Draping me in gowns.
A pearl in the dark.

End of Something That Was Not

This destiny to challenge my strength hurts.
Frustrates, not having a better grip.
Is this my wide open place?
All I do is tell.
Gush.
Flow.
Empty.

When I’m done cracking up I can see which rodents still try to salvage my inhospitable field.
They look for me, for tufts of my hair.
Clues that I once was.
The figure I took.
The melodies I sang along to.
Adrift and always loved.

Dig in to see my rocky skin, my sandy hair, my trapped words.
The silence they mimic is just for this moment.
You don’t want to miss it.
It’s clean.
The way I was.

Further I go…
Beneath less waste…
Moaning, for the sake of bathing in a last lungful of your breath…

Now shut.