Tuesday, March 18, 2014
Erotics In The Snow
In the end what's going to kill me is that Brevard has nowhere to eat. I'm talking about a Tuesday night when you've both worked all day, the dishes haven't been done, the kids are cranky about their homework and you woke up to dog poop on the kitchen floor. This is a crucial juncture in the life of a family. This is a make or break moment here. Everything hangs in the balance and BOOM. You don't have a Chipotle. Eternity spins out before you. It makes you dizzy and you fall down. You wake to phantom scents of guacamole.
Spring came but it's over now. The blooms are all here, oh how cute, let's wax poetic. I dreamed of crocuses in the snow--what a feat, I'll text my sister. But before autocorrect can chance "crocus" to "erotic", they're dead. They are drowned in the freezing rain. The birds chirp to a gray sky. Sylvia Plath writes sonnets in her grave.
I really did have a dream though. I hate when people tell me about their dreams, so here you go: the moon was made of wax and bees were filling it with honey. I was worried about those bees, up in space, but they seemed to be doing all right. This is the part of the post where I'm supposed to make meaning but who can? It's fucking March and my hair is short. I'm having lots of trouble with the passage of time. It keeps me up at night. I blinked and bees were on the moon. I blinked and spring was gone.
You know what I'm saying.