Little brown thing with a white stripe down its back, pokes its cute little black nose up at the air from his hole in the ground, frantically glancing back and forth at the sound of that garbage truck. What an impossible concept for that creature to grasp, that there is this big motorized monster that would surely crush him, this power unanswered, there to do a job that it will never comprehend. All he knows is it’s loud, and scary, and vibrating his subterranean domain. It is one of my potential predators he must keep in mind if he wishes to go another day eating little nuts and berries, and whatever other scraps come his way, discarded by any and all creatures within his little ecosystem. Ducking back down into the dirt, his heartbeat trembles with such ferocity, it just sounds like a baby drum roll. He waits for the quiet, and eventually gets it; Until the birds’ song can be heard again, and the rustle of leaves and branches in the breeze. Shooting up like a cannon from below, he scampers across the grass looking for friends now – and finds one. These two dart and encircle each other, happily chipping and chatting away. Their terrain is a strange one, one shared with humans and their large huts and metal rumbles. But today, this backyard can be enough, and so it must be.

Chip and Dale pancake breakfast, Walt Disney World off-site, non-affiliated offshoot. Picture it: Orlando, 1994, 5, or 6. Character Breakfast. Crying child. Scared for the picture. Not excited about it, but feeling like I should be happy for it. Those memories are now stored in the subconscious of this house. In large, plastic Rubbermaid storage bins, scattered and in disarray. Proof of the trip, proof of the breakfast. Proof. Stored near bottles of alcohol, which display their proof both before and after drinking. Imbibing. Inhale the helium and talk like a chipmunk. Alvin too. Simon, Theodore. Timeless cartoons, yet also maybe ancient. Post-modernist cycle traps that spin cycle clockwise. Endless until self-destruction. The rules of the game. The ruler to measure height and pray that it’s right.


Gathering up white sheets, stooping down to pick up the corners and place into metallic basket. Similarly, I will gather up my love for you and attempt to place it in a container where I will then transport it safety, and fold it up all pretty-like so it may remain in my heart. Warm dryer cycle. Dampness removed. Cool, summer evening lakeside holding hands under a blanket, overlooking a fire. I, in this oversized sweatshirt that makes me look more cute than anything, this is comfort that transcends words and is beyond the concept of every day reality. All our lives we will be reminded of moments we can never have back. One might argue, what good is a time machine if won't make a difference? But I think the memories are time machines with the holographic safeties turned on. Privilege and access is a class issue, is a race issue. These things have been Snow White and Animals, swept under the rug, dust to be unearthed when a curious child pulls back the fold, either that or what the house comes down. How many years in the woods with no maintenance? The dwarves are dead now. Or the realm in which they in habit is like timeless realm, untouched by Muggle hands. Hugging the laundry closer to me. It smells like clean rain and lavender promises. I want to wrap myself up in its warmth, and returned womb-like back to the floor. To melt, and dream. Timebomb ticking, unnerved energy.


Track like I'm going off some roller coaster ride that was not predetermined or predestined to careen off the track and into the air, launched into the stars, past Walt Disney World fireworks in some improvised Isaac Newton avant-garde performance symphony where we all scream to our deaths, a triangle around our spiral and into a big, giant vat of popcorn unbuttered. Track marks on the runner's arms. In his daydream he has won the match, the race. But the drug just blanket-erases reality and time so that he begins to live in a perpetual fantasy that becomes less colorful and more and more lackluster as he comes to. The gutter is not the park. His new Adidas are paper-thin now. Hard to tell their original color due to their dirt and disarray. One is missing laces entirely. And the only sweat that pours itself forth is from withdrawal. Runner's track, acrobatic limbs flailing, flying trapeze of life; My friend's made me do it. Hopeless and helpless stuck in muck eradiated, eradicated. Forest cleared, dungeons howl as wind whips through precious metals and shiver, because that one day could be you - Reincarnated as some lifeless rock. No mouth or eyes or ears. Just dumb stone. Brimstone blonde bombshell moves and sways and waits. She's in the drop-top convertible. She is tying her red and white Keds on the dashboard. There is a doorbell ring in a distant vision, reminiscent of home and how we loved to be there. Young Blood Satterwaite. Band on the hubcap, recalling the '50s. Record storm store smash. Arrivederci. Science sickle, grim reaper of Biology saying, "Pay up" as recessive genes shout to be heard. Am I on the right track? Am I going off it? Gongs ring out in orchestra rehearsals inappropriately as the roller coaster rolls off the music and onto the floor. Now there are whole notes everywhere and we must pick them up and put them back on the page. Splattered with the subdivision of the melismas of the Hallelujah chorus. Signed, sealed, delivered, and Handel'd. Tracked tracker as in GPS location. Stunt double switcheroo, some English dictionary absurdity, some Devil's speak at the shortness of the slang. Misunderstood by a generation that now only knows below-ground scenarios. Scared of rhythms that might make their pulse jump a little faster. I am science cloaked in the night, make its way through paths of truth and certainty. I pray and tread on the threads of cobblestones and old Boston streets, passing through many a-drunk ghost. 


