The Opposite of Road Rage

The Opposite of Road Rage

The traffic lights dangle from their wires
like children on the monkey bars. Two boys,
fourteen or fifteen, skateboard past me
furtively, pass a cigarette between them
like a joint. It is a joint. They don’t want
to be caught, but they do want to be noticed.
They misbehave conspicuously. I toy
with what I could say to them, whether
I would play parent or teacher or lunch lady
or babysitter or cool aunt, or woman smiling
and waving in her car as they yell and wave
from the window of their school bus. This world
is friendly when we program it to be. The ATM
thanks me. The gas pump shouts hello. Leaving
any store, I look down at the receipt I have
been handed, and so do you, just to check
that things happen the way we think they do.

Audio: Interview at Spoonful

Recently, I had the pleasure of being interviewed by Anthea Krook, Editor of the delightful Spoonful Magazine (she's also a talented artist/designer/singer/creative mind). I've known Anthea since 2008 thanks to the wonderful world of the internets, but never spoken to her "in-person" (read: via Skype) before--it was so natural and enjoyable. I'm so thankful to her for her support and vision, and to everyone I've connected with through this blog.

Hope you like the interview (this is a great new podcast, so stay tuned for future installments from Anthea). In it, we talk about my family, my work (teaching and some of my various editing projects, including video game strategy guides!), the sprained ankle that led to my marriage, publishing and strategies for sharing creative work (shout out to Nic Sebastian and her nanopress model), and, inevitably, ice cream. Happy weekend!

Virgin Ears

Virgin Ears

Pardon my French, my language,
the expletives that have selected
this moment to show themselves,
so enthusiastic and unladylike.
Pardon me, forget what I said,
let me unzip the air between us
and let my words get sucked out
into the galaxy’s gaping maw.
Pardon the partition. I’ve placed
it between us for your protection,
you can pretend to be there when
you aren’t, absorptive as silence.
Pardon my trespasses, and also
the jaywalking incidents in which
I was so clearly at fault, scaring
the pants off the driver of that car.
Pardon me for my failure to RSVP,
for not répondez-ing in a timely
manner more befitting of someone
at the mercy of the great athlete, time.
Pardon me a thousand times over
what you think I would require
as far as forgiveness goes, round
up, be generous, Southern accent.
Pardon me for deciding what
you want and do not want to hear,
for assuming that you have never
encountered bad manners before.

Mail Pouch

Mail Pouch

After the painted words wash away
from the side of a barn,
the wood still says Chew MAIL POUCH
Tobacco where the letters
had held on for fifty years, talking
to the road, to cars driving
and not stopping. The barn remembers
the message that had shielded
it, as a wall recalls in ghostly outline
the framed pictures
that lived there so long. The wall and wood
used to look like the patches
beneath the paintings and paint, the places
where the material stayed
young for the longest. We open memories
like umbrellas, keeping them
until we can’t, when the shielded parts
of us step out and speak.

Paper Route

Paper Route

Two girls, one on either side of the street,
bulging canvas bags clinging to their backs
and slim shoulders. They might be sisters,
both with wavy brown hair, or only friends.
Acquaintances from school, one in fifth grade,
one in eighth. They could be strangers.
They know this route well, I can tell by how
they barely turn their heads to see the houses,
how they walk through the yards with purpose
and boredom, both. How old do we have to be
before we can complete a task absentmindedly.
Are we born with this ability, or do we teach
it to ourselves when life is long, when we are
young, when we eat what we dislike and plod
down hallways, going where we are instructed.
The girls reach into their bags, pull out a paper
rolled inside its thin plastic bag. They snap
their wrists, and each newspaper lands with
a crisp thud, the sound a strong fist makes
in movies punching someone weak and mean,
knuckles rapping cheekbones like front doors.