In the Shade

In the shade of a pink flowering cherry, a red tulip survives. Underneath that densly branched tree, itself overshadowed by another, taller, light greedy pine, that tulip pushed a small yet, intensely glowing bloom. A miniscule rising sun; a beacon in the deep-green dark.
What little light she gets, is carefully saved; pennies and nickels, coupons and favors, she uses to survive. Not enough for a daughter, nor a showy crown. Just enough for a short-lived and intense spark.
She rejects no light. From the porch, a faint electric glow. Tall lamps that hover into the street. Passing cars and that light, the memories of summers, that fall at her waist. Brown leaves dropped and pine needles. From the cauldron of the earth she licks those trace drops. Saves. And hopes. And survives.

Dream Bubbles

The energy to dream comes to us by moonlight. Pale, flat lizards, white as night fog, gather the night light and digest it to send us the dream energy. The lizzards spread themselves thin on the ground, at night, growing thinner with every passing hour. They look like a mist that hugs the earth. They are softly resistant to the touch of our feet; like snow or beach sand.
As they gather the moon light, they begin to make bubbles that float into the houses of the sleeping people. The bubbles have eyes to see where to float and in the early morning hours, the bubbles fill the night sky, looking like children of the moon, nearly not there at all. They attach themselves to the forehead of the sleeping person and the smile of the lizzzard, the sense of ease, seeps into the body and a dance begins. The dream energy of the bubbles follows the need of the sleeper. The dreamer takes the clay-like energy and makes the figures and the setting and the audience. Then the dream begins and flows through the sleeper and back to the sky. The dream flows like a tendril vapor and freshens the moon before she slips into bed. She dreams of us, our days of work and lunches, comings and goings. In this endless dream, day and night, only the flat, white lizzzzards remain real. It is their delicate thinness and their easy smiles that gives them substance.

Channel Sights

A loose line of black birds stands solid at the water's edge. The birds are tipped forward and hesitant, as if deciding against diving in. The gray metal skin of the channel seems impenetrable and implacable; still and unruffled as those birds. Are they crows? What are they doing? Seagulls meander amongst them like beggers asking for spare change; searching and shy, looking for a friendly face.
The sight of the poised is so odd as to make me think I am seeing a modern art installation. Maybe the work of a famous landscape artist or a local unknown. Along with the excitement of witnessing a rare piece of art, comes disbelief; yet the little black statues are still, unmoving. Are those crows?
Further down the shore, two more loose groups of statues dot the distance. That's a lot of work, a lot of statues! But, that's the thing about artists; they do crazy shit and can be extravagant, packing a ton of time into a small space or manically manufacturing black bird statues, to place at the water's edge, at low tide, for no good reason at all.
Finally, I see one of the birds move. The illusion of artistic innovation and excess is shattered. I am back in the real world, the world of nature, where grand canyons and endless artic white are common.
Somewhere on a white canvas, a small black dot of an Inuit hunter is heading home. Home is past the edge of the blank canvas. Somewhere in a gray day landscape, next to the slash of a channel, a black dot writer is also heading home. Thinking of dinner and warmth, he and the hunter, both part of a painting in progress. They and those implacable birds, with meandering seagulls, asking for change.

