flyingredtiara
The most comfortable and edible object in the world is a piece of toast. Golden brown, with little crumbs like leaves in the fall. I'd live inside on if I could.
A veritable design flaw. The word itself sounds so
vulnerable, maybe because it's the first thing you scrape the first
time you're allowed to run or jump slightly beyond the realm of
safety. It hurts to go up and down the stairs. Sometimes it feels
like it's just going to give out with no warning. You have to
elevate it and ice it, whenever possible. They can replacement it,
but that might just make it worse. You remember evenings of mild
weather and tree bark.
Leaves at the height of spring. The illusion of privacy, even though the foliage is more transparent than it looks.
Something makeshift, a child pushing a chair against the door. Temporary. Surmountable, if you really want to. For show more than anything. But a message: I do not want you here. Perhaps more personal than barriers.
We cook with it because it's healthier and try to eradicate it when it comes out of our skin. Some of us drill for it, some of us debate about it. You saute a green pepper in extra virgin like the lady on TV said and think of your nephew in Iraq.
Corn-fed girls in dirty white dresses try to fix a toy truck that's missing a wheel. Braided hair that's fraying at the ends waves defiant in the wind. Somebody cannot find their bible. Somebody is singing and baking johnny-cakes. We share a father, with many mothers. We believe in the current of The Great One, and The Word.
Everything is exacting and tailored. Steps and sips are small. There is effective navigation of the cobblestones. One takes the time to drink from china. Lipstick lines the rim, but is meticulously washed, and, for her part, artfully reapplied.
A soft, dusty landscape. Tattered patterns. Fear and guns. The lawless land. Looking and waiting. Why we have them, I don't know. Are there skulls there?