Refracted Neurons

We'll be going on vacation next week to Arizona.  It's been awhile since we've been on vacation, because who wants to travel with babies?  I'm still questioning my own judgement in taking a two-year-old and three-year-old on a plane. Also, I'm the only adult that vomits on airplanes.  There's nothing quite like being crammed in a small space with a bunch of strangers and losing your lunch in a paper bag.  Let's just hope it's a smooth landing. What do you mean, this won't help? The last time I felt really excited about getting on a plane had everything to do with what was at the other end.  Any guesses here?  Wait, before you guess, remember whose blog you're reading and try again. Nope. Nope. A leprosy colony!!!!  I would say The National Hansen's Disease Museum  or the Kalaupapa Mule Tour , but then no one would know what I'm talking about. Loot from my visits. And by the way, if you know what Hansen...

Only your slap can sting, fingers uncurling; the caress of sleet as the wind shifts towards me. Fingers uncurling, unfolding to blossom, the wind shifts towards you, petals swirling like confetti. Unfold into blossoms, open up to me until petals swirl like confetti, a rain of ice and flowers. Open up to me until the caress of sleet, a rain of ice and flowers, stings me, like only you can. ________________________ This poem is inspired by the pantoum form, with its repeating lines.

I keep sifting sand through my fingers, not feeling the grit of you in my palms. Did you skip out to sea like a stone, each kiss of the water a nix pulling you under, or are you always stretching out beside me, your shadow lapping against mine? The tide nestles up close to the shore, its corners tucked and turned under, in the shush and pulse of the waves, your voice is calling, me   to   you. __________________ We took our first trip of the Spring to Carkeek Park yesterday.  Even though it was cloudy, it was still overwhelmingly pretty. One of my favorite poets always starts each of his books with a poem written to the reader.  I guess that's my hope, too.  That you (yes, YOU) will feel that I've been reading your diary and wrote this poem to spill your secrets.  Or maybe you really are the "you" in my poem. Meanwhile, in prose land, I have just posted the next chapter of The Culling, and it involves . . . an octopus...

What doesn't kill you makes you weaker, lungs burning at each breath, the betrayal of shaking hands. This is no firecracker display, and I look away lest you see the knowing in my eyes. God, if I must die, let me face that slow drip of pain, with your same unwavering gaze, and when Death comes, let him drag me, unwilling, silent, with haughty eyes, middle finger held high. ----------------------------- This was meant to be a sort of existential riff off the Esther Popel poem,  October Prayer ,  but things went a little sideways at the end and I'm not sure if I should laugh or cry.

There is an abandoned building right next to the one I work in.  I didn't realize this at first, and I was merrily watching people go in and out the window without a drop of suspicion. "There goes one!" says one of my co-workers one day. "That's an interesting way to get in and out of the office," I respond.  Maybe we should try it.  I mean, we have Nerf guns and beer Fridays, but the folks across the alley seem to be having more fun. "It's an abandoned building," he looks at me like I've just said something strange.  I immediately pretend like I've never used anything other than a door to enter and exit a building.  Go out a window for fun?  Me?  Never. The ceiling in the lobby where I work.  I love historical buildings. This Monday I was sitting at my desk when I see a bicycle wheel start to come out the window.  I am even more astounded when the rest of the bicycle comes out.  I guess it's logical that the bicycle ...

You could be spinning in the shhhhh of the wind, a mote, glimmering in the sun, swirling through the bows of the pines and firs, belonging to everyone. You could be spinning, a solitary ash in a cloud of smoke, going to beauty, as I breathe you in, for a moment holding the one belonging to no one. _________________________________________________________ Well, it's two-for-one day here, I guess. I've had the idea for this poem for awhile, but I haven't been able to articulate it.

I have a lot of recurring dreams and I'm a semi-lucid dreamer.  Most of my recurring dreams are pretty harmless.  I dream about going to Disney Land periodically.  I visit that house with all the plants, or the one with the hidden room, or I crawl through a tight opening into an attic.  No biggie. But sometimes, things get a little weird.  I stopped having the dream about carousel horses showing up in weird places, only to have that happen periodically in real life.  That still creeps me out (*spins a top*).  My dream of falling stopped, after I hit the ground.  Being fully aware that I was dreaming, I started wondering why I wasn't dead.  Apparently that's just not true.  You can fall in a dream, hit the ground, and it might not even hurt. I swear I've seen a house in Seattle that has carousel horse lawn ornaments. I asked my husband where it is so I could take a picture for this post and he has no idea what I'm talking about....

I knew about Comet Lodge, but I don't know if I ever would have visited if it didn't come visit me first.  If you're not a regular reader, to recap: I found a tombstone from Comet Lodge when I was taking a walk one day.  Nonsense ensued and I accomplished nothing.  You can read more about that  here ,  here ,  here ,  here , and  here. So enjoy the pictures, take a trip down the rabbit hole with the links, and don't worry; I'll soon find another strange quest to embark on. Location : 2100 S Graham St, Seattle, WA 98108 Tips:  Wear waterproof boots unless you want wet feet. History:  Comet Lodge Cemetery was founded in 1895, but it has been used as a cemetery prior to that date by the Duwamish.  Over the years its been forgotten about, eaten by blackberries, bulldozed, desecrated, and rehabilitated.  It is not currently an active cemetery and functions more as a very strange park. Links: Comet Lodge Cemetery...

Like drinking from a fire hose, the simile burns my lips, snaps my head back, throws me ten feet in the air. But that is so much better than the metaphor, you swept me off my feet, because I can feel  the kick to the backs of my knees, the giddy weightless moment, and the hit of the floor upon impact.  __________________________________________ So, yeah, I guess I'm writing poetry again.  And no, this is not my regular post.  That will still be coming up on Friday.