a favor

I dont want children but I've named them anyway-- what you name clouds or a notion, just so
these unborn might be grateful that I wont bring them around--hazel and peter, theodore and sweet ruthie wrapped in snow drifts or better yet unfallen snow, the air before a word that I can take back and store on my soft pallet. They can also be allowed to coo like feathers around my ears, thanks mom thanks for leaving me be.

cabins

A cabin is a romantic weekend rental that, at least in Gatlinburg, comes with rose petals, champagne, and heart-shaped jacuzzis. A cabin is also a horror movie cliche: an isolated locale host to supernatural hauntings. I think it is indicative of what love is, the violence of clashing forces that a cabin unites under its awning, (the same way that murder ballads do in song).

more condominium environments

When I got out of my car, I heard a loud whooshing sound which was the water filling and rinsing the condominium's outdoor pool. I imagined the maintenance staff considering the air, the week of the month, weighing against probabilities of a surprise frost or cold snap, before nodding and deciding the season was ripe to turn the water back on. Even as I gather books from my passenger's side, the sound of the water could be the ocean lapping at the shore or a thousand finished corn stalks unified in April's hustling breeze.

What do you find when you're not looking?

Find the Couch for a Mini-Tantrum

I'm unwinding now

sorting out the clickety clack--

the old tire, the giant hook

the burger king collectors cup

filled with something only my

pet fish would tolerate

because he is red and braver than

me, of a hardier fin than my

frigid fit that stirs in 1 inch radiuses

the shock wave of a

millipede. Thats all part of the unwind

the big-de-wind, that starts as a gun shot

and wins in a stutter. This feeling is a fade

before a head ache or a glass of water with

the after taste of pistachio. Do you get me?

Do you resonate with what I'm saying?

I'll repeat this to the glass jar which is my igloo

while Paul walks out the window, having the nerve

to never forget his keys.

A lesson

Museum of Appalachia: I learned today, or at least solidified what I speculated, that the best way to tell people about things is to tell stories and leave in the question marks.

spring season vignette

When a girl was parking her car the other day, she noticed an injured robin near her parking meter. Its wings spread out from its tufty body as it awkwardly crouched in the grass. People on the sidewalk slowed when they walked passed it as if that acknowledgment saved them from doing anything. I'm not saying this robin was a dying child in the middle of the street, sort of. But what is there to be done? The girl thought about it as she went to class. If the robin was still there when she came back then she would slip it into a cardboard box (or if she didnt have that in her car than a plastic shopping bag), drive the bird to a wild animal clinic in Oak Ridge. This was a valient plan, she decided. But when class let out, she forgot to return so that when she finally remembered and got there another hour later, the robin was dead. Now what does that mean?