The Art of Dramatic Living

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Instant Gratification: Buying Books Online

Okay most of you know I’m a book fiend. And I like immediate gratification. Which means I’m craving a Kindle, but that is the LAST investment I need to make right now. However, I can get immediate gratification from Audible.com. The only disappointment is that Audible doesn’t carry every book I want. And in order for the service to be worth its subscription, I really should be more consistent about loading my audio books onto my iPod and carrying the iPod with me.

Moving on
to the conclusion
of your story,
I was left in the middle;
a red herring romance,
an unfinished thread 
in your resolution.

I could write my own
beginnings,
middles
and ends, but
I have been
hanging out
in your story
for so long
I don’t know how
to begin.

Then make me an omission.
Let me avoid your
entanglements
and complications.
Leave me off here.
Let’s end this
little love story.

I have missed out on time.
The 4 has come and gone.
This 5 is packed.
I wedge my body between 2 elbows
and the door.
The deaf black boy cannot hear
Jamaica weaving out the radio.
If I sway out of sync with this ride,
The largest women will whisper,
“crazy, crazy” behind their bibles.
Men have giants and bulls
sitting on their heads.
They want me to move away.
Out of the way.
It’s this way
to town.

My father rides on
A bicycle built for two
Past mother’s garden.

He tips his hat towards her.
An empty seat follows him.

She is elbow deep
In mud and does not look up.
She is hoping for

Some green life to grow. She digs
Deeper and deeper. Nothing.

His black and efficiently small suitcase
is open on the dining room table.
He folds three pair of socks air force tight
and tucks them in.
Cigarette packs are layered
over boxers and white T-shirts.
He sits with his coffee and stares forward.
A one-eyed cat comes to have her ears pulled.
She purrs at him with her blind side,
jumps onto the table, crawls into his case
and curls herself tight.
The shower turns on in the bedroom.
It is his wife. The coffee is drained.
He drops the cat on the floor
and zips to leave.
At the door he yells, “Goodbye,”
to the woman still dripping in the bedroom.

My mother played piano.
And I, Isadora, would dance.
When our house caught fire,
I mimicked the flames with the arch of my body.
My mother stared solidly into the blaze.
She leapt only once,
when the piano peeled away from its legs
and twanged into a crackled chord.
When the song ended,
curls of dust rose in adagio and followed my lead.         

My spirit found its form in fire.
My dance ignited in sparks.
Now I spring past myself into your light.
I am your blink and your grasp
your leap up from the kitchen table,
the turn of your head to your lover’s voice.
My spirit is the static of your negligee
as the material clings.
I cling and you are lit.