cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (sending love)
As part of the Days of Action to support Bresha Meadows, currently in Trumbull County Juvenile Detention Center for defending herself and her family, I've written a poem. When I tried to write about the abuse Bresha endured and what she'd been forced to do, my thoughts kept veering off into escapist fantasies. The truth is, this 14-year-old girl was forced to confront a viciousness so terrifying, most adults can't look at it head-on. I certainly can't.

If you are so moved, please share my poem (with proper attribution) and a link to the #FreeBresha blog.

To #FreeBresha Meadows, and Myself

Respect demands
I tell your story straight
exactly as it happened
exactly as brave as you were
as you had to be
through years of abuse
the gun in your face
then in your hands
to protect yourself, your family.

Is it the writer in me
that burns to revise your tragedy
to send a spaceman
silver-suited from the future
to save you from the screams?
To  unleash a dragon
fire-mouthed and dagger-clawed
to defend you, or sneak
a singing sword beneath your bed
help you sever unholy bonds?

Or is it the mother in me
who yearns to twist your tale
to happily ever after
by stroke of luck or fairy dust
hook or crook?
Anything to transform
the garbage the agencies gave you
into a swift carriage to sunnier days
those rats who betrayed you
into footmen at your mercy.

Or is it the girl inside me
the one who watched Dad
drive Mom to tears
who clapped when he clapped
thinking it some game?
Who, years later, watched him corner
a new wife, his hand raised to smack?
Screaming, running,
I lured the wolf from his rampage
but still he ruled the forest.

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (Default)
Tweetie is reading a new series called Dear Dumb Diary. I appreciate the main character even less than I do the guy in the Wimpy Kid books. For one thing, the girl narrating the Dumb Diary books is "looks-ist" and engages in the backbiting Mean Girls subcult I dread. I've told Tweetie I don't like the "heroes" because they're rude and unkind with no self-awareness, but I haven't done anything dumb like forbidden the books. (And I do read with her, on occasion.)

Last night I remembered, however, that my favorite character in Charlotte's Web was Templeton the Rat, who was selfish, rude, petty, and gluttonous (although redeemable). And my favorite character on Buffy was Spike, who shared all Templeton's traits. And my own character Heidi will never be Miss Congeniality. So, okay, the poison apple doesn't fall far from the tree. I guess the important thing is that, no matter how much we delight in reprehensible characters, we endeavor to behave honorably in real life. And Tweetie does. And so do I.

I've been looking for cooking odds and ends to encourage Tweetie to play and experiment outdoors. She already loves making "earth soup" and building "forts," which resemble tepees to me. We got her a used hand-crank grinder and she's been grinding up seed pods, leaves, flower petals, dry pasta...basically anything we suggest or approve. She also liked the idea of washing out some old bubble tubes to use as "vials." I thought she might like some tongs, but I haven't found any good ones yet. (we'll go to the secondhand shop this weekend) Also, a cheapie kitchen scale.

Any other ideas for cheap, repurposed tools conducive to the budding environmental scientist?  : )

cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (hangover)
I did not bring up the children's religious dispute with the other mother--although there was an awkward moment when she asked if we were doing anything special for Easter. "J & I are going to a Murder by Death concert," I said. Then felt obligated to explain that Murder by Death was not a heavy metal group (which was weird, since I listen to heavy metal too and see no problem with that) and that Tweetie would miss school on Friday and we'd all get a long weekend.

Um. Yeah.

Anyway, the kids played together after school and got along fine, as usual. Meanwhile, the mother and I talked about my dye job. Then in the evening, Tweetie told me she'd broached the Hell topic with her friend earlier in the day. I was astonished. I thought I'd steered her in the direction of genial avoidance. But no, she asked her friend to explain what she'd meant about her dire warning, and her friend said she'd talked to her mom and her mom said that that was not how it worked after all, and then Tweetie shared *her* family's beliefs.


"What did you say?" I asked, slightly terrified.

"I told her about the candle thing." 

