Learning to walk with scissors

Such a peculiar tool

Side by side swipe, sharp and jagged

Pierced, if one prefer

But becomes rusted and ragged

Ooh, to have that blade

Sharpened, heavy in its gauge 

A placement with exactness

Yearns for worthy usage

Such a peculiar tool

Stop, don’t race with it

Be sure to be equipped with it

The need may be infrequent

But, by design, the task complete

Even though you’d prefer to run

Stop, may it help you with your feat

Steadily your hand grasps tightly

Seeking to sever one’s seam

Trivial tool you thought

Shift another inch, torn asunder with a scream

Such a peculiar tool

Handle it with care

Keep learning to walk with scissors 

Gaze out the window, naked

Peering through the tightly pulled mesh

Sun ablaze

Flowers, rather dried reeds waver in the air

I sought to tell you of it’s beauty

And breathe it down deep

But when I became naked

I thought to throw it all away


The haze of cirrus clouds paint the pale blue sky

Sun ablaze 

Birds flying in yonder air

Breeze whisper through the woods

And I heard a little murmur

But that’s when I was naked

I stammered for the drawer


The beauty was too much

And, maybe, me too little

My mind racing fast

I peeled off more than my sweater

To peer through the window

It’s lovely, it’s divine

But if I can’t stand wholly, honest, true

All the pictures seem empty from inside


If it’s all the same to you

Riles what you once knew

I can see myself now

May I gaze outside the window, naked

Sun ablaze

Conversion 2.0

Convertible, top down (always.) I wasn’t going to be overly selective about whether it was a Z3 or a Miata as long as I could have the wind in my hair and the sun kissing my cheeks. Envisioning the top down and the pedal pressed tightly against the floorboard, full speed ahead without a glance at the passerbys or the signs before me. My capriciousness desired only to feel the earth’s canopy hugging my me-ness without restraint, or shame. Carefree, open. Clueless, maybe, as I considered the nuances that come with leaving the top down- too often.

In a little over a week, I’ll celebrate the doubling of the age that brought me new found independence with my driver’s license. I was the first kid in my blended family to pay for my own car. Even so, my father wasn’t too keen on his youngest daughter tooling around in a convertible. So, the Plymouth Sundance chose me, being that I could foot the bill for it.

It was nestled in the bay of a worn down car lot by the railroad tracks on Markland Avenue. I perused the lot, checking out price tags, searching for the one I could purchase with the $1800 I had been saving up since I started working at 14. After the salesman saw the look of disappointment on my face from the obvious selections. He shared that he was in the process of working on something that I might want to see. He  walked me toward the workshop and that lipstick red, blazing bright color brightened the gloomy grey of the day. I bought it. He hadn’t quite pounded out the scar on the passenger door before I drove it off the lot. It had all the necessary components, even with lacking a convertible top. Even with its imperfections, I filled it with the shrills of Glenn Danzig and the bumping rhymes of Snoop Dogg.

Damn it, I still haven’t had a convertible. Maybe that’s a good thing: I’m learning that the roof is quite functional. The shelter from the long winters, cold rains, and sometimes-unfortunately, the blistering sun makes for a sensible ride. Lessons showered on you release your foot from the gas. I’ve been switching over to the break more lately. Halting the elements in a convertible are more difficult. So that hard roof suits me for this and that. Until that convertible chooses me, I keep rolling down all the windows. The breeze has done me just right from where I sit.

 

Truly

It was a blanket statement I uttered. How I consumed you. Not knowing that I would be engulfed as well. I swallowed you bit by bit, but each piece was more than I could ingest– at this time.

Staring, stomping

Fretting, feeling

No remorse or recourse for the etchings of you on me.

How to lessen you in me

A venture I desire to bypass

What is right no one knows

Truly.