Posts under Miscellaneous Category
He leaned against the warped oaken desk that had only three legs, and he only one. One and a splintering cane.
On his rayon cuffs, the golden sheen of plaything cufflinks convinced the eyes of something noble, but not at all: over-starched, the sleeve fell into an oversized shoulder, padded with ’80s nonsense, and from there argued with some cardboard collar from the back shelves of Ross. It was stained with body oil and make-up, like some cheap trick of the stage. But would not bend or bow when heads were turned.
He grinned at me through coffeed teeth, that erstwhile something of a man, through the palpable reek of ashen cigarettes. And once, at a funeral, a cigar. His bulbous nose swelled inside the room, nearly blotting out his cataract eyes. There was no hair upon his head, not a virtue to humbly hide.
And he was 55 that Sunday. Before the God who loves us all somehow pulled the trigger, out of misery and necessity. He ended that charade, and I clapped my 12-year-old hands together.
Today, I have skin as black as ink. It suits me. As I hobble down the streets, limping; as my jacket chafes my supple neck; as my squinting eyes look on toward home.
There he stood, painter of a man. Guernica in pieces. And dropped the bomb: “I’m a Quaker,” he whistled.
Do you remember the great poem by William? He said, “red wheelbarrows are reliable.” I have a pail, and shall graduate from that through sand.
In the making of tea, use three packets instead of one. Sugar is absent, unless your sweet soul is from Georgia and your teeth are gritty with bitter.
When I was five, the cartwheels raced along the fields at school like poppies in the fields at Normandy. I was so good at numbers then.
If I pray with beads of sweat or landmarks on the rosary, is it not the same? I will be a far-flung, four-eyed priest someday.
Thursday was a band of rain and Friday is the sun, but if I spread the butter thickly on that doughnut, there is sunshine in my spirit.
Sips and sips and tips and drips and coffee until the swing of swigging stalls—Fridays ripe with adventure and insecurities. I’ve on my vomit shirt.
Trust me, I told the attendant riddled with an acne plague, I will only be parked for five minutes. And I will leave better than I came, in a car.
France started a war with itself and lost. They beat the rest of us to the punch, and wine.
Dreaming starts tomorrow because the taxes are too high and there’s a hole in the butt of my jeans. I will share it with the office, and my august angst.
One time, I gutted myself to speak like Jimmy Stewart reciting a limerick to dyspeptic children. He has no way with children, and neither do I. It is a shame that children are our future.
Pharaoh had the balls to erect things. Now erected, Egypt crumbles and I tease fantasies of Tutankhamun.
I’d rather be a goat than a llama, but if it is necessary, I will be human.
“To be” is a silly question. It’s the rub.
