A Weed on The Curb

 So. I've been watching my friends' feeds and listening to the commentary that's come out of the surfeit of poor decisions handed down by the US Supreme Court and the increasingly illegitimate Texas state government (you can't remain legitimate if you don't support ethical office holders, fail to support the state during a pandemic, or fail to resist a party platform upholding the basis of an insurrection) and feeling the fury and shock vibrate in my throat and chest.  I'm not articulate when I'm angry. I'm more likely to scream as if there was fire at the very bottom of my stomach and I'm trying to project it all the way to whatever has sparked the anger. I'm more of a break things than create things. And that's my failing. And it's the reason that I'm stepping away from writing.  I can't speak in the way that others can and have. There is no room for distraction in this moment.  I'm done.  -- Chrissa

  It's time to clean the little shed, it's time to clean "Our backyard" has a timer now There will be grass or swing sets or dogs Once again in sequence. Gardens might be dug once more, planted Right along this fence line.  It's time to clean the little shed, it's time. -- Chrissa

  Just to remind them of their place in keeping up the Savannah Platter, the Zebrites kept the color scheme in the Receiving Verandah geometric and black and white. Cebble had always lived just off the Platter, not far from this grand reception room, a gallop of a maybe twenty minutes. From this window, she could see arrival nodes winking and flashing, obscuring the savannah that stretched all the way to the edge of the sea, where the humans waited in a glass compound. Glass and whatever they’d brought with them. Cebble had seen that place in person once, learned how to say “city” from one of them, who’d then explained that people like her were considered “livestock” on the human planet. Apparently, this was a “magical” world because people like Cebble could speak. At least, that human had considered the translation orb as passing for speech. Not all of them did; making even a short visit uncomfortable. As alien as the Platter could be, there were few things as alien as that tower ss

 Sharing with The Sunday Muse #214 . This week it's poetry for the heat, no longer nascent, of oncoming summer. Every hour another warning vibrates my wrist. I lean toward the label beside the picture. The city is no longer metaphorically burning. I can feel the tiles, cool in the a/c and thick walls, through these thin sandal soles.  I move the to next image. It's full of rust. The label says it captures the riot of a city. This city isn't rioting. It's a beautiful, sunny day. A burning, sunny day.  Greetings and salutations! This weekend begins our summer hibernation. We're cleaning up a few rooms so that the dogs & James & I can have a cool spot in the house, away from the machines and windows, to curl up when necessary. I'm binging Halloween content, as well.   -- chrissa

  Sharing today with The Sunday Muse #213 . All alien worlds quake during colonization Eruptions are normal There is plenty of liquid under the surface And every new seed itches. Only the lucky allergens...astronauts...find Solid ground and grow. Apparently, part of the new normal around here is microwaving dog food. And using draft ideas as themes for creative endeavor...just not finishing the drafts. Also, growing Wookie corn in the backyard, stalking the backyard lizards, and feeling guilty every time I leave the house. Some of this should  have resulted in poetry...instead...allergies.  -- Chrissa