Tarantula

I sat indian style,
in tattered cut offs,
dirty bare feet tucked under
opposite ankles,
and I colored in peace...

It was hot
and the rusty ceiling fan rattled
and tattled,
the incessent chirping of yet another thing broken,
hanging on,
hanging in there,
doing it's job.

I smeared colors.
Smudged them,
blobbed them
into irredescent
and muddy puddles,
convinced that when I stopped
an image would appear.

Mother Mary,
a Peace Sign,
anything that meant something...

I dipped the paint brush to my right,
in the stupid plastic Tiki Bar Cup...
and leaned towards the blue...
tainted water dripping on my knee...

and then she
waddled,
crab crawled,
out from under me...

The Tarantula.

Just give me peace.

And if I have to live with bugs...
send the butterflies
the dragonflies,
and
the praying mantis....

Pinnochio and other tell~tale stories

I was fat. A dumpling with cold black hair and an indian nose. I was a girl. Samalama Singleton. And my Father adored me.

He nub~nubbined my head, and pinched my nose, threw me in the air and caught me football style, just before I kissed the ground.

At four, my hair was blonde and he had squeezed my nose so many times, it had almost disappeared....

At ten, I ran face first into a concrete wall, sprinting out from under a Christmas tree....and set that nose straight again....broad and bumped...

And then I was 32. Exhausted. Sacked out on an empty living room floor. Two toddler loves waddling in circles around my head, little feet knotting my hair up in piles of angel speghetti on the Berber carpet. I closed my eyes. "Here we go round the merry go round, the merry go round, the merry go round".......

"Mama!" he said. A three year old's world breaking the rhyme. I opened my eyes just in time to see the bottom of his size four pretend Nike's leap in the air. I closed them right before all 38 pounds of Boy jumped in the air and landed on my face.

Broader and bumped again.

My nose grew and grew and grew.....

When my soldier left for war, I bit my bottom lip . I couldn't let him see me cry. Not out the airplane window. I waved and smiled. Turned. Ran.

I kissed the door head on. Knocked myself out silly.

Six months later, the black eyes faded....and the bump was all but gone. I had the most perfectly straight broken nose anyone had ever seen.

When I tell the story, sometimes people think I'm fibbing.....
But I'm not....
It's broken, always has been.

Only now I can crinkle it.
Wrinkle it.
Screw it up in a magical "I dream of Jeannie" spell....

If you don't believe me, ask Skinny....

Upside down and backwards.....

I don't believe in clocks.

I mean I have them, and they work. They tick. But they're all set on different times. The bedroom clock is on Saturday time. One hour and forty minutes faster than the DJ on the radio says it is....That's because, Monday through Friday, I want dozens of opportunities to hit the snooze button and not be interrupted by that bolting, panicked fear, that I actually have overslept. And when I finally roll over, crawl across the sheets, and swat it for the last time, I want enough time left over to drink two cups of coffee, stare out into space, color on the porch if I'm so inclined, and wait until the very, very last moment to get in the shower and fly out the door. On the week-ends I want to wake up to the sun beating through the windows, and at least "think" I slept in.

The kitchen clock is one hour fast. Just because. I don't believe in giving away hours or getting them free. I've never understood daylight savings time, and I sure as hell don't want to give it back. The clock on the microwave is right. He set it that way. I don't cook. So I never look at it. The digital baby in the car has been resetting itself back to midnight since the beach. I get in the car at midnight every morning. It ticks right along throughout the day and then jumps back to midnight every evening. Of course, I'm sure that "means something"......

Anyhow, really short story getting long, I had one of those mornings, when I really didn't care to guess what time it was, and I rolled out of the drive-way at midnight, nonetheless. The traffic was glorious. No bumping and beeping, no arms flailing out of dirty windows. Everyone just meandering down the road, listening to the Rolling Stones concert drifting from my windows.

Of course, I was really, really late for work. And all day I was off. I dropped things and smiled. I caught a mirror once and saw the reflection of Rod Stewart's earlier days in my bangs. I smiled and said "Good afternoon" all morning, and when I finally got it right, the sun was starting to tilt. I forgot to get gas. The car gurgled, but I didn't hear it.... Rolling Stones and all.....