The Old Woman and Her Garden

She had kept a garden all her life. With Love she walked into that realm and brought Love out; in the form of greens and flowers, herbs and vegetables. Her garden was an extension of her hands, the essence of it living in the cracks of her hands and refuged under her fingernails.
Her strength was the soul of the soil and to watch her tend the furrows and beds was like seeing the Love of ages in person; first Love matured with a half century of experience.
In the very back of her lot, beyond the tended rows, where she kept the compost piles, was a wild corner; a place she left alone, overgrown, dense with weeds and grasses, matted furiously, dank and dark. For those with eyes to see, the fertility of her garden spread from there, in the form of a rich compost and more; an essense, a primal command to grow, to reach into the sky. A command to expand that made the fruit of her hands a sweet, delicious harvest.
From that corner, spread a smile that brought a glow of contentment to all faces. From that wild corner rose an etiquette of such fine metal, that filaments of it wove themselves into the landscape, so that even the streets shone an irredescent star dust.From there, the earth exhaled a peaceful fertility, a satisfaction, that filled all the empty places....quieting gently the greedy yearnings for the unreachable.
The produce of that garden was sought by all. She grew for more than she could use and the excess she gave to friends and strangers alike. Those vegetables were heavy with goodness and began to nourish the body at first touch. A tomato held in hand spread a rosy glow that settled in the cheeks. Lettuce like a bouquet of roses, a gift for lovers and would-be lovers. Carrots pulled from the earth, like the glorious rising of the sun; snappy crunch good, smelling of soil and sky.
Even children who hated vegies were transformed into brousing appetites; recognition and hunger rising into their hands, eating with abandon; sweet tomatoes and succulent peas, carrots and cucumbers bursting juicy with the cool shade of hot August afternoons.
She loved her garden, as it too, loved her. If she slept in her bed, she never slept alone. Her garden, like a considerate lover crept through an open window or under the back door, climbing vine-like up the bed posts, under her covers and holding her in a gentle embrace throughout the night. The wild corner found the wildness in her and the two held hands, laughing loud and talking long in dreams that fell into her mind like heavy rain drops in a jungle night. Her dreams were of the impossible born into reality. Of watchful animals and powerful cats; big, strong and strange. Of smiling-knowing snakes and reptiles not yet living. The wildness in her danced with all wildness. Her garden, her friends and yet to be friends, all hold inside, in a distant corner, the source of life; The Wild.

A Talk with God

God? Hello? Hell-ooo! We have to have a talk, God. It's about money. Are you there? Silence. The silence of a drawn breath, the deep silence before an explosion of outroarious laughter. "You have money". He's chuckling. Oh, you smarmy bastard, I am so glad to bring some humor into your life. God, I have seven dollars and fifty three cents. No, I had seven dollars and fifty three cents until yesterday. Now I have five dollars and fifty three cents. More silence. I hate this waiting game. "What did you spend your money on?" What did I?--I bought a good cup of coffee! A bad cup of coffee costs a dollar seven. I wanted a good cup of coffee, so I had to pay extra. Silence. Coffee's not cheap, you know. Waiting. "You have plenty of money." I do not have plenty of money. I have--going through my pockets--five ones, a quarter, three dimes, a nickel and four pennies. Let's see that's five dollars and fifty, no---. Oh. I have more than I thought. I have five dollars and sixty four cents. That's all. "Seems like a lot." Seems like a lot? It's. Not. Alot, God. It's a lot of nothing. "You have more money, what about your tin. You have three hundred dollars in your tin. That's a lot." That's rent money! I am outraged. For next month! That's already spent! Waiting. "What did you have for dinner last night? Did you go to bed hungry, again?" The word 'again' is slimed over with sarcasm. You --- bastard. Don't pull this starving kids in Darfur bullshit on me. I went through that with the Ethiopian thing. I am broke. I need money. "What about the other tin?" Those are my laundry quarters. Those. Are. My. Lauuunn-dryy quarters. For doing laundry. That's what they are for. Laundry. I have to have clean clothes. "You have to -- Oh that's a good one--clean clothes. You, the biggest PIG since Porky, actually care about your appearance?" A Pig? Did he just call me a PIG? I'm not a Pig, I'm a damn good writer. I write. I'm busy writing. I write all the time. I get distracted, that's all. Well, OK-- So what if I am a PIG. I'm a damn good writing PIG. I am a broke Pig. I hope you are happy, you -- bastard. Silence. I look around at my pigsty. He's right, you know, maybe if I cleaned this dump up, money would come visit me more often. I need help. I need a helper. Quiet. I look at the missing, the chewing yearning inside of myself. The empty. The need and the deep empty. God, I'm lonely. I'm so, so lonely. Silence. God? Hello?