Okay... That morning I'd told her that J & I believe human lives are like candle flames, and once they're out, they're out. The lingering smoke is the memories and good you leave behind, and the more you contributed to the world, the longer that smoke lasts. I don't know how well that translated in the lunchroom or playground or wherever our kids are having their philosophical inquiries, but I don't suppose this is the worst metaphor we could have representing us. I'm glad I didn't talk about decomposition. Especially since about a week ago, Tweetie and friend were imagining ghosts populating the playground, and I said, "Well, the dead do outnumber the living," which seemed to startle the other mother. (They DO!)

So I praised Tweetie for discussing a sensitive topic so well and told her many adults could not have had that discussion without getting upset or hurting someone's feelings. I told her I was proud of her and her friend. 

And then I had a Kraken Rum & Coke. Whoo doggy!

"On a bender," said the Angel of the Lord.

cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (castiel sigh)
Last Monday, we found out Tweetie had strep throat. We started giving her antibiotics, and she improved. But then Thursday, when I was trying to get her to school, she couldn't walk without crying. So back to the doctor, who assured us the strep hadn't moved into her joints, but her muscles had shrunk up while she was stuck in bed. So Friday I finally got her back to school. I still had to administer antibiotics at lunch time, but fine. Yesterday when I went to dose her up, I noticed her cheeks were really rosy. Last night I realized they weren't rosy, they were rashed. As were her legs, belly, back...Back to the doc this morning, who diagnosed an allergy to the antibiotics and prescribed prednisone. I dosed her up and sent her back to school. 

I am so tired. Can I just be done with this now?
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (bruised)

In Florida, a 12-yr-old boy is being charged as an adult for first-degree murder. If convicted, his mandatory sentence will be life in prison.

Life in prison.

He'd be the youngest "lifer" in America.

Cristian Fernandez is charged with the murder of his 2-yr-old brother, David. Earlier this year, he broke his brother's leg, supposedly while wrestling. There seems little doubt that Cristian mortally wounded his baby brother while the boys were home alone. No one is saying Cristian is innocent.

But should the legal system be treating 12-yr-olds as adults? Should they be in the adult prison population? How are they to be insulated from the vicious abuses permitted in prison? By being shunted into solitary confinement?

The system has failed Cristian and his family innumerable times. His mother (charged with aggravated manslaughter in David's death) was 12-yrs-old when she gave birth to him. His biological father has been absent since serving time for sexual assault of Cristian's mom. At age two, Cristian was found wandering naked in a hotel parking lot while he was supposedly in the care of his grandmother. The grandmother was charged with possession of drugs and neglect. Both Cristian and his mom went to foster care.

Last year, Cristian's stepfather committed suicide in front of the boys to avoid abuse charges for beating Cristian. When David's leg was broken in January of this year, Cristian's mom lied to hospital staff that it was a playground accident. She told Cristian to lie also. Nevertheless, the children were left home alone in March--David still in his cast--and Cristian beat his brother. His mother came home, found the boy unconscious, and appears to have deliberated for six hours before taking the still-unconscious child to the hospital. A doctor said David might've been saved if he'd received care more quickly.

By charging Cristian as an adult, the state of Florida forfeits this boy's life. Rehabilitation becomes a non-issue--why rehabilitate someone who will never be released? Is that even possible? How can anyone withhold from a 12-yr-old child, whom two forensic psychiatrists have determined is "emotionally underdeveloped but essentially reformable despite a tough life," the slimmest hope of redemption? Especially when no one has done right by that child, ever?

There is a petition on demanding that the decision to try Cristian as an adult be overturned. (see the last link above)

There is a Facebook page devoted to Cristian's case.

This is Cristian.

cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (book)
The Brightening Glance: Imagination and Childhood by Ellen Handler Spitz

p. 54 "Children...keep secrets from their parents for a variety of reasons, one of which is to maintain and preserve their own psychic boundaries. Consider how many children endow their mothers with a sixth sense--an uncanny ability to know all about them before they know for themselves. Thus, an aura of surveillance may seem to exist even under the most benign of circumstances, and many children, as a consequence, feel the need to hold fast to the slippery knowledge that what is inside their heads is in fact private and unknown to others."

