10pm – fourteen – no title
as i look trough the
camera lens
focusing on the tiny
parts of the flowers
creating landscapes
of their own…
15 – Across the Walk
The man across the walk (we have an across the walk now since our move)… the man across the walk makes lovely interaction with his perfect yellow hibiscus flowers. If I could hear him (the walk is very wide and grassy), I would expect him to be cooing to them. He also strokes his red ti leaves, the branches of his very young, tender pink plumeria tree, and the slender leaves of his firecracker bushes.
When his teacup some kind of silky looking adorable terrier runs out, zig zagging between his legs, darting out, and scooting back to him, his smile takes his whole face, and he sweet talks her (even with the wide grassy, short white fenced walk, I am certain he is).
He loves so well, I send him gratitudes.
This is really good townhouse animal vegetable husbandry.
I believe it.
Elizabeth Fellows
6/27/2020, 5pm
Party Time
it’s party time
smile bright, hold a glass
laugh too loud
don’t actually drink
the last thing you need is to get drunk you cry when you’re drunk
dance with him
flirt with her
enough that people talk
they’ll think you’re up to fun
you aren’t remotely capable of any kind of relationship right now
don’t look over there
avoid each other
if there’s no fight
people will assume all’s well
one of you should apologize you should really apologize
guests are leaving
some together
most completely impaired
say goodbye, shut the doors
shut down the act, throw yourself out with the trash
party’s over.
Prompt 15, Hour 15 – Rushed Exit
We scurry,
because the airport is two hours away
on a good day.
We wait in line,
because we never travel during the off seasons.
“Carpe diem” subsides to the immigrant hustle.
The luggage is heavier than it ought to be;
somehow that’s no surprise.
Extra fees. Extra wrapping. Wallets out.
We take in the scene,
because airports are both an experience of rushed chaos
and deep gratitude for the privilege.
We wait at the gate.
The families look like ours; we hear our dialect.
For a moment, our stories align with a real narrative.
SMITE
I played Smite for 8 years. I always wanted to be a professional gamer and hear the people’s cheers. I meet great people from the game and got introduce to my crush. Oh, hope I love Smite to play a god or two. Grinding diamonds is what I do. Maybe, do some comp after this. I would feel at bliss when I get on the game
Walking My Human
Each day, I walk my human.
I love watching his mood change
the farther we get from home.
I know he’s not
the sharpest tool in the shed,
as he often forgets my name.
He calls me Ucker, or
he confuses me with a duck, of all things.
I am NOT a ducking dog.
What a fool he is.
I’ll sniff and point
and eat so much juicy grass tips,
that he thinks I’m a cow.
I’ll wander aimlessly and
take him on these
monstrously
long
walks.
My god, he needs it.
He’s got a spare tire with him,
and we’re not even driving!
He’s fat,
and I am not talking PH phat.
I love when we are an hour or so
into the walk,
and he gets the zombie eyes.
I’ll wait for one of my friends to come out,
Sammy Squirrel or Robby Robin,
and then I’ll bolt.
Man, I can sometimes hear his shoulder
pop out
of his socket!
I haven’t knocked him over yet,
but you can’t say I’m not trying.
My human pampers me.
He cleans up my poo,
sometimes getting it on his hands or shoe.
He’ll chauffeur me around town
to some of my favorite designer stores,
Petco or Off the Leash.
He drops a bundle of cash at these stores
just for me.
You’ll die for those mani pedis at the salon.
They’re not cheap,
but I’m worth every penny.
Everyone stops to compliment me,
and not once have I heard anyone tell me
“Hey, that’s a good-looking human you have there.”
If you haven’t gotten yourself a human yet,
you’re missing out!
I’d go get one today,
and let your entitlement begin.
See you later,
when I am out
walking my human.
The Plane! (prompt 15)
At 16, I flew to California, leaving for good,
a first for me, as I had never traveled by plane.
It was one of the coldest days of winter,
the windchill bringing the temps down to single digits,
and Long Island’s wet winters freeze your bones.
January 17, 1977, I boarded a 747 to LAX from JFK,
with a box of mementos, a suitcase of flannels and 501’s.
I sat in the way back, the last seat, nothing behind
when I felt the wave, the suffocating notion,
“I’m in a tube, oh my god it’s a tube!” and
there was nowhere to go, no place to catch air.
I stripped off my flannel, only a thermal undershirt,
and cooled off, popped a white or blue or red,
I don’t remember but the thermal shirt was white.
And when I opened my eyes, I saw the guy looking
My row mate, only two of us, was watching me,
well, maybe my white undershirt, my bra peeking
through the thick cotton, like my head, light and warm
And when I next opened my eyes, I heard a faint voice
announcing, “Welcome to Los Angeles.” I was home.
I flew. I panicked. I slept, I awoke. The world blinked.
H,15 – Journey
Boarding.
The light flashes, seatbelt, seatbelt, seatbelt.
Arms and legs, face mask, head down.
Moving, wheels on tar, faster, faster, faster.
Rising – Rising – Up.
Ears screaming, pressure, ouch.
Seetling, Altitude, Flight.
Seatbelt, seatbelt, seatbelt.
Movement, wheels down isle.
Drinks, snacks, relief, relax.
Chatter, crying, bathroom,
The light flashes, seatbelt, seatbelt, seatbelt.
Desending – Down – Bumping – Bump
Wheels on tar, seatbelt, seatbelt, seatbelt,
Exit.
Hour 13, prompt 13 To Create
Thick book spines,
crack and spread open for me.
Ink smears, paint drips, lead scrapes
a symphony of creativity.
Lesson plans stack, towers of knowledge,
crinkled around the edges, warm from the copier.
The power of a single slip of blank paper makes some people sick with pressure.
Give me a clean sheet of paper and I’ll give you a piece of my soul.
Breakfast With Pop
Breakfast With Pop
Not your everyday ordinary grandfather,
Pop was my buddy. He and Mom, too young
to be called Grandma and Grandpa though
I tried once with Mom and was given a knuckle
to my forearm that left a bruise, they’d dance
arm in arm from the living room to the kitchen
as they’d busy themselves fixing breakfast
for my brother, Mikey, and me; we were
frequent weekend guests as kids.
Eggs sunnyside up, with grated potatoes,
diced onions, thin slices of meatballs Aunt Mary
sent over every night from across the street, and
she made the best meatballs I’ve ever had. Pop
would add three shakes of tabasco to the pan
and it sizzled. Mom readied our rolls with
margarine on one side and ketchup on the other.
Pop would put ‘boravought’ on his but not ours
or Mom’s, too hot he’d say.
Egg sandwiches remind me of Pop and Mom
and the ballroom dances that forever waltzed on
in their Richmond Hill house, and to this day,
I’ve never called hot pepper flakes anything but
‘boravought.’
~ J R Turek
June 27, 2020
Hour 15