I made burrito bowls and falafels
And protein-type snack
At last a recipe of my own
One point five cups oatmeal
Blended into flour
Point five cups protein powder
(chocolate, of course)
Point five cups bran flakes
(crushed up but still crunchy)
Point five cups peanut butter
(smooth, just peanuts)
One tablespoon of coconut oil
And a dash of salt
Rolled into balls of whatever size
And I just kept on eating
The poetry in the spaghetti
Had me coming back for seconds
How terrifying it must be for parents, to see their children inexorably growing older.
Sometimes I can scarcely watch my parents age. And watch them, as they watch their parents too.
“No, I don’t believe in our having been chimpanzees, or cavemen, or peasants without indoor plumbing, or the like. Don’t go calling me a creationist, though – I can see it in your face. I think the creationists have it wrong, too.
“I’ll allow for the possibility of dinosaurs and the planet being however many eons old. But I’m not going to be suckered in by the theory that our ancestors ran around for millennia without cotton underwear, Advil, or knowing to boil their water.
“You’ll see why, if you think about it. So many untreatable itches and infections would have gotten us. No black pants or clean pads – if the predators didn’t get you, the vaginosis would have. No oatmeal baths or baby-grade laundry detergent. No cranberry juice, probiotics, antibiotics, acid capsules, or surgeons to pick out stray bits of uterus.
“No. We all had to be born somehow, and there’s just no way that vaginas could have survived in the wild.”
I’m really excited to say that I have completed my first illustrated anthology, “Mostly Rhyming”. This is a collection of my poems interspersed with black and white digital sketches like the bunny in the boudoir above 🙂
The e-book is on Amazon in Kindle format – and the Kindle app is free!
Her nails were pine green to match her dress, and she knew that he was looking at them. She didn’t usually paint her fingernails. Even looking away, at this point, could be a provocation.
She looked away anyways. She wished that they were stranded deep in a forest in winter, snow creeping hot then wet then blisteringly cold up from her ankles.
Somehow, for him to actually lift up one of her hands – fingertips under fingertips – was the last thing she expected.
“Did you paint them just for the party?”
It was crowded, the sour haze of alcohol, and they were standing in their own little pocket by the sink. A window flung wide open, a searing January wind. That was what she needed. Her hand shot backward to hide between her skirt and the counter.
She could not do anything about the hand holding her glass, however.
Alone, she would be three lights ahead and going sideways between a lamppost and a garbage bin to get ahead of that slow-moving family.
Instead his arm is a leash and when she tries to hurry at the end of the walk signals his disparagement has her ashamed at consideration for others. Never mind personal safety, or respect for the rules of the road.
She should not be proactive about trying to move out of the way of people’s pictures. She should not try to pull him back from a subway map when others are trying to look too.
He sees her half-assed, and struggling against instincts for speed, for politeness.
He isn’t there when her ankles are flashing, her chin up and eyes scanning. Anticipating when the lights will turn. He doesn’t see her weaving through a crowd, or skirting two girls taking pictures on the bridge, without breaking stride. Zipping down the stairs into the park.
He doesn’t know what she is like when she is walking without him.