"Yard work"

The sun struck sweat thick on my neck. Desert noonday and I’m out here burning leaves. But I got a hair up my ass to do it. So I did. A few months till moving and brush needed to be cleared. Took me a few times to strike the fire machine and work, but it came. Wind moves softly, delicately, like hands outstretched twirling in long skirts. Kicks up ash like snowflakes, sends smoke in my eyes, in my throat.

I turn to the porch to sit. I suddenly have the urge to smoke a cigarette, even though it’s been years. I turn the lighter over in my hand. I imagine the nicotine calm. But I’ve got none. I dig my hands deep into my pockets, letting them rest. I have to keep checking for blisters. Got to go easy on my hands. Dirt is ok though. Earth. But not mud. The rain doesn’t come here.


To be continued...

blurb

"Gossamer Girl in Garden"


I try to thread the pieces together. Make the string stick. But mud keeps getting stuck in my teeth, in my jaws. I spend my days eating dirt, oranges—pick the ants off the pits of my knees. Passersby’s tell me to start making mandalas, tell me it will be better if I just echo the stars. I am in no mood to listen to the dead. I listen to white ladies debate other white ladies about the effectiveness of sun block. I listen to panting dogs, to cigarettes hitting the sidewalk, of fucking and sucking. I wish I could grow spinnerets out of my ass and weave these pieces together. I try but shit just comes out instead.




Comments: Just kind of rolled this out in a few minutes. Not really sure how to end it--I don't really like that last line. I started to get more graphic with scatological references, but it just seemed too trite. I suppose this is my teen girl emo post? "Dear Journal, Mood: Pathetic"