Can you believe it’s already summer solstice this month? And that 4th of July is sprouting these white tents filled with explosives for thirteen year old boys to use in their neighbors driveways. Ahhh the terror, must make more lists.
Sometimes even the ugly things about cities can be beautiful. PS. See that blue and yellow umbrella through the crack of metal, I crave those hotdogs in my sleep.
Mom took a box to my hair earlier this week for extra highlights. She’s a natural red head, and due to my weird brownish blondish hair with red highlights sometimes I need a quick spruce up. I think of it like I’m a flower who needs to be watered. Corny?
“Oh, you don’t want me to lick this giant magnifying glass at the end of a museum day that other people have to use, and believe me, have used, all day. Oops,” – my nephew.
I’ve always been that girl who says “I don’t want flowers because they just die.” Why was I that girl again? Flowers die in the prettiest ways because they bloom and thrive first. These roses are “Mount Everest” roses and they die looking like paper with black creases in the petals. My boy knows that even my flowers need to be bookish (Hah).
So, Raleigh has this chocolate shop. And that’s the end of that story.
I made new earrings last week for my future English Teacher status. If you would like a pair, I can definitely make some – I have a few extra scrabble beads and would be happy to send them out. Just email me if interested.
Plus, here’s a poem:
Hymn to the Neck
|by Amy Gerstler|
Tamed by starched collars or looped by the noose, all hail the stem that holds up the frail cranial buttercup. The neck throbs with dread of the guillotine's kiss, while the silly, bracelet-craving wrists chafe in their handcuffs. Your one and only neck, home to glottis, tonsils, and many other highly specialized pieces of meat, is covered with stubble. Three mornings ago, undeserving sinner though she is, yours truly got to watch you shave in the bath. Sap matted your chest hair. A clouded hand mirror reflected a piece of your cheek. Vapor rose all around like spirit-infested mist in some fabled rainforest. The throat is the road. Speech is its pilgrim. Something pulses visibly in your neck as the words hand me a towel flower from your mouth.
This moth has it goin’ on, sister.