Wednesday, December 5, 2007

Starting a Prophesy

It was dark outside as I stumbled down the empty road. I was tired. It was wet, and I wanted to go home. A cat strayed across my path, kicking leaves into the wind. "...going to be cold for October," the newscaster had said. My breath hit the air weaving tiny whisps of frost into the night. I glanced up. Mrs. Porter's house swayed at me, weak on it's hinges. I was afraid of her green hair, her bulging stomach, her scary yippy dogs- the way she leaned on her cane in such a menacing fashion. She scared me. The side walk took an ominous dip in its path as I came closer to the shack. her fence looked centuries old. I licked my lips for some kind of reassurance but none came. Her door stood ajar slightly and I pushed it. Prs. Porter stared at me, "You rude little boy. How dare you come into my house without knocking!"

Bently Engaged


At the start of each semester looms the required task beginning our new courses by stating our names, our majors, and something exotic about ourselves. I nearly fell out of my chair when the first guy stands up and says, "My name is Bently. I'm majoring in economics and my exotic thing is..." He pauses to build the already mounting suspense. "I'm engaged." In my head I am thinking that this is the least exotic thing I have encountered thus far in my experience at SUU. Most people on this rock get engaged at least once and go through with one marriage per proposal. So if people are getting engaged every day, is it honestly and truly an exotic trait? I think not. The next time you are asked to share something exotic with the class so the professor can remember your name, tell them you are not engaged or married. Now that is exotic.

Talking to Stars

There have been times in my early teenage years where I felt so amazingly wretched and alone I could not stand to look at myself. Instead of chancing to see the reflection in the lighted window at night or through the mirror I would walk outside and down the rutted dirt road.
Our home was a small one in the middle of green, blossoming alfalfa fields, surrounded by nothing but expanse. It was at this time I would sniff the fragrant air and gaze at the stars in awe. They speckled the sky like a million dollars and looking back on that view I bet I could have sold it for something outrageous. But who needs to buy incredible? Simply go back to the troubled teens and find one experiencing peace.

Standing Alone

Standing alone, I have a sudden surge to wrap my arms around her affectionately and tell her "its ok". Her hand is limp and I think about how much better off it would be if I placed my hand inside hers. Without an object of flirtation, she is odd and unnatural looking. Katie not flirting was a bird swimming on the brink of coming undone. And how helpless she is. "Where did they all go?," she wonders. Then I laugh deep inside at my knowledge that she is alone. We can breathe safely.

The Orange One

My cats are my friends. They always have been and always will be. In fact, despite having gone through about a hundred farm cats, I remember them all. One in particular.
It was orange with white tipped ears and jumped from the tire it lived in like it was born to fly. At only six weeks, it was a spry thing with more guts to it's name than John Wayne. I was most fond of it because it was most fond of me. After spending my summer morning petting its downy fir, I would start back to the house from the farm road and look behind me. As I anticipated, the orange ball of fluff was right behind me, mewing like I was its mamma. We became the best of buddies that summer of my eighth grade year until one fateful day.
Mom and Dad surprised my sister and I by sending us to Florida to visit family. Ecstatic as I was for the upcoming event, I felt a sense of doom for my pumpkin colored kitten. What if I never saw her again? The trip came and went happily but I still wondered about my kitten. She was the first thing I asked mom about as we drove back from the airport. Mom looked real sad for a minute and told me about my kitten. It's mother had gotten annoyed at my constant pestering of her babies and so she moved them to under the porch. It was under the porch she cared for them until eventually both her and all of her kittens left one day...all of her kittens but little orange. Little orange hadn't come out and all the food in the world wouldn't tempt it to come out. Chances are, it had died already.
I refused to believe her cruel joke and when we got home I abandoned all thoughts of unpacking my luggage but went straight to the hole under the porch. There I called to my kitten in a desperate, needy way, hating the world for letting such a beautiful creature as mine die. My voice cracked and I shook uncontrollably as every bit of motivation I used to get my kitten out was rejected. My tears were futile.

Gumball machine


Grandma had a gumball machine. It was heavy and looked real expensive with it's little knobs, like something you would see of an old Sears Roebucks catalogue from the '20s. As kids we adored this gumball machine which spat out brightly colored sour balls because it was so different from the other quarter-a-cavity works found at gas stations. No, this wonder did not need money. Simply twist the dial and a sour ball would roll down and land in your hand. We thought we were on top of the world when Grandma would let us twist the machine's shiny knobs. Sadly, when Grandma died, so did the sour ball machine. Now when I see a kid with red syrup running out of a mouth stuffed with candy, I think about sour balls and that gum ball machine.

Tuesday, December 4, 2007

As I cleaned the blinds.

Through the window of a two story building I see trees. Beyond those trees is a world I'm not comfortable in. There are wolves and giants and humans more ferocious than any colony of vampires. If I went out there into the great beyond, I might be swallowed up in the abyss of Dorothy's tornado. Some poor wretch smelling reality said there was a new world to to conquer which was better than any front porch with old folks. This same wretch gave into the fantasy of creating fantasy.
Black castles of metal and iron tower in front of me and guardians of children wander with fear etched along their brows. A weak sun struggles, choking on storm clouds. A collaborative tune of despair is being hummed and I can feel it's low vibrations hitting the windows of buildings, rocking their foundations. Gigantic streams of gray coat the underbelly of every straggler in the street who weren't looking hard enough when their ship came in. I am as scared as the next person to be alone. A once respected old man sits in the gutter, smelling strongly of rubbish. He averts his eyes as his hands beckon for money but I am suddenly preoccupied with a statue a couple of yards ahead of me. It was dedicated as the remarkable symbol of the anti-established peace our valley had established. I have no money. Dead fish pollute the canal and flavor the air.
Hurting at this world I have sojourned to, I realize.
That night, I move the keyboard in time to my pulse- a kid at recess. I need to build on wolves and giants and humans more ferocious than any colony of vampires. I salivate at the fantasy of creating fantasy.

Monday, December 3, 2007

A Children's Love Story

(romanticized version)
Once upon a time, in a land far far away lived the beautiful daughter of a farmer. She was the milker of the cows Bessy and Lill on their little farm, and whistled while she worked.
One fateful summer evening a handsome young town boy came trotting down the worn dirt road leading to the farm on his white steed Pinto. He was eager for a drink of water, for he was parched from his long days journey and there was no other well for miles.
As the town boy came closer to the farm he could hear the sweet melody of a whistle throughout the farm air. All thoughts of his thirst were abandoned as he searched for the source of the tune.
Finding the Farmer's daughter milking old Bessy, the town boy was smitten with love. He said, "Hello." And so did she. Looking into his big brown eyes the farmer's daughter knew there was more to life than milking cows. She was smitten as well.
Every Tuesday for three years following his episode of thirst the boy came to the farm for fresh eggs until he could stand it no longer. Instead of buying eggs, he hopped off Pinto in a brusque fashion and gave the farmer's daughter a smackeroo.
Picking her up by her muscly arms, he threw her on the back on Pinto and they rode off into the sunset to be married the next morning in town by Preacher Ben.

An Older Place

A piece of wall lay crumbling in dust;
I smile thinking about it.
And how
even though it is broken
the wall continues to exist.
Collecting the rust of ages
Just the same.