Chugging right along. Day Two (2) of the April Poem-a-Day challenges
For the NaPoWriMo.net Day 2 prompt: inspired by, or in the form of, a recipe
I was thinking about “Vibration Cooking” when Susan Sarandon appeared, spouting William Blake. Life is either a travelogue or a garden, and the best cookbooks to read take place in France or involve hash (brownies, corned beef–makes no never mind).
When I was a kid, before air conditioning, we used to swim in a cold clear creek. On the way, we stopped to buy stick bologna, cheese, saltines, cokes, and fried apple pies at a cinderblock store with two gas pumps. Inside, there was a table stacked with dark blue denim overalls, smelling of dye. All needful things were sold there: aspirin, vienna sausage in little cans, motor oil, kite string.
The creek bed was deep with smooth small rocks and crinoid fossils. Floating between a July sun and shifting streams of minnows like melting icicles, is a good way to see the world. To make bologna sandwiches with saltines, assembly is best done on an old blue towel spread across water-polished rocks. Speaking in accents with long, complex vowels, enjoy the geometry and smells.
An American Sentence:
Disks of pink meat. Clumsy squares chopped from a log of Velveta. Crackers.
“What do we say to the god of death?”
The white head of one dandelion,
caught in the long reach of sunrise,
glows. As does the yellow fire hydrant.
(It has a red cap. That may have meaning.
So many things, and names of things,
I need to learn.) Tent pole trees stuck
all over with toothpick twigs are washed
with yellow ochre. And bronze green.
The bluebirds in them are a little green, too.
The unknown ornamental flowering tree
that was here when we bought the house
is pink. Then there is the midway racket
of morning birds. Toast and eggs, coffee.
It is all very much a work in progress.
I, myself, have a pile of things to do.