And yet my daughter still fibs to me.

p. 67 "[Mr.] Rogers never loses sight of the fact that what he offers on his show is being received by thousands of children within their own private playing and sleeping spaces...To be invited into such hallowed spaces requires respect for their sanctity as havens and for their diversity."

a) Spitz made me cry with her detailed analysis of Mr. Rogers' show helping children to cope with death. I felt his loss more deeply than ever. What a gentle genius he was, what an incredible, compassionate teacher.

b) The "sanctity" of my daughter's living space lasted until she was perhaps three. By the time she was old enough for PBS Kids, we were teaching her to view with a critical eye anything coming at her from books, tv, news, and movies. Home is still her safe haven, but because storytelling is so huge a part of my life, we are always pushing Tweetie to deal with challenging, even frightening material. Children grow up fast. I think the notion of "allowing" the media into our "private space" is dated and not all that helpful--although I have told Tweetie, "You're the boss of the technology. It's not the boss of you."

I didn't think Spitz quite honed her conception of who the audience was for this book. On the one hand, she spent what felt like a lot of time at the beginning of the book explaining the importance of art and "high" cultural experiences in childhood, and spent the last chapter of the book explaining that art and imagination are necessary to all careers, even (gasp!) those in the sciences. On the other hand, she tosses off allusions to specific artworks that I can't imagine non-artists are familiar with. I've read Ionesco, and I didn't get the rhinoceros joke. She probably dialed it down as much as she could.

As a writer, I didn't really need Spitz's bookend explanations. What I found useful were her chapters "What Is Too Scary?", which provides in-depth analysis of Bambi and the aforementioned episode of Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood, and "Children's Rooms, Sites of Refuge, and Being Lost"-- the "being lost" section, incidentally, was quite helpful to me last night as I suppressed my urge to kill my husband for not calling home when he was two hours late. :D

cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (lennon cat)
 I mean, aside from the fact that I woke at 5:30 this morning and went ahead and got up at 6:00. I'm certain I'll regret this later, when Tweetie's raring to go and I'm falling asleep.

Tweetie has a bunch of brain teaser cards that includes picture puzzles of the "Can you find the five things that are wrong in this picture?" variety. When we went through the first one, she rattled off the "wrong" things faster than I could count.

"The kite is a piece of cheese. The girl has an apple on her hat. The fence post is a crayon. The flower is upside down. There's a cup in the nest."

"But," I said, "what about the fact that it's a cat flying the kite? And he's walking on two legs? And what's wrong with an apple on her hat? People wear flowers and feathers and bows and birds on their hats..."


"I'm just saying. I'm sure you're right, those are the things they meant you to find, but how do you KNOW what's wrong with a picture like that?"
I dropped it and we went on to the next teasers. But it really is weird. How do we "know" what is "wrong" in a picture that is obviously fantastical? I have a friend whose job includes thinking of all the ways a child might logically misinterpret test questions. I bet he'd ask all the same things I did regarding the "wrong" things. And it reminds me of the last time I looked at a Mensa test. More than one way to answer some of the questions, but only one answer was considered correct, with no partial credit given for alternate answers. (Perhaps not coincidentally, Mexicans use the word mensa to mean stupid, fem.)

Less abstractly, [ profile] silknoir wrote a "what's wrong here?" entry about a Nebula-award-winning story that is now up for a Hugo:
Less disturbing, the other night I watched The Mechanic, which triggered a bit of a "what's wrong with this picture" moment for me. The star is Jason Statham and normally I would've been salivating over him. Statham turned in a competent performance, but I found the suspense defused by his typecasting. (The same problem I had with Bruce Willis in RED. Of course nothing will harm him; he's the bullet-proof hero.) Instead, I was blown away by Ben Foster.
For one thing, I'm used to seeing Foster--who grew up in Fairfield, Iowa, and practices transcendental meditation--looking fairly clean-cut and sweet. Here he was incredibly skeevy. I believed him as a maybe-recovering druggie with a death wish. He has an absolutely brutal fight scene with Jeff Chase. Foster is listed as 5'9" and Chase as 6'7", and the film really plays up the difference in height and bulk. At one point Chase repeatedly smashes Foster between a steel refrigerator door and a stacked stone wall. I was squirming on the couch, squealing, "Oh, baby, get out of there!" (I often say "oh baby" when I'm cringing for the good guy during a fight scene.)
That scene was the only one that made much of an impression on me. o_O

