On Eraser Dust

When I decide that a mistake has been made and words must be replaced, I turn to you — bendy rubber popped in top of pencil. Off peel minuscule graying shavings of rubber, littering the page. Seeing only curling cruel wisps of embers eating away my paper with an apathetic lick of acrid murky smoke, my hand strokes compulsively, fiercely, urgently, until every last one has vanished into the jungle of the floor. So instead, I scribble rogue verbiage into obscurity.

On Ice Cream Truck Music

Tasting snowy, sugary smoothness; running a finger along the stable, synthetic shimmer — signal my subconscious to start singing the songs of spurious juvenile joy. Paint peels from the cheery welcome gracing the graying cream metal wall, matching the disheartened features of the slouched driver, the dull tones now bouncing against my skull in monotonous motion. For my youthful counterparts, the echoing, arcing, dipping rainbow extols a long-awaited treat, in a world where boundless energy quickens the clock of each day, but a year could not seem more infinite. I sigh; those tunes linger so much longer than the happiness they imply.

On Vultures

I smell it before I see it. Is it the aroma of life’s end, heralded by the nettled whine of the turkey vulture? They are jet-black shadows spiraling the peak of the pine, wings offering clouds of deadly kisses. The spell is shattered by the droppings that splatter on the concrete, today, yesterday, this week, this year, this century. They hang unavoidably present in the spring air that wafts into my mouth as I step cautiously beneath the smirking tunnel of trees that decides whether to protect or target me. I hope that my head is not in the way as dark kites glide in circles above, taking aim with their droppings.

On Leaf Blowers

Dusty whine drifts through shut glass. Breath whooshes from my pursed lips in a resigned sigh. Leaves swirl from pavement, whoosh, in tiny tornadoes, taunting. Tired, they settle obediently into decaying piles against the senescent wood of the stolidly observant fence. There they lie, limp; the arrogant breeze swooshes closer, burying them under more of their kind. Endlessly, the fluid army of burning gas sprints through its plastic tunnel, dispersing leaves with military dynamism and burying my ears beneath its droning tone. In unison, the shadowed compact tunnel and my fatigued chapped lips exhale sweaty exasperation once more.

On Sisters

Eager arms encircle my waist, squeezing tightly. We circle the house, shrieking with laughter. I shriek with angst as she lets slip a petty secret. I slip, fall, trying to chase her, yelling, cheering. We cheer each other on, arms pumping air with carefree grace. My arms catch, wrap around, spin her off the ground. The ground finds my backside as I collapse on the familiar carpet, legs straight up, her belly balanced precariously on my feet, arms flying free. My legs resist sitting back down in front of the blank screen, fingers tightly squeezing the keys.

On Nothing

What did you do? What do you want to do? What are you feeling? What is inside? What is outside? What is here, or there, or anywhere? What was said; what was explained; what was taught; what was included in instructions? What do you know? What should I tell them? What will they say? What happened? What does anyone want to hear from me?