Posts for June 7, 2021 (page 7)

The dirt felt wet and heavy
between my fingers
it clung to the space
beneath my nails
the clay deposits
sticky and soft
smelling of minerals.
I pause in hesitation
unsure of which to drop
the flowers or the dirt
that will land with a thump 
against the lid of the casket
in symbolic finality.
This simple act is more for me
than it is for you
because you can’t see
that the clumps from my fingers
will mix with the shovels full
that will cover you over
to lock you in the earth
to smell of minerals
and be covered with grass
and a dandelion or two.

“These are home eggs,” the woman says, cracking
one brown-shelled beauty into a steel bowl. 
Its yolk–orange, batter-thick–breaks into white
flour, binds with liquid and protein into dough. 

Most videos provide the viewer exact measurements–
many recipe authors measure by weight to the gram–
so that the result of their food is a foregone conclusion,
the kind of standardization one expects from the pros.

I know it’s cliché, but I’ve wasted so much time
during the quarantine anxious, unemployed, watching
cooking videos. Supplementing meals with junk food,
as a way to spend time, I’ve been cooking for joy. 

Instead, I try to absorb methods and ingredients, cobbling
together some new way to live. You can flavor in many ways
a braising liquid, a chicken, a dough. You can roast, bake, fry
in infinite combinations, as long as you know some rules:

Prepare before you start to cook. Season and taste as you go.
Don’t crowd the pan. Use high heat only when necessary. 
If only there were such quick, easy guidelines for living–
a few rules (not ensuring success) that actually made it easier.

Slime Mold

A slime mold is not a fungus, despite its moniker; it is a protist.

Slime Mold II

A slime mold can move.

Slime Mold III

Some species of slime molds have beautiful common names: chocolate tube, red raspberry, wolf’s milk.  Some species do not: dog vomit. 

Slime Mold IV

Slime molds can find the shortest distance between two points when there is no available straight line.

Slime Mold V

Lost in IKEA? Fear not. A slime mold can help you find the way out.

Stuff, Stuff, Stuff
Stuff in closets from
ceiling to floor
stuff on shelves and 
lots more
stuff on window sills,
in cupboards,
under beds.
Stuff in drawers,
on tables,
behind doors.
Stuff in the attic,
stuff in the garage.
Stuff in baskets and boxes.
Paper bags, plastic bags, shopping bags
old pictures, old books,
old newspapers and clippings
old magazines, cards and old letters
old calendars, old note pads
knick-knacks, what-nots
do-dads and thingamabobs
figurines, candles, silk flowers
waxed fruit, jars of nails and
screws, washers, old razor blades,
wire hangers, old pillows, 
old jewelry, broken and tarnished
old clothes pins, bobby pins, hair pins,
straight pins, safety pins
pin cushions and needles
old curlers, old shoulder pads
balls of string, wads of rubber bands,
little bars of souvenir soaps, road maps
and travel brochures.
Old brushes and combs
and old tins of shoe polish
old flower pots and paint cans
ball point pens, old tissues left
in pockets and purses
old jars, bottles and
Cool Whip containers
old bottle openers and can openers
old keys without locks
cups without handles, plates that are cracked
all bits and pieces of life’s past with
no place in the future,
now become just
stuff.

On the porch of Room 1, overlooking the Bay,
air washed clean, sunlight a benediction
on my head,  I’m trying to re-inhabit
the time 40 years ago when we were together
in a place nearby.  Will I find molecules
of us still in the air?

This place has the bright clarity of a watercolor.
Palm trees glisten with blessings, the live oaks’
long limbs drape toward the ground, constant
movement in the leaves.  Green life
breathes with me.

This enchantment never ebbs for me.
Down below, the pool boy skims
and I watch the rowing movement
of his shoulders.  Something in me
assumes that movement.  All those
decades of skimming the pool
come back.  I’ve been that body.
Long shadows stretch across the grass.

in the same way furniture collects the sound in a room, 
and asphalt sucks sun in july,
i absorbed the breath out of her chest-
inhaling exhale, mouths open, 
we could have survived on the fucking moon. 

A sound shower
dance of words
word salad

seasoned with lonely threads
passion, power, and pain
staggers wild

making waves
that repeat
repeat in your brain.

-Sue Neufarth Howard

Woods harness
And see my queer as easy
this the inconvenience of the present
Of the person
Nevermind the cowards moon
Or the want of them for more
On pity i should calm
Not of guilt but of fear
What i am not in essence is apologetic
For my hollows are here to stay
I future everything
And will not come in peace

The silence of the words I do not say,

Speaking louder than the ones I do.

Jagged breath through my lips, taking the place of voice.

I’m sorry I’m not in love with

You anymore

after thirty-seven jumps
off the high dive
while holding my nose
at Lloyd’s indoor swimming pool
Evansville, Indiana  

peanut-buttery fuel for everything
from beginner lessons
to endless Sunday afternoons
watching light flicker and ripple
across the wooden ceiling  

the muffled sound of voices
hitting ears two feet underwater  

clouds passing over sky light windows  

teenagers tanning on the deck  

that zig-zagging path to the locker rooms
carrying wet towels and flip-flops in a bundled mess  

I passed the concrete dolphin at the entrance
driving home recently
thought of maybe some exercise
a stop at the concession counter
then I heard they’re closing it forever
in favor of a new pool across town  

another piece of childhood  

crumbling away  

as if to say–so much for nostalgia, kid  

I never minded the smell of chlorine
lingering on my skin.