I finally made it home.....
And no-one, not the first patient, not Chey, not the good Doctor himself had said a word to me all day. Not about my scrubs.....

The tags....

Inside out and backwards.....

You don't have to keep hittin' me in the head!

Ahhhh,
I slept in....
the first time in forever that I've wallowed in the sheets, soaking up 8 hours of almost dreamless sleep. It's a lazy, lazy world today.....

I sipped my coffee strong and slow, and filled the cup again. Watched the smoke patterns dancing from my cigarette, sky-writing in the space above the ashtray. I stretched. "What sweet diversion shall I come up with today?"......

And so, unshowered, and bed-headed I found my way to my favorite morning place, the painted porch. Parked my little buns down on the floor, indian style, amongst the sea of colored markers and pencils....and started to color.....

"Peace....", I smiled at the black and white lady on paper.....

That was right before the perfectly good bike flew off the perfectly sound wall and cold-cocked me in the face. Right before the collision sent my cup of iced tea flying across my lap, spray painting my drawing with caffiene and lining my cut-offs with ice cubes. Right before I saw stars...... Right before my neighbor pulled the bike off of me and slung it out the door like a rabid rattlesnake.....

That was one minute before my nose started bleeding. Five minutes before the fuscia eggs started growing on my forehead, one hour before the black-eye started staring back at me in the bathroom mirror.

I guess I won't be going out tonight....

And as for the bad, bad bike, well, Take that! My friend! You better hope it doesn't rain!

The Omen and other chic flicks

There are some things that just innately mean something else. Little intuitive omens on butterfly wings. “It’s a girl thing” “a psychic thing” “a psycho thing”. For about ten years I always blew a kiss to my car ceiling (hanging headliner flapping in the breeze) when I passed a one eyed car. You had to do this, you see, it brought good luck. I did this faithfully, for years, until I passed about 9 one eyed cars on a lonely stretch of highway being chased by a tornado…limbs cracking overhead, trash flying by the windows…

I used to groan and moan and go arrrrrggggghhh, when a black cat crossed my path, a childhood superstition, and then I had a black cat, who took up residency at my front door and not wanting to condemn myself to forever purgatory, I just got over it.

But there are still things I chink over, get a little thrill over, or a little chill over. Believe in. (ooops , can’t help myself, but I do) …little omens passing by….sometimes smiling…sometimes haunting….

A ring around the moon …. mischief stewing…
A dog whaling, I mean pitifully whining, howling to the tune of a distant siren…. that’s not good
Yellow butterflies, anywhere….hope, dreams, peace…you can’t wreck this one, I still BELIEVE
Hearing “Our song”…this one is wretched. For part of your life it is awesome, for the rest it is trashed, you want to hurl things. Live things. Don’t ever pick an “our song”, eventually it screws up the music forever.
Stopped clocks….I never pay attention to the time unless it’s stopped. And then I obsess over the hands, until they’ve passed the same place a gazillion times and I realize it has absolutely NO MEANING
Found pennies…As broke as I am, I still won’t pick one up if its not heads up
Broken love beads…I hate when that happens. Time freeze frames. Until I restring them and it starts again.
Ducks flying blindly into the hood of my car…another NOT GOOD thing
Tea stains on the kitchen counter….tarot cards by accident
Flying dreams….you don’t even want to go there
The sound of magnolia leaves rustling….Nana’s watching
SLB’s marbles….the meaning changes in the rain
Palm itching…I can never remember what this means, but it means something
Red Bird out the window…..blessed
Foot itching…run baby, don’t walk
Blue eyes…Nadine has been here, waving her wand, reminding me to pay attention
Smoke alarms…well, we all know what that means
Bird accidentally in the house…..ewwwwwww, not good
Sensormatic alarms… oh God, I left my vitamins in my purse again, and I’m going to be persecuted, prosecuted for shoplifting
“Can I see your I.D.?” ….. they have a bet going on
Toll free number…I should have picked up the pennies. I owe these people money
When the Bird of Paradise blooms…..Don’t worry about a thing, it’s all good

I don’t do horoscopes and no Ouija boards live here, but still….