No one pays enough attention

He's a grown man with an imaginary slice of cheese

held between his thumb and forefinger,

pinky held high in the air.

"The French savor the flavor of their food," he explains

to a student absently chewing,

laughing behind a book at Odysseus,

ears filled with beeswax,

sailing past the sirens tempting his crew to crash.

As imagination touches his outstretched tongue,

his grip on the table slips and his spine is soon against the floor.

No one ever pays enough attention.

That is why these things happen.

Outside, the alcohol the cotton ball is soaked in

hardly touches the woman's own hands,

no doubt thanks to the delicate nature

with which she dabs it against the child's wounds,

her tiniest finger held as far from it as possible.

This siren's song sure sounds a lot like an ambulance

Sleeping lots this week since I've been feeling under the weather. :(

(750 stats)

Morning and Recovery

Finding myself here embracing

   the rim of the bathroom sink:

Eyes fixed on the bowl — on anything other

than the  lashes  covered

in charcoal black mascara

blinking back,  above tongue licking dry lips.

"What a pretty little thing,"

  mouthed smirking lips

  spoke condescending grins

"Just a lovely darling,"

  leered strange faces

  in stranger places I was not supposed to be

& yet to trace the path of tapwater now

would only be to  tease  out  that vague,

  sinking feeling

that the world is passing me by today.

   i could start to be okay

if i should turn the faucet off

exactly the way a victim wouldn't

In the Kitchen Aisle

One stainless steel kitchen knife

and it goes -- sharp side down --

into the crate with the rest of the apartment's dirty silverware.

"Silver," the box  -- now broken down --

in the closet read, but she thought it more of a "grey."

"It's all the same," he had shrugged,

with dry lips pursing to one side

and blue eyes -- rolling down --

turning his head away.

"but it's not," came the protest, in

a volume -- falling down --

that did not turn the head back,

nor the sharp side of the knife up,

nor the shade of the utensils that would lie

              by a smashed bowl against a wall

              to a color more like what the box

              had promised her in that day in July,

"it's not."

(750 stats)

The Glass

It's never too far away, is it?

It's always there, it's always lurking, always looming.

It's the bell jar Sylvia Plath described, the one always threatening to drop and trap me underneath it. I have to actively avoid it.

It's the little animation next to the people in the depression medication commercials they have on TV -- it will always be there no matter what I do.

The only option is to get better at avoiding it. I'm still susceptible and I am aware of that, but being aware of that is a step further than I was before.

(750 stats)

Happy New Year

Here's hoping the Mayans are wrong.

(750 stats)