When the man in the hat ordered a beer
from the high school barista at the coffee shop,
I politely declined the impulse
to stare;
him,
in his funky, retro cowboy-hat
and single, dangling hoop earring
ordering a beer from the kid behind
the espresso machine
who giggled.
Poor kid.
I wondered which was redder:
the lad’s salty cheeks
or the man’s full-body unitard.
The man in the hat asked
a second time
for a beer:
“Warmed, if you have it,
like milk.”
Brazen chipped callous
lines side of left toe,
stretches, white, as I stretch
wide—
toe pockets marked with shadows
echo tide pools and wave drops
pitter sand from the mat of the car.
Chalk elbows graze
along the grey window sill,
dragging slip lines of dust mites
bits of me I haven’t missed.
“Hey, excuse me?” called a voice.
I jerked awake; and was horrified to find I had slipped into fetal position mid-doze. I pushed myself up to lean, awkward, like some uni-legged creature.
There was a man standing behind the knee-height wire fence which separated Starling Park from the streets of Ranui. He had black pants and a dusty white t-shirt, which revealed sleeves of tattoos. He looked mid-twenties. Arriving at my mermaid seat from the heart of deep sleep, I was confused at his expression. He wore a mixture of concern and immense curiosity; as if he had never seen a female before, or he didn’t know the earth was round and was aboard his first airplane ride.
“Excuse me?” he repeated.
“Yeah?” I replied, leaning back on my arms to balance my posture.
“Are you alright?”
He walked high
and loose
noteworthy jingles in his gait;
the last was
a pocket of change
from the corner shop
and the first
the cataracts
we politely ignored.
The sands tell tales of arduous tracks
of long, lumbering earthy strides;
there are those before me
who have pressed
the sand with leaden burdens
and dragging
hearts,
the prints of souls unsatisfied.
Then there are
My praise is but
the catacombs of waves
the stuff of ant children
and young sunflowers.
Waves speak quieter
than I,
and go much further.
I wave,
the whole earth grows—
how my arrogance is so!
Buck-toothed and dreadlocked
the wild man of Swaziland plunged sugared fingers
into a bowl of cheesy potatoes.
He shifted his restless feet
for a firmer perch against the mountain scree,
and spat out a hunk of chicken poo.
Plump beetles scampered around his hairy ankles
looking frazzled to existence;
the wild man took but peripheral notice
his attention otherwise committed
to thick fingered unraveling of cheesy potatoes.
Continue reading “Wild Man of Swaziland”
Cosmic harmony
dances upon toes,
& the sun which sweeps
arm hairs to spring bouquet,
(so fit for a gala)
keeps time.
The mission:
go a full week, from Saturday morning until the following Saturday, without placing any item into a bin, either a rubbish bin or a recycling bin. Alter the lifestyle for the week to be one where throwing away something isn’t necessary.
This looks like:
- Eating the entire apple, sans the stem, so I wouldn’t have to throw away the core.
- Saving the avocado skins and orange peels from picnic lunches to feed to the goats back home.
- Reusing plastic ziplock baggies with the bulk food bins in markets.
- Bringing my own bread bag to Il Forno.
- Not using q-tips, face wipes, napkins in favor of a small hand towel.
The sea—
at the lip of which
I sink,
slow
silly
my toes in sucking
black sand perch
the heavy surf swell tunneling
past my ankles
–still hasn’t made up its mind.
I rearrange
the furniture of my mind.
So much so
that the very chamber
ceases to be furnished—
perfection.
Empty headed
perfection,
level in every absolute
way;
I can cartwheel
and headstand
without worry–
an unfurnished apartment lifestyle
suits me amicably.
