Tag: thoughts

Random Musings

Back to Square 23.

by Life With InterestLeave a Comment on Back to Square 23.

Will you ever learn? No. But you can grow.

You’ve forgotten you’re a creaky old kettle wasting away on the stove. Boiling over. Boiled over.

Someone turned on the gas. High. You didn’t notice.

You were too busy trying not to crumble.

So here you are. Ashamed you’ve spilt. No. Flailed steaming liquids everywhere around you.

It was clearly a mistake. But what can you do when that fire’s going?

It isn’t until all that’s inside you has evaporated into steam, and you are left hollow, that you can make any sense of it.

But in time, too much time, you eventually learn to accept your archaic kettleness, cracks and all.

You realize you may not control the fire but you can subtly shift where your passion explodes.

You can cause havoc or create justice.

You must get in control of the magma inside. It’s powerful and impolitely poetic.

Trying to clean up your mess is futile.

Just dig deep and study your cracks and tilt at just the right angle. Be prepared to boil over. And accept you will always make steaming messes, so they might as well be productive ones.

Poetry & Poetrish

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by Life With InterestLeave a Comment on ,

Commas are inherently erotic. In otherwise coherent forward momentum, your mind unwillingly submits, bound by forced pause, chained by assertive mark. Your inertia is held, back, ,back from gratification, that desire for completion, and completion is,

Random Musings

Cappuccino.

by Life With InterestLeave a Comment on Cappuccino.

Alabaster froth with a light dusting of sienna cinnamon sways and bubbles in my cup to the beat of every keystroke. I’ve added enough time to my parking meter to keep me here until forever (or at least morning), which is what I’d like to do–forget about all of my responsibilities and wander city streets as a nobody, buzzing from all of the caffeine I’ve ingested to secure seats at a series of coffee shops with soft jazz music playing and people doing all the things they might do at a cafe — working, connecting, philosophizing, thinking.

A succint sip scalds my tongue and warms my lungs. Bitter. I accidentally make eye contact with someone telling a dramatic story about a police chase. I quickly look down. Back into my own world. Where I belong. Watching. Waiting. What have you.

I wonder what it’s like to be connected. Not that most people here are. I lock eye contact with another woman, who is sitting at one of those awkward large tables designed for strangers to silently sit at and do work. We both look down and never look at each other again.

I’m a double espresso topped with foam and hot milk. Or maybe I’m just the foam. Just the froth.

Frothy.

I need more substance. Sadness has a stronghold on me this week. But it’s tinged with secret hope. With flickers of the past jolting my mind like the lightning bugs rhythmically electrifying the heavy late July night air. In the desolate darkness, there is still latent light. I taste it on my tongue. I swallow it in my shadow as my body pulses with the need to believe there must be something greater than redundant redundancy.

Motherhood. There’s that. That’s new. I enjoy it. I love my son. He’s becoming a person. I teach him things. He teaches me how to be more than myself.

Another sip. I’m a horrible coffee drinker. It’s usually way too hot when I take my first sip and cold by the second. I should be banned from ordering hot beverages.

I should drive home. I should do more work. I should drink this cappuccino.

Instead, I hone my ears into individual conversations. I try to know people I won’t know before I never know them again.

I’m just sitting here seeking scalding stimulation.

I’m just sitting here sipping life lukewarm.