A Weed on The Curb

 We have always believed the most dangerous lie When they brought out the chicken, Laid the egg in our hands... When they read from the book of Fryers The story of the sale and the feast; The Mother Who Feeds Us  With every part of her body and family, We confess our unity. When they say It Has Been Always Thus Covered starving in other truths Excavated by sharp words. We held it steady and waited. This will be our small lie,  Our foundational myth of consumption, Our taking from the Mother Our stealing our lives. We repeat, together, as we cradle the egg Only the bravest can handle the Lie, The most dangerous lie. Truth is hidden. It is weak. It is written. We are to keep it always so. Between us. Unsaid.  The Mother always hid it from the Lie, The, good, wise, strong Lie We have always believed. We will always believe. Thus, we eat. Sharing with The Sunday Muse #175.  There is no interpretive text this week, as scholars strongly disagree about whether words have any meaning left. I a

  For The Sunday Muse #174 : This is the place where my chin drops  where I can smell  seconds ago. Still in a bit of a writing funk. Reading some good, atmospheric stuff. Trying to balance my brain between absolute, torch-wielding anger (we're all tired of "the panini" but we're all living in THIS world) and the joy that comes from an autumn garden (and some indoor plant geekery in which we're mentally on Tatooine pretending Leia is staying at Luke's pied-a-terre at the edge of Mos Eisley playing laser paintball with random visitors--maybe just don't ask). It's 103 degrees this afternoon. I've been banned from using the phrases "murder death peanut" (about wasps) and "the BeforeTimes" (about anything pre-panini) and, therefore, there was great temptation in writing about a pandemic of wasps and the heat. You've avoided that fate. (maybe) And I've avoided writing a poem. We're even. -- Chrissa

 I did not buy the poetry book whose sample Was page after page of essay and praise. I'm not following the trumpets. Today I follow the ringers-- Huzzah and call out the streets! Lift your arm, swing the bell; Call out the quiet, call out the neat Call out the loud, call out the bold Call out the wrong, call out the wise We remember the bells We shiver the skies.    This isn't about...anything. It's not about nothing. It should go without saying that a poem shouldn't need an essay or a textbook to be what it is. And I'm not sure why, with a stack of poetry at hand to be read, one silly Kindle sample (and writer's block and anxiety and...) would push my buttons so badly. But seriously. Where is my parody book full of fake blurbs that runs for 50 pages and ends with a single (terrible) poem?  -- Chrissa

  Some rain falls like gasping ice, But here, it falls like a cool shower Even as streets heat their minor floods And we go hunting on the edges of lawns, Our feet obscured by the warmth Plucked cooler by the falling drops , for anything fluffy that floats.  Kittens and small possums Squirrels and baby racoons Washed out of the woods, Washed out of the yards, Washed out of the drains. We rescue our dreams by wading And trusting in the towels waiting Back home. Daydreaming about coffee this morning. Thinking about starting a story that goes nowhere because I'm feeling pathless. Wishing, maybe, for a little rain for the yard.  -- Chrissa

  Sharing for The Sunday Muse #171 . "Roots" 1943 by  Frida Kahlo I wouldn't believe in Halloween Without grocery store pumpkin displays; backyard vines yield green, sunken fruit. I plant bright squash décor when it fades, when the fruits sink into themselves.  Dad says the worms are too small to see, endemic to the Texas soil. In the mood for a little Halloween/fall content here in the dog days of summer.  -- Chrissa