Refracted Neurons

Do I believe that everyone in the world is a master of language, that you are waiting for the one word to send you falling up from the earth, gravity forgotten. Or do I believe that my words are less than the time it takes to form them, that my ink is wasted my pen is tired my paper put to poor use. I see you waiting, your head askew, your hand pausing in anticipation, its gravity forgotten. So I haven't written in a while and this poem is kind of crappy.  So sorry, have a pretty picture instead.

Well, I guess it's just part of puberty.  Some folks get zits, some folks have weird growth spurts, and some have giant robots pop out of their heads.  It's not really something to worry about, especially if the robot isn't evil.   If the robot is evil, then you have to start aking yourself some serious questions.  For example: Do I like being evil?  If not, how am I going to stop this robot from popping out of my head?  Is this robot a symptom of repressed anger?  Perhaps I need therapy? Anyway, watch FLCL to find out how some other folks have dealt with this problem. Buy FLCL  

I am on this path to find something lost to me, something I never owned. The long dusty roads, the people, the noise, sleeping sitting up, or in unfamiliar rooms the moonlight pressing down on us. We go sunward to stop the clock from unwinding, to shelter the world from the sky. My long bones cramping, hair blowing, the hum of the engine, the throb of blood in my temple, I want something I cannot break. This was not my itinerary, I didn’t write the guest list nor draw the maps. A cup of tea, The smell of fresh newsprint, The silence sitting around me Like faithful attendants, the moon, light as a flower petal drifting in the sky. But we are still traveling, no more than a one-night stay anywhere and trust no one there are always shadows behind us and every beautiful face has cruel eyes, especially the mirror. I am too weary to protect anyone. Time has begun to turn back on itself, sometimes I look down at m...

The rest of my poetry is on ye olde Tripod site at http://mellla.tripod.com/poetryarchives I'm too lazy right now to move them, but maybe I'll move a few into their new home at a time.

My husband is sitting next to me eating oatmeal with cornflakes and peanuts. Bleh. Earlier this week he cooked cucumbers. Every time he turned his head I would take one of the cucumbers off my plate and stick it in his.

N: "What do you eat for brunch besides Pop-Tarts?" M: "Yeah, brunch is hard for me.  I'm the Anti-Brunch.  I like potato things, like hash browns, potatoes O'Brien . . ." N: "I could make potato pancakes!" M: "I don't like pancakes." N: "It's not really a pancake, it's more like a giant hash brown." M: "Like a latke?  I don't like latkes." N: "Um." M: "And then people put apple sauce on them.  Ew." N: "I don't know how to make latkes.  It really is like hashed browns.  B likes to put eggs on top." M: <silent egg hating moment> N: "Not on yours though.  I know you hate eggs.  And we'll have fresh fruit smoothies.  What kind of smoothies do you like?" M: "I hate smoothies." N: "Okay, what kind of milkshakes do you like?" M: "Chocolate." N: "Are you telling me that if someone offered you a ...

Eating Rolos makes me strangely sad and filled with longing.