Forty-Fifth Paradox Writing

Strike, strike, strike

the match,

strike it hard,

light a blaze,

a supernova,

watch it shine,

glimmer and kill,

and watch it create

stars.

When you look at me
all you see is a
slow, suffering, gray, stooped-shouldered
woman who can barely walk,
is short of breath,
and moves every step slowly one at a time.
_________
Remember who I was before,
laughing, running,
butterfly-chasing child who
danced in the sunshine for the pure joy of it,
through the daises,
measures each step for strength,
and found each day unable to contain
the energy that spashed.
_________
Now you see me no more
but remember me. I am once again
picking flowers,
laughing, running, chasing
butterflies, unable to contain
the pure joy and energy splashing
through me as I dance
in eternity’s life with my
creator and savior of my life.

Note: Words in quotes are  said either by the members of Flatfoot 56, Project 86, or the fans at a recent concert in Portland, OR. Words in italics are my thoughts. Fifty percent of them should be read with sarcasm.  

One of these days I’m gonna raise a kid just like this guy did, and take her to Project 86 concerts. She’s guaranteed to have amazing taste in music and serious angst by age six. No worries though, I’ll frolic with her to Flatfoot 56 to balance everything out.

“If you don’t leave here with bruises, bloodied bodies, and a piece of your skull on the concert floor, something’s wrong.”  

Circle pit!?

“Put your arm around the person next to you, and girls, if a guy tries to cop a feel, deck him in the face.”

Not only does he play bagpipes, but he gets bonus points for wearing a kilt.

“Ninth reason why we love our fans: some of them love songs off our first album even though we never play them.”

Oo…fog machines.

“We love you!” “Run!”

Somebody should name their band To Be Announced, or TBA for short. Really.

“We regularly post on Facebook and other evil social-networking sites.”  

Is that flowers he has tattooed on his arm? Does that say: ‘I’m sensitive’? Must be, I think he’s married.

“Hopah!”

Paintings overflowed

Onto her skirts with each stroke of her voice.

Her eyes were graphite,

Her curls swirling, like Van Gogh’s Starry Night.

Each of her encouragements,

Staccato like a stipple dot,

Small, but remarkably different from its neighbor.

With each step, her shadow

Drifted with Vermeer’s subtle shading,

Leaving us to wonder

If one of Raphael’s angels

Had flown into our classroom.

It didn’t matter if I was a

Kitty, a Hippie Chick, in the Mafia (or the card one), or just a 6th grader,

When we rode in a van to the beach,

Probably going a little too fast, and growing a little too fast,

As we blasted surfer rock from the stereo,

And songs about breakfast.

It didn’t matter what our moms said about too much candy,

You’d let us eat it all in the backseat, and smile when we got carsick,

Instead of saying “I told you so.”

I only knew you as a mentor for 12 months or so,

But those twelve months changed every month after

And taught me to be weird for a smile and a laugh

I guess I wrote these lines, to thank you for being weird for 12 months at least,

And I hope your kid ends up weirder than me.

Oops!

This was your

Jacket I just stained,

That you

Were going to

Wear

Out Tonight,

Forgive me,

It was very pretty,

So soft,

And now multi-colored.

Munch, munch. The goat glanced up at the gathering storm. Munch, munch, munch. He glanced straight ahead, closing his eyes. Grass tasted really good here, like the grass he had as a kid. Except….it didn’t taste as good. Not really able to put his hoof on it, the goat shook his horns, as if to shake the thought from his mind.

Munch, munch, munch, munch. He should probably head back for cover, that storm looked pretty bad, especially when he opened his eyes. But…the grass tasted good enough to stay just a tad longer. Most of the other goats had left, but he couldn’t really remember how long they had been gone. Maybe it had been a while. Lately the goat kept seeing more of these loud, fast things, he called them Brrrr, partly because of what the sounded like, partly because of his goat-like accent.

Munch, munch, munch…PLOP…munch. Mmm…yep, he should head back. Grass never tasted good when mixed with mud.