a few of my most recent

ROY G BIV NEVER EATS SOGGY WAFFLES

Bells from Santa’s sash have lost

their ring of seasonal song,

the only rustle of tree branches

stem from spring susurrous breezes,

summer dusk spent searching shadows,

my Pan surrendered to Hook,

was that not too long ago?

No one will ever know,

the devices detecting time’s tally

were destroyed by Shmee,

the Easter bunny’s eggs, trampled yolks,

Leprachaun feet dripping yellow.

“My sweet girl,

you were so sure you saw every young hearts’

desire, but you’ve forgotten the most

important part regarding your end of the deal;

you were told to hold on to your baby teeth.

Did that fairy thief pick-pocket your sockets too?

Did she forget to compensate with silver dollars

so shiny and new, you could see straight down

your throat into your soul, through the spot

in your smile where your gums could no longer

grasp one of its pearls?

Or did your molars lose their babies when you lost your marbles?”

June I

I long mostly for warm, quiet evenings of dusk, when we would eat dinner as a family on the wooden deck, three years remodeled, now some sort of plastic material not resembling wood whatsoever, all too late, their childhoods fled months ago (though, I can still sense it throbbing inside of one) and my youngest will not get the chance to trip over her clumsy feet, my clumsy feet, sliding into the grain of the splinters growing opposite, as if she were stealing 2^nd, her forearms pulsating with the pain brightly, Pepto-Bismol pink with irritation, slivers every centimeter of skin.

The nights where watermelon slices sufficed as a side dish, the corn on the cob Minnie Mouse holders, buttery juices dripping from baby chins, down to bare bellies, washing away the last traces of Coppertone protection. The short grasses still matted from where the small, inflatable pool was constructed, two tiers full of my lungs most loving of gestures, then delivered huge pots of warmth from the kitchen sink tap, my walk imitating a pregnancy oppressing waddle under the weight of all the water, filling its emptiness, a tepid temperature, beach towels thrown into the dryer five minutes before their pruned, innocent skin emerged from the water wars of splashing siblings.

I didn’t want them to ever be cold. I’d feel just terrible.

June II

When the seasons switch from Spring to Summer, and everyone is fooled by the month, July will be foggy and so will August, the expectations that come with a time of year when my insides are bubbles floating to the top of a Swarovski crystal champagne flute, and dusk seems to last for an eternity, a blissful eternity, more moments to hear infinite infant giggles, the smell of sprinkler heads unloading magazines of glee with machine gun patterns, bullets of water, the droplets dispersing, resembling the exact opposite of calendar month, a precise setting selected for the string of multi-colored lights illuminating a Douglas Fir Christmas tree.

I give it one week. Tops.

And on the 8^th day, we will rest, thinking the summer has finally figured out when to arrive, finally after all of these mashed potato Junes, awakening early from slumber so deep and efficient, the heat takes it out of me, rest rejuvenate my cells, even though I felt uncomfortable with the sheets beneath my body, exposed and vulnerable without their thin sheath of security, lying on top of my comfort zone, the way that I love my skin’s tingle when she wipes my neck and back with a light blue, cold and wet washcloth, gently blowing an air of relief over my landscapes, disappointment growing as the moisture dries and my solace flees. I tried to preserve the sensation by leaving my bed mostly made. I sucked on the corner of the cloth while she was in the kitchen refilling my water cup.

When the brightness with which a summer sun finds a way to filter through wooden blinds doesn’t chirp, I will not know when to rise and shine, my biological clock’s batteries stopped, when is the ideal time to start slurping down slices of seedless, juicy filled, perfectly textured melons with a frosted and sprinkled Pop-Tart?

The sky will be cement, a hot headache burst of sick shooting up into my head, straight from the belly always right before I vomit, it must’ve been the ground chuck she used to make the hamburgers for dinner on the deck, again. Literally, sick of marine layers.

Just yesterday, the backyard was serving its patio furniture purpose, but today the benches are covered with fancy jackets to prevent the moisture dense atmosphere from ruining their finely lacquered finish, the wooden seats promised they would not rot if those who sit upon them promised they would not, either.

July

I never check to see if the coast is clear, to spy any mosquito eaters or moths, any winged invaders, awaiting my forgetfulness, using my lapse, unconscious behaviors, to rush a door, the door I pull inward, they always seem to seize the opportunity, the minutest of moments, I swear they’ve got special sensors that sound when the door knob turns.

I’ve spent a good portion of my life watching the spectacle my parents become as they chase after a warm weathered guest, even the insects are confused, a flimsy fly swatter, pastel and plastic, slapping unsuccessfully at the precise point of a latex painted ceiling, the crossing of coordinates where a feisty flyer rested only a flutter ago.

Now, there are phantom blinds, these expensive covers that hide inside the walls, pulled from the darkness when fresh air is crucial, and doors open themselves. I forget to summon these screens though, but, of course, my parents cannot forget the “investment”. I have walked into the tightly woven netting three times already, and as I push their nightmare-named transparency back into the depth of sheetrock, fumbling over profane slanders, the pests translate and hear an invitation: “come on in!”.

They’re laughing when I smack into the blinds. I can hear them, so amused they are crying.

Seven

Isn’t it strange to think one day it won’t be like this;

that one day, we will not have one of those weeks

where every day’s diction is that of a sailor,

where we are pleased with our

perfectly carved out pumpkin roles,

to fill those roles like a tea light,

illuminating the cracks,

the crooked smile,

hollowed out eyes,

from the inside out,

but when will that elusive hour arrive,

when will the plane begin the final decent

into a concrete world of constructed happiness,

where happiness is a tangible thing

that you really can buy at the corner store,

there are 57 varieties

and the formulas keep on multiplying,

the appeal to any sort of person inevitable,

composed with customer satisfaction on the line,

coming soon, can you believe

they have found a way to force feed us

endorphin induced smiles without

the pharmaceutical pigs playing mastermind?

(and what will be the next quick fix after this

product becomes back ordered, sold out,

unavailable to the general public, only the wealthy

growing grins the size of their bellies,

the middle class moving back into a mediocre mass,

a bolus of half masticated,

the manufactured meat of 800 animals,

sacrificed for one bite that doesn’t even seem to satisfy,

and the poor? well, they were already Debby downers from the get-go