A Weed on The Curb

 The new houses wore gingham insulation and brick tweed It wasn't quite a Sunday, there was no longer a paddock Blue sky, like an advertisment, spread behind them The clasp of a suburban cloak printed like a magazine Whose pages once could be flown over but now Wrinkle and desaturate in the corner of the library  Or the back shelves of the used bookstore, not quite Literature, just the residue of memory Smelling not quite pleasant, seedy paper and ink still Selling new houses dressed in insulation and tweed.

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #212 . Let's start a rumor of an urban legend When the sky fell hard for the blacktop Called itself Icarus and headed to the beach, pressing over 85 We were lying three to a hammock Under Keith's parents' beach house Back when his dad still gave the weather on Channel 5 When Icarus blew by Blue sky comet on the asphalt twilight Kissed our shoulders, lied. Breeze says everything gets bright When the sky blows through the night When the sky blows through the night Greetings and salutations! Glad to be back and writing. :)  -- Chrissa

Sharing with The Sunday Muse #210 . No industry where the sea has already eaten the road No wine where the dreams are salted, preserved No space for the story when water shoves the sand back, Takes another lick at the asphalt, Tastes the human toes, testing. Gave you the blue sky, the blue sea, the blue planet Gave you parts of the million years curling in your DNA Gave you my breath, gave you my breath, gave you Salt to savor your tears Salt to float your dreams If I could speak something other than flood If you could speak something other than words If we could speak the awe; if we could, if we could

The camera, at the time, was a heavy instrument And the film in canisters and the strap polishing his shoulder She'd been working for four hours, standing Resting a hip against the silver-cornered cabinet, Smoothing out her skirt, smiling, waiting out shoppers Daydreaming about the lights, dimming then brimming Spilling on her, soaking her with the ephemera  Of burning gas, transforming her clothes into dancewear.  The music shifts, rises. The customers sink to audience. But that was earlier. This is her break, she's just offstage, Grateful for the dimness near the wall.  She hides her nametag under her silky bowtie.  It's just fifteen minutes. Time enough to stroll, have a soda.  He's been setting up. Looking for empty displays. He catches the lights on her jewelry barge,  Becalmed in the middle of the mall's hallway Lit up for midway or Mississippi, full of silver. She's just a little further on,  one tired moment in the darkness of the shot.

  Borrowing the image from VisualVerseAnthology. Fifteen minutes to write 5-50 words based on this image. Contextless, glimpsed through a door-- Who painted this? Child or artist? I stare. A dark-suited woman  pauses nearby,  cell in hand, then pulls the door shut. A sliver of color remains, but James returns from restroom and we go back to the official exhibits,  labeled like pinned butterflies. It's been a long time since we've been to a museum and I miss the smell and the silence and seeing the texture of the art up close, not to mention the curious discoveries in unexpected corners.  -- Chrissa

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #204 . It's too far in the afternoon, I thought but evening ran behind me dragons, demons, and the sleeping world; afraid to turn, to wake me. Power needs its horror stories, its ghosts. It's too far in the afternoon, I thought but evening followed close; a fantasy of goodness, where the gold is always covering bones. Power needs its fairy tales, its witches. It's too far in the afternoon, I thought but evening treads my hem, like an army from the dragon's teeth and all the lies therein. -- Chrissa

  Inspired by Shay's Word Garden Word List #18 .  There were always guns behind the books; like angels in the solar wind behind the scattered blue I've never been curious what the trumpet choir shouts There were always guns behind the books; all the heroines will swoon across their peacock holsters I've never been curious what the violin choir  screams There were always guns behind the books; bad men hide our revolutions in cerulean leather sorrows I've never been curious when the angel choir  breathes There were always guns behind the books. -- Chrissa