So, tell me about your recent "What's wrong with this picture?" moments...
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (book)
Perusing my tumblr dash this morning, I found a picture of this house of books:

children's playhouse constructed of discarded library books

And I exclaimed, "That's my house!" Actually, it's a playhouse in the children's section of our public library. Tweetie loves to drag a huge stuffed Clifford in there and read. Now her skool library is collecting books to make one of their own.


cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (Maggie with Coffee)
One of Tweetie's favorite shows is "Martha Speaks," about a dog who gains the power of speech by eating alphabet soup. Yesterday the show ran through a bunch of Greek myths, including the stories of Sisyphus, Medusa, King Midas, Prometheus, Narcissus, and Orpheus. The show was pretty amusing, but something was nagging me. Something I'm all-too-familiar with from discussions of American Indians in early education.

As the show ended, I casually asked Tweetie, "You do know Greece still exists, right? And there are still people called Greeks?"  

"What?! Really?!"

"Yeah," I said. "You want to see it on a map?" To wikipedia!

She was astounded to see the 6000 islands and islets of Greece, and the country's flag. (She's interested in flags because we've been looking at state flags in preparation for our upcoming road trip.)

Tweetie decided she wanted to perform plays based on Greek myths, like in "Martha Speaks." She asked if we had a book of Greek myths. I had to admit, no we did not. But! I pointed out, we had books of Chinese fairy tales, Pakistani fairy tales, and the adventures of the Mayan twins Hunapu and Xpalanque. She storyboarded the Sisyphus and Prometheus stories, then the one about how the twins' father and uncle ended up in the underworld (Xibalba; mostly to please me, I suspect), and lastly a story of her own about a confrontation between bull and man that does not end well. She roped her dad and me into helping her stage Sisyphus, and she threatens to perform Prometheus tonight.  

She's epic, man, but it tires me out. 
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (bruised)
 This morning I was feeling like a bad mom. A lazy, indulgent mom. Last night we had dessert for dinner. Tweetie had apple pie, ice cream, cashews, and mango. This weekend she went to a party and at home she watched too many episodes of Smallville and even sat through Pitch Black with me. Last week she got sent to the principal's office for using her scissors on her clothes, and my first instinct was to blow it off. I didn't, but I really had to exert myself to give a damn. It's not like she was cutting herself, or her classmates.

So I've been feeling like a weird slacker mom and this morning as I tried to get Tweetie to center herself and get into the school zone, I thought I had done her a disservice this past week and she was going to have a rough time getting back in line.

After the bell, I stood chatting with another mom in the parking lot. We heard a man yell. He yelled at someone like I've only ever yelled at people I wanted to drop dead. I looked around baffled. I finally realized, he was dropping off his son and was yelling at his son.

The boy walked into school crying.

I don't feel like such a bad mom anymore.
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (bruised)
Protest Poetry

Yesterday's anti-war poem was written from the perspective of a parent facing down the prospect of her child--any child, in fact--being drafted and sent to war. Today's poem is, on the surface, less protest than resignation and horror. It is the nigh-unimaginable anguish, delivered in such unsentimental fashion, that inspires me to wage peace.

Things I Hope You Still Don't Know
 to my son

by Ruhama Weiss
transl by Barbara Goldberg and Moshe Dor 

That someone in the world wants to kill you.
That there's not much we can do.
That it's not a given we'll always have a place to escape to.
That I was about your age when I learned a house doesn't really provide safety.
What helps me fall asleep.
That maybe you will not reach my age.
That it's possible you will kill children.
That what we saw today on TV was not pretend.
That the history I know does not offer comfort.
That you have no idea how scary it can be.

