Can You Spare It?

Living so high

gives me nightmares of

 falling,

down

down

down,

and just before impact,

I don't wake up.

I lie there like a mutant,

absorbing my pain through my mouth,
like sucking the juice from a Sierra Lady.

Back at the dinner table,

elbows on bleached linen,

you're selecting a cut of

meat from the waiter's tray.

I figure my flesh is more to your taste,
so I lift my shirt and cut a sample from my ribs.

Crash Test Dummies

Wake up before you and hide the Golden books in the night stand,
wondering when exactly the Swiss
extract themselves from bed to turn the waterfalls back on.
Take me to the mountains in an elevator
and down a wooden slide requiring straddling, not sitting,
so we can lick the same salt as everyone else,
turned black with bacteria and dirty hand-oil;
why weren’t we afraid of diseases?

You’ll know where I am by my red bucket hat,
bobbing in the waves at a safe distance
between intermittent construction projects
requiring mainly sand and water,
with a splash of aesthetic spacing and height
and a touch of structural integrity know-how.
By the way, the Leaning Tower of Pizza is 1) not edible, and 2) did not have rails in the late eighties.

Step on a giant stick and it won’t stay stationary;
most likely it will jump up and gouge my leg,
but no matter—there are are bazillion ladybugs to catch in
little handines that pudgily encase them until they’re
deposited in a flat-red Ford Escort with squared edges.
Learn not to smear nasal excretions on walls, or
Miss Audrey will yell, “You know bedderendat!”
It’s okay though, she still loves me and I’m the only one
she calls her daughter,
and for a few years I’m black by day.

The middle of the toast is best, all juicy with butter.
I’ll eat the crusts to make you happy and
feel like a good mother.
Just promise me we can get ice cream sandwiches from 
the machine that only sells ice cream sandwiches 
so they’re sure not to run out.

Ich bin nicht tot!

It's been forever since I've done anything on here, and it's not because I'm dead. Because I'm not. Obviously.

This is my third term straight taking 16 credit hours and working (on average) 30 hours per week. The first term wasn't so bad, since I was completely gung-ho about returning to school, but the second was the cause to a slight crack in my sanity, and now in the third...let's just say that if I don't get a break soon, the little brothers in "The Wedding Singer" will be taunting me with, "Cuckoo's nest! Cuckoo's nest!"

I have a paper I need to rewrite this evening (yes, I've had it for a week, and yes, I'm waiting till the last minute and instead writing on here), but of course have all fare of other things that need to get done. Dinner, for instance. Food would be good. Kyle and I are trying our best to behave when it comes to healthy foods and healthy portions (a mess-load of pasta at 9:30 p.m. when I get home from work is not conducive to either energy levels or weight management). And there's laundry. Not to mention the general state of the house. We have a magnet at work that says, "A clean house represents an unfulfilled life" (or something to that extent). I think I need this magnet. But I would sure like the full life and a clean house. Oh, one of these days...when I only have work to worry about, rather than work and school.

I feel like I need some sort of outlet for all the things I want to say, and my busy schedule simply doesn't allow it right now. It also doesn't help that we're now Netflix-Wii addicts (Netflix movies streamed to your TV via the Wii) and Kyle's started watching "Lost" for the first time, and I feel like I have to experience it all over again with him. Ha.

I'd better get back to the kitchen! My man was kind enough to offer to run to Ray's and grab me a replacement Lambic for the one I dropped in the street while unloading groceries from my car. It was a very sad experience and one a lover of Lambic should never have to experience.