scenic view of mountains during dawn
Photo by Stephan Seeber on Pexels.com

 

This morning, I arrived at the intersection of mortality and denial.  The past, present, and future sat at a cafe table, sipped lattes, and watched as my steps became hesitant.

The past delicately placed a five on the table.  “My money’s on knowledge.  She’s seen this one before and chose–well, if not wisely, then correctly.”

Present added a fiver. “I don’t know. Lately, she’s been just waiting and not doing. I’m going with what I see now.”

Future smirked and placed a ten under the cold candle. “You all know I have to cover both positions.”

I looked both ways and sighed. There must be a third choice I cannot yet see.  Frost may have gotten it wrong. I took out my notebook and started writing down the possibilities.

Wings sprouted from my shoulders and lifted me up, over the intersection, over the obstacles, away from the cafe. From above, I could see both roads.  I clutched my notebook to my chest and smiled. So, the writer’s way, then.

A passing waiter collected the money off the table and smiled at the trio staring openmouthed as I disappeared.

“It’s a push. Better luck next time.”

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marsh

 

 

 

He tucked a cigarette behind his ear and stared at the blinding sand and the sad, blinding, dead-end strip of sand stared back

It knew it would win in the end

I watched his boot trace a silly amoeba, then dot a couple of eyes with the toe

and the sand stared back

There’s a silence in the country that pierces deep and dark and fills unsuspecting hearts with historical grief from hundreds of years of spilled blood and screams and ripped out hope

‘Stay here and suffer’ the silence begged. ‘Let it eat you alive, this soul stabbing pain’

He let the old rage come in and fill his body with pulsing red  He felt a high pitch of keening sorrow as it pushed aside the rage

it stabbed his lungs

He fell to the sand, the eternal sand

the wondrous grounding of soul came to quiet

He dipped a finger into the sand and tasted grit  tasted salt  tasted what was

what is  what will be

the beating of his heart remains connected to the sand

He felt dizzy and heard a drumbeat of the elders passing him a mantle

in the passing of a low rider

When I walk out to the mailbox in my ratty shorts and the wrinkled shirt that I slept in

three days in a row

And my hair looks like I combed it with a leaf blower from the back

 

That’s when the neighborhood cop comes by and wants to chat about

just anything at all, because I look sketchy I guess

 

I don’t want to be rude, because there are times when I AM sketchy

 

I might need the goodwill, or even since I looked sketchy last week and

wasn’t, I’m not likely to be sketchy this week

 

Mental gymnastics are the most exercise this ole girl is gonna get any more

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keeps the kitties in kibble and me in tacos

$1.00

They say denial is not a river in Egypt.

Nope, it’s not.  It’s a cracked door that I hide behind, listening.

 

The easiest thing to do is nothing if you need to do something.

The hardest thing to do is nothing if you need to do nothing.

 

Yesterday is about as useful to me as tits on a boar hog.

A decade ago? Now, that’s a goldmine.

 

The two greatest smells are brewed coffee and fried anything.

Even liver smells like steak before it gets to the plate.

 

A cat can be a porcupine and a throw rug. At the same time.

 

donation

keeps the kitties in kibble and me in tacos

$1.00