Because this is a poem in translation (the first of several to come) from a language I do not know, I  hesitate to perform a crit. But I notice a devastating symmetry: one line delivers an awful truth, the next line makes it worse; repeat; the "What" deviation suggests the trusted adult has already been poisoned or broken by this life under siege; the awful truth and its worse sibling; repeat; a final deviation that implies we can't yet imagine the scope of the horror. Thus the poem proceeds from inner to outer, personal to public, near to far.
For me, the worst moment is contemplating that my child may grow up to be a killer of children. Something deep in my gut just curls up in refusal at the very thought. It's so wrong. It can never come to pass. I won't let it.
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (asskicking boots)

Allergies kicked my ass yesterday, so now I'm a day behind. Eh, 's all good.

Protest Poetry

I'm leery of calling Lennon's "Imagine" a protest song, because it's not about any one thing. It's more of a manifesto, I guess. I think of protest poetry as targeting a specific problem. But "Imagine" makes a good segue for the the three poems I've chosen as protest poetry, all of which are anti-war.

an excerpt from "Animal Origins"

by Joanne Dominique Dwyer (2009)

At sixteen my son smells of pot and cigarettes;
of pine sap and wolf cubs.
Yet he's rolling and spraying on
all kinds of products to hide his scent--
as if to camouflage his existence.

I count the day until he turns eighteen
and imagine myself smuggling him across a border;
burying him under blankets.
I would douse and dab and spritz
my body with any animal's genitals
and the oil of one thousand crushed violet petals
to distract the border guards.
Truth be told, I'd don or swallow
any noxious Fifth Avenue fragrance,
skin or spear any endangered animal.
Rip open my womb and stuff 
him back inside if I have to
in order to prevent my son--
or yours--having to go to war.
The sense detail in this section is incredible: rich and immediate (and eventually) merciless. I especially love that she starts with scents, which are sorely underrepresented, and conjures textures from them. Can't you just smell this teenage boy?
Dwyer does some interesting things with unnecessary semicolons and truncated sentences, but the em-dashes really seal the deal on the conclusion to her poem. I can imagine most mothers getting that visceral and ruthless about protecting their own children, but knowing the narrator will do that for anyone's child? Wow.
Tomorrow's poem will also be from the perspective of a parent, but take a very different approach.
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (happy pug tongue)
Childhood Poems

This is a hand-clapping game song we used to sing in grade school. I sing it to my daughter now, who likes it for one obvious reason.

CeCe my playmate
come out and play with me
and bring your dollies three
we'll have cakes and tea
Slide down my rainbow
in through my cellar door
and we'll be jolly friends
forever more more more

I think I liked the novelty of the images as a child. I never played teaparty--it never occurred to me and I didn't have adults who'd suggest it--and we didn't know anyone with a cellar, and I *knew* the word "jolly" but never had a chance to use it in casual conversation. (To this day, I'm told I use words and phrases that people say they've only ever seen in books.) As an adult, I like the creepiness: Come into the cellar? Forever? Cue the twins from The Shining.

the Grady Twins from the movie The Shining
Google reveals several different versions of the song. Here are some from Beeker's Words. (
Ce Ce my playmate.
Come out and play with me,
and bring dollies three.
Climb up my apple tree.
Slide down my rainbow,
into my cellar door, and
we’ll be jolly friends,
forever more, more, more

Say, say oh playmate,
Come out and play with me,
And bring your dollies three,
Climb up my apple tree.

Slide down my rain barrel,
Into my cellar door,
And we’ll be jolly friends...FOREVER, Mwa-haha-haaaa!

Okay, just kidding with that last part. Did you sing a version of this song as a child? What other clapping or jumping songs do you remember?


cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (bruised)

Childhood Poems

In a Rolling Stone interview, Bruce Springsteen talked about his father: "I think if you weren't really close with someone, particularly children, the way they become close with that person is you take on their personality, you take on an imitation. The subjects I was drawn to, the issues I was moved to investigate, the clothes I wore, wear...when I  went to work, I really went to work in my dad's clothes..."
The first time I read "My Papa's Waltz" by Theodore Roethke (RET-kee), it immediately clicked for me. I was so much that child, caught up in the father's dance, desperately joyously deliriously hanging on, trying to keep up, to copy my father's steps. In mirroring his movements, the line between He and Me blurred: who was drunk, who was battered and who scraped, whose hand caked with dirt? I swam in his clothes, his belt buckle at my ear, but I wanted it, because I wanted to be close to him. That this dancing bear was, at best, a rose-colored version of my father was unfortunate but beside the point. This was a version I could live with.

