spoil

Spoiled food, spoiled goods. Oregon Trail and full-blown Windows 95 format. Dysentery, green type font. That little hovering underscore awaiting the next keystroke. Primeval graphics, 8-bit soundtrack. Wagon wheels in an imperfect circle. When computers would freeze up more often, when viruses were more of a threat (computer viruses, that is). Spoiled child, bad temper running away with her. I see a little girl in a pink dress with matching shoes and frilly white socks. And she is crying and quickly stamping her feet on the move as her mother is attempting to pay for something at the register. She is upset because she wanted candy, and mama said no. Something about the playful, colorful wrapper, and the sugary sweet promise that lay within generated the impulse, generated the desire to have it. But this warden stamped her foot down, using her parental authority. Now she quickly closes up her wallet and takes her plastic bag of just-purchased goods, and runs after her daughter, snatching her up into to arms as she screams and wriggles and cries. It is a war to put her into the car seat and belt her in. A common soundtrack played from the backseat as she continue to runs errands, rubbing her temples at a red light to will away this on-coming headache.

stain

Stain on freshly washed clothes. Almost immediate. As if the bleached whites are asking for tomato spatter. A caprese accident Jackson Pollock style. It's not enough to look like a design. It looks like an accident. A "before" photo in some godforsaken detergent commercial. This stain warrants Billy Mays to rise from the grave and sell me Oxyclean just one more time. Alien slime stickers from early-aughts vending machines that beg for quarters. The colors are cheap, the materials are toxic and made in China. But the childlike satisfaction at turning the germ-infested metal knob and having that prize come out is worth it. The price of the experience. The token is unimportant and will probably get lost, break, or collect dust in less than a day. Wine, coffee, and tea stains. Stains on teeth. Wine-stained cheek bone pleasurous treasure. Gumption and guppies and parafin wax. Skateboard, surfboarding. Storms coming. Better get inside. Stains of ash and electricity on a shocked tree stump. As if getting cut down wasn't bad enough. Wilder notions have come to me during storms. Cut down all the power lines. Leave it up to God. Some people would. Some people can. Racing down freeway with gum strips in cup holders. Welded together by some heated miracle.

silver

1940s silver bracelet, in good need of polishing, hangs on the wrist of some curly-headed blonde bombshell in a tacky pink suit. There is a beret on her head, matching the exact hue of color she displays. The outfit is plastic, Barbizon. But the bracelet, stands out. Some time machine robbery? Some heir bestowed? Saved by a relative from the Great Depression? She walks around like she doesn’t know what it means, doesn’t seem to understand the value that heirloom had to the woman before her. How was it wrought? Long days and nights in a hot room? Filled with heat and the gently clanking and tapping of tools? I can smell the chemicals now. Some pirate’s treasure molted down into a dangerous liquid to be recast, born again into this bracelet that served as a makeshift ring to make good on a promise on a marriage. Engagement. When the bracelet’s all you have, the bracelet’s all you have. And sometimes a talisman, a symbol, a metaphor is better than none at all. When you’re out of slack on a lifeline and tug for them to pull you back up…A chorus of courage. A bushel of trust. Down there in the dumbwaiter there is a gift of flowers. In some Hollywood mansion that does not fit the price tag of our life, of our caste, of what was expected.

tale

Whale of a tale diamond studded starstuff buried and embedded within the fabric of Time. As it’s cause to this causality let me know when the lemonheads cascade and align. Sour grapes over the moon, grilled cheese torture chamber. Medieval fish heads and this is just some stupid conglomeration of everything that’s going on in my brain. I don’t want it to count, but it counts. Letting you know about this unadulterated stream of everything that’s been going on. Any and all minutiae. The dregs of what has not been filtered out. Because I don’t know what to tell you so I’ll just tell you anything at all, say anything at all. Rubber eraser friction smell. Like carbon, like sulfur. Storybook pages glossy and colorful, decked out in sketches and drawings that I have remembered. Light blues and grassy greens and perhaps a frog or hippopotamus with dialog. Surfboard with a stripe running down the middle. Paranoia melancholy paralysis harbinger drug, safety ripped away and I will not dive too deeply into the Alice in Wonderland puddle because I know if I jump, I may not be able to get out. And once you submerge into the unconscious, that reality, those experiences become distorted and strange. Fisheye lens on acid. Marshmallow.

forest

Into the forest I go. Green trees and thick brush, swarms of mosquitos do not dare touch me because this is my dream and I make the rules. Two taps on the back of the hand, back of the wrist, as I gaze at the full moon in the day time. Still here, still in this schtick, the experimental glass orb, Simpsons Movie. Same day sameness, alterating mind/body experience. Spectacular sundance kill, sawed-off shotgun with the ammunition being this word salad I spew off to you now. Too much self-awareness, too much reflextivity. Those who live in glass houses should throw no stones. Shattered preconceptions. Stench of the rot under the underbrush. The steady stream flowing downwards and that trickling sound, constant. Like a hum to the mantra. Like am ‘om’, to the mantra. Hiking stick and sneakers and merchandising mayhem. New Hampshire outdoors store, just outside the mountains. Mystified mistakes, lost at the crossroads, indecisive at the crossroads. A true disconnect needs to happen. You’ll know when it hits. You’ll know when it hits you. Modern marble mumbling madness. Line-dance conga line, high school prom. We were just kids then and didn’t know our privilege to be there in that moment, drinking sprite and Shirley Temples with extra cherries, to be picky with the dinner on our plates, and with plans for jello shots and alcohol later in the evening. Crying emotional about it. Just at a place of a mental break. I used to love smoking weed with you and finding peace walking laps around your street feeling like we were in a mystical storybook. The way the light of the lampposts hit the pines made me feel like I was in Midsummer’s Night Dream.