Hypnotized by the big gummy zinnias adorning my new flip flops, I trip on a pile of trash at the edge of my green lawn. A tumbleweed of duct tape-- scuzzy. A clump of adhesives, caulk and hot glue aping a moon rock. The rubber nugget would be weird enough but there's something larger: An affront! FUCK hanging in space, hot red letters that come up to my trachea. Holy paraphenalia, not wine and wafers but a cantaloupe-colored tray skinned with sacraments. Silver shake, tin crumbles in a ziplock bag. I dump mulch on top of the whole thing. Stay out of my yard!
Later I'm sunbathing with a refelctive board, splayed on a striped vinyl deck chair, feeling very much like a piece of bacon, when a red rock from nowhere smashes the vessel of Tang at my elbow. Can't I lay around the patio for one day without saying the word Postmodern? I unstick myself from my seat and toss the thing over the fence, sigh and re-apply tanning oil. I imagine myself as a girl pharoah with a rammekin of glitter, pencilling on hot red eyebrows. I cross my flip flops and rseume my ritual.
No comments:
Post a Comment