My Papa's Waltz 

by Theodore Roethke (1948)

The whiskey on your breath
Could make a small boy dizzy;
But I hung on like death:
Such waltzing was not easy.

We romped until the pans
Slid from the kitchen shelf;
My mother’s countenance
Could not unfrown itself.

The hand that held my wrist
Was battered on one knuckle;
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.

You beat time on my head
With a palm caked hard by dirt,
Then waltzed me off to bed
Still clinging to your shirt. 


cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (bruised)

Childhood Poems

My mother introduced me to the work of Edgar Allan Poe early in my childhood. I imprinted on "Annabel Lee" and it's been my favorite poem of Poe's ever since. I love that it honors a deep, abiding true love--indeed, a love that was more than love--between children, rather than dismissing the attachment as "puppy love." And I see too a rare respect for the heartbreaks of childhood, the recognition that one can suffer a tragedy early in life from which one never recovers. 

"Annabel Lee" was Poe's last completed poem.

Annabel Lee

by Edgar Allan Poe (1849)

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
I and my Annabel Lee—
With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
Went envying her and me—
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we—
Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in Heaven above
Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea—
In her tomb by the sounding sea. 

Brain Dump

Oct. 11th, 2010 09:42 am
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (garcia)
The song stuck in my head: I Will Follow You into the Dark, Death Cab for Cutie, especially this verse:

In Catholic school as vicious as Roman rule
I got my knuckles bruised by a lady in black.
And I held my tongue as she told me
"Son, fear is the heart of love."
So I never went back.

Notes from my morning walk: Robins are very busy right now. Our town is so liberal that when I see Republican signs on people's yards, I feel betrayed. There's a sweet chamomile scent in the air (dry leaves?) that reminds me of the long yellow seed pods from mesquite trees that my brother and I used to suck on. They tasted like honey.

We spent the weekend in Chicago. One thing we did was take Tweetie to Legoland. I think she had a good time, but she has absolutely no interest in building. Not robots, cars, fire stations, doll houses, horse stables, nothing. It's not a Lego thing, either. She looks at me like I've sprouted a second head whenever I suggest she get out her train set or cars and build a town for them. Which is odd to me, because I remember constructing elaborate townscapes and race tracks and all when I was little. But maybe that was a self-protective measure I came up with because my brother was obsessed with Hot Wheels and that was the only way to "play" together.

What Tweetie chose from the gift shop was two foam swords. I thought the BOGO deal was so the kid would have someone to spar with, but Tweetie uses both (like Lion-O in Thundercats, she says). She's surprisingly graceful with them. JJ is re-organizing her toys right now and has observed, "She really likes sticks."

cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (drink me)


The house looks ready to take off
as suburb queasy as the kids
smoking around its empty hot tub.
Sunset glints off the solar panels
like its butterfly roof is flexing
and in its greenhouse foyer, a ficus
quivers from the bass of the highway.
Gone tomorrow, what will they leave behind?
An opalescent dust of discarded scales
and unrepentant apology, half a garden fence
for missing-kid fliers.
We'll miss them, anyway.
They'll try to forget us.


Based on photos of the RainShine House in Decatur, GA, which received the Grand Award for Custom Home (of less than 3,000 sq ft) from Custom Home magazine.

cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (Default)


blue apron daubed
with flour clouds, meringues
for dirty cherubs



Dec. 23rd, 2009 10:01 am
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (piggy xmas)

Fresh-cut snowflakes
blizzard our rooms, close as two
Texas kids can get.

cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (neon sign)
Update at [ profile] karnythia 's!


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