Motion SicknessWhen I get carsick, people tell me to stare at the horizon. The horizon never moves; well, spontaneously, anyway. Stare at one tower, one rooftop, one mountain. And then I'll be ok.More Like This
But the problem with Washington is that there really is no horizon. There are trees. Lots and lots of trees. Not that I have anything against trees, mind you. Just when they're whizzing by – swoosh, swoosh, swoosh – my nausea gets worse with every tree.
I sigh, averting my eyes from the window. My CD player skips as the bus slides to an unsteady halt, dumping off one more teenager. Despite her questionable approach to transportation safety, I like my bus driver. She is middle aged, with a pointed witch's nose and eyes just as sharp. She laughs at the sophomores' perverted jokes and kicks them off the bus for it without blinking. I would love to get to know her, but insecurity drives a wedge in my plans. Unfortunately, I am half in love with her son.
I say half because some segment of me is still confused ab
Silent Flowers Are BetterThe other day I heard the strangest thing my flowers, you know the ones underneath my kitchen window, were arguing with each other. The roses were rioting rather loudly, and the petunias were pouting. The yellow daffiolds were yelling and the pansies were prejudicially talking. The tulips were thoughtless to the other's feelings and the sunflowers were sardonic. Only the marigolds were mature, though they were very melancholy as well.More Like This
I went outside and asked "Why are you fighting?" "Because they won't admit that I am the most beautiful!" They all screamed so loudly in unison that it caused me to wince. I tried to reason with them that no flower was better than any other, but they would have none of it. For many hours I kept trying to reason with them before giving up. You see I wanted to keep my sanity, which I certainly wouldn't have if I had kept trying to reason with them.
The fight w
Time MachineTime Machine</i>More Like This
You telephoned today,
So I stood gaping, like a kite with a hole, letting
The flowers wilt at the corner of my mouth, which
Was a crack from which small sounds escaped. You see,
This time machine is sputtering with a broken radiator, a timepiece
That started out fast until a spring came loose and now the minute hand
Stalls on every fourth heartbeat, and I am
Caught unawares, wearing old socks like a bad portrait of Georgia O Keefe
Eloquence was never found behind couch cushions or in drawers.
My heart is an oak tree in a flower pot.