Quarantine Day 1
I think I’m an artist
I believe I can fly
Like, soaring through tunnels of spotted lights
As my wit reverberates into a heavenly sky
…Somewhere on the Central Coast…
Astral space spitting holographic sparks of the distance between
My left foot and right
Hips distance apart, aeons away
The left- I don’t know, but it may have a line direct to my heart
The other riffs into a play pool, reflecting the comet’s dizziness into my atmosphere
He gave me a name,
Name giveth what I may take.
It’s a block. It’s definitely not a bloody wine cork. The East Side says there’s a way around it, but I just don’t know how to go about it. Be careful how you approach the block; it may be the butcher, you may be the cattle. Notice the horizon line which exists among the block. Beyond the wooden shape combusts limitless energy of power lines and flurry lights, blurring my vision of artistic sorrow into something meaningless. The rolling hills of thunder drift along just so. Limbs like a banana palm relentless in the wind, so wacky and inflatable.
The first thing to be a girl like me, you gotta look the blade of the razor in the eye and think, “You will not shave past my sideburns.” –know your target audience. You make a tight fist with the razor, the other free hand tilting your noggin towards your right shoulder as you plant the palm near your neck in a “chin up” sort of fashion, making direct eye contact with the model in the mirror. Bestowing the utmost confidence, repeating, “Not a single hair on the face goes free.” You embody what it means to be a ladybird in that dazzling moment. Steam. Steam. Steam. The water is nothing but steam. Billowing clouds arise from the porcelain bowl that is the sink, the catch-all dish for whatever is about to fall from this face. But, focus. Narrowing my gaze to the selected hair specimens, the generous heat generating this dragon’s breath of a fog upon the glass that is the mirror, my thoughts becoming more of myself- I am a mythical beast. The woman, the myth, the legend.