A task so daunting. Carbon walls and carbonated anxiety, bubbling black from a pool of unknown origin. Almost always Trek in its introductory appearance. Shadows dancing in the black box, no windows and hidden doors. Tucked away cabinet. Needing to scale rockfaces and climb back up them. Some gym class paranoia where you would rather take the failing grade than partake in this ridiculous shit. Standing on the edge of a plane with your toes teetering over the edge until you’re pushed out. Wait an eternity, try not to throw up, then pull parachute. My hands are already sweating at the thought. Skateboarding tricket, Tony Hawk 900. Rodney Mullen flatland genius skating onward. Black trucks with the yellow wheels. Like a bumblebee, weaving and unevenly flying through the streets. Parked on Pelham. Left on Bedlam. Close my eyes and will my pupils to undilate themselves so that I may see this page clearly and not wish regretful things over the fact that my vision is poor and will never get better no matter how many vitamins I take. Daunting future. Arthur Rimbaud. Baudelaire poetry in an opium den that stinks to high heavens. Debts never paid, clients never leave. If the body is physically alive, it is the death of the Self that very rarely can be reborn. Rare, but not impossible. You must grow a mountain range from your will.


Well, Martha’s of course. A place I’ve never been but have some idea of its uppity nature. Something about George Washington and a place where rich people go to vacation. Something about National Treasure and Nicholas Cage and kidnapping a fictional president. Where grapes grow in elaborate gardens. I wonder if I were responsible for tending them, if I would find that Zen or filled with anxiety and worry. Maybe it would depend how much money I had in the game. I wanna go to a wine tasting again. My first and last time was in North Carolina at the Biltmore Estate. And that was a great time.

There are long vines that grow at night, weaving their way down and around, thin, green tendrils stretching out their arms. Pumpkins too are this way. And what a strange and magical way to grow anything. There is a likelihood that Cinderella had a dream, or got drunk, or did acid. Pumpkins aren’t wagons, though I’d be damned if we didn’t try to get on that trip. Tim Burton’s James and the Giant Peach – terrifying, yet captivating. And a movie that was in a steady repetoire for my early childhood.

It’s summer now so I prefer white wines, but have been thinking about making red wine popsicles. I actually forgot to bring it up with my mom the other day, because I don’t know if we have or where we keep popsicle molds. The last time I had red wine I believe was not long ago, when we had lamb – Maybe last week.

Big, floppy, straw-colored hats and big, ol’ hangover sunglasses; A woman wearing a white romper with a blue sash comes strolling down the fields. She is a real estate agent and she projects positivity and brilliance, but she is depressed and cynical in her private life. She greets her guest and says, “Charmed!” instead of “Nice to meet you”, like her one semester of study abroad in college really made all the difference. To drink, and cut class, and find yourself involved with an older man who doesn’t give a damn about you. Like she’s still maybe nursing that broken heart, and can’t break old habits despite her trying and best intentions. And so she is stuck repeating bad mistakes, and old behaviors.