- Home > Archive: April, 2018
It’s a kaleidoscope hand, talented but flawed.
Belonging to he that was cast out
for being ugly.
Capable of making beautiful things,
in the fires of the forge.
Hated his parents for abandoning him.
On mother’s celebration day,
he gifted her a throne that he had made with this hand.
It was a trap that imprisoned her.
The price of her freedom?
Give him the most beautiful of goddesses as a bride.
He got his wish, but she would honor him.
Cheated on him with the handsome god of war.
Another indignity. Still, they were a family.
Four daughters in all:
One was a goddess of good reputation and glory.
Another a goddess of plenty and prosperous.
A third, a goddess of eloquence.
The youngest, a goddess of friendliness.
All beautiful like their mother.
He loved them, like any artist loves his children.
Flowers from the garden.
Really, just making the most
of going to seed.
The arugula flowers don’t taste bad either.
The black sage flowers he cut
to make a rub.
And the roses…they’re roses, bred to be picked.
Nasty thorns this time out.
Like shark teeth.
Mikio ground the dried sage leaves with sea salt.
Added some dried rosemary which had a few blue flowers of its own.
Winner, winner chicken dinner.
Got a cat (two actually), got a room (for the cats)
and he’s now 20 pounds thinner (mostly from not eating).
It won’t be a bumpy ride.
We got this.
“Get the commissioner on the phone.
Put him on with me when you have him.”
“Hello, Commissioner? Yeah, listen,
I was asked to give you a call, but not give you a call.
So that you would never be put in a predicament
where somebody said that you were called.”
“Who is this?”
“Doesn’t matter who it is. What matters is that
you were given a call, but not given a call.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Enjoy the rest of your afternoon, Commissioner.”
He looked at his phone, incredulous.
Picked this rose in remembrance of you.
And the sage flowers with a splash of blue.
For the sad I feel thinking of you.
I know it’s over, but I can’t stop wanting to be true.
I just can’t undo the years of holding and having your back.
And I can’t bear the thought of some him with you.
What’s clear is my lack of emotional maturity.
I’m a teenager again,
reverted back to a pot smoking adolescent.
Hanging on your every word and action.
Embarrassing but true.
Spring, but it was hot.
Like mid-July heat.
The two dogs wanted inside.
Tommy, the Jack Russell,
was clever enough
to open the screen door himself.
He chose, instead,
to ooze desperation and
the threat of heat stroke.
In the cage was the insect,
a little Pom mix that’s
a tad bit inbred.
Basically, a canine gnat.
Constant jumping, biting
Jack was reluctant
to let either of them in.
“It’ll be cool any minute,
the sun’s going down.
And they’ve got water.”
he reasoned to himself.
“You can’t give in and spoil them,
they’ll walk all over you if you do.”
For all her chic thinness
and occasional ice princess mean,
she has an almost
gluten and dairy free
banana pancake air of health.
And just like breakfast,
she makes the rest of your day.
Joy or pure pain,
depending on whether you have
the memory of her or
the thrill of being near.
She could be more beautiful
if she only applied herself.
You know, did her hair a bit more
or put on some lipstick or rouge.
That being said she’s still probably the
single most exceptionally
beautiful woman in the world.
“I scratched my hand picking roses for you.”
It was a lie. The cat had done it.
It was also code for,
“I hurt myself trying to get over you.”
Which really felt drama queen pathetic.
It was self-inflicted,
still, he knew he was just playing a role.
And it was a mediocre performance
because he was aware that his script
lacked for something.
Suddenly it came to him,
two turntables and a microphone, that was the answer.