The light is almost gone putting out the garbage doing my recycle duty two neat bins to drag rattle clack to the street. The avenue is empty, no sound, no other bins there but I have started something and down the street the rattle clack begins all the neighbors come out waving rattleclacking for the Friday morning sleep. Just a little community connection the blue bin for milk bottles, news papers the brown bin for left over wrappers, kitty litter and diapers something we all do rattleclack. Just one knot, one tie one little leaf in the neighborhood language a rattleclack thing, in the darkness a dozen people who don't want to get up at 5 a.m. to put their garbage out.
So neglectful Leaving the details of life behind like so many faeries Bills, what's that? But paper spiders floating around my ears leaving webs trailing over my hair. But numbers marching over my toes distantly calling for attention I don't have to spare. All this leads to disaster and tired resignment to draw my consciousness back and back to the magnifying glass so I can look for the details so hard to find in this vast adventure. Who can look at ants when riding an elephant?
Who is me? My eyes turn purple when I wear my purple sweater. I wear Nikes with red laces. I become part of what I do, I am an element, a blood cell, a section of a compound moving through the system with the existant around me. I am a story, a news paper, a poem, a mother. Experience Catching the scent of fresh paint and lilacs. Pushing a wheelchair full of hope colored welcomes. Teaching reaching guiding holding. Twisting words to fit the way into reality. Swirling inside to match the people outside, understand, convey. Education Ocean, squabbling gulls, the effects of Alkaseltzer on gulls, on me Desert, watch for the rattle snakes but know there are more flower colors here than anywhere else in the world. Mountain, where the sound is only in the silence. Management style Light blue Wrapping the forest whilst taking care of the trees Seeing Awards Boys = three amazing strong hearts Friends = with rattles in high places Sisters = four across a web of steel Professional organizations Society of ethical ethics Group of hat people in the plants Leadership in Darkness Heroes against heartbreak and starvation References My dogs, Axle and Zelda My cello The moose on the wall reflecting the wild peace All the viking clans ever
Hot air balloons in so many desires as they huff into the air blow the fire whew danger no danger up and up and into the silence Ripples in sheets coldness at the hearth not warming bodies warming air. A house of my own full of voices of children and grandchildren or better, the night with heaps of sleeping love so full, up to my hair in happiness. The sky, the ocean sweeping me under the vast eternity of stars or starfish. Curling breezy mischief into toes, hair What else is there just life. Just sweet (with a little salt).
Send our babies in posting C4 to trucks in secret places throwing mortars under dusty wheels Dark small hand grime under chipped and broken nails looking for candy giving death Child of mine child of yours eye to eye dark and blue whose eyes will be closed tomorrow?
Howie died. A social worker came to my back door. I don't even remember if it was a girl or boy social worker. "I think Howie is dead, can I use your phone," the social worker said. I looked down those stairs to the basement, five or so steps. Yes, Howie was dead. Somehow fell down the steps, legs and arms at an awkward angle. Blocking his own door. Stiff. What I knew about Howie was he was a cook. He was always drunk. I went into his basement apartment sometimes to play chess and drink peppermint Schnapps out of shot glasses. When they took him away, the bends stayed. The bent at right angles knees and elbows poked under the blanket. But this is all tied up with the days. ... the room mates, Charles and Byron. The quesadillas Charles would make with corn tortillas, Munster and jalapenos. Their young passion for photography and their darkroom in the back of the house we shared which led me to the camera. The chemical smells of darkrooms, the dark calm patience, swish of liquid in the trays. A Beethoven bridge between my father and my life because that's all Byron would listen to, that damn classical music. And my mom taking Byron to a Bob Dylan concert, or was it Neil Young, because I couldn't go and I can't remember why but I remember how wrong it was. And then the more piles on until I am drowning ... the moped, the Rocky Horror nights, red curtains and red roses on the wallpaper of my room. Wooden floors. Howie died. His hair stuck out all the time, long and wavy, sticking up. Both statements are equal. I earned my degree, then became something else, but Howie was dead all the time anyway.