writer, storyteller, veteran (see BirchBark Editing.com and MaxieJaneFrazier.com for more)
A window, sometimes, is a
Memory.
Glass shattered
Scattered
Recovered
Reborn.
Time, is infinite in this place.
Then:
” Fünf Minuten, gnädige Frau.”
Yet the same sun illuminates the stains
using different light.
The same moon reflects through the stains
using different light.
Who says time is linear?
How is the light made?
Where does it go?
Because I could not stop for Fat–
She kindly stopped for me –
The body held but just Ourselves –
And a meal fried up for three.
We slowly shuffled– She knew no haste
And I had put away
My brownies and my ice cream too,
For Her gluttony–
We passed the Mickey D’s, where Children strove
At the playland– on the slide –
We passed the rows of fast food chains –
We passed the Blooming Onion –
Or rather – it bloomed for Us–
The grease pooled quivering and gelatinous–
For only floral, my MuMu–
My Tippet – an edible lei–
We paused before a Waffle House that seemed
A Swelling of the Gut–
The chicks and filets were scarcely visible –
The doughnuts– in the round –
Since then – ’tis Calories– and yet
Feel fewer than the Day
I first surmised the ambling feet
Were pointed toward obesity–
There is only one species of domestic memoirist, but around 400 different breeds that specialize in everything from pulling wagons to racing. All memoirists are grazers.
While most memoirists are domestic, others remain wild. Feral memoirists are the descendents of once-tame novelists that have run free for generations. Groups of such memoirists can be found in many places around the world. Free-roaming North American mustangs, for example, are the descendents of memoirists brought by Europeans more than 400 years
Wild memoirists generally gather in groups of 3 to 20 writers. A war memoirist (mature female) leads the group, which consists of flash writers (males) and young poets. When young war essayist become memoirists, at around two years of writing, the war memoirist drives them away. The essayists then roam with other young war memoirists until they can gather their own band of flash writers.
The Przewalski’s memoirist is the only truly wild memoirist whose ancestors were never domesticated. Ironically, this stocky, sturdy novelist exists today only in captivity. The last wild Przewalski’s memoirist was seen in Mongolia in 1968.
bring me magic
Tell me where is the opposite
side
of
the earth?
I send out tentative vibration from my isolation, hello?
Knocked flat, vaccuumed breath, fish pucker.
Buffeted by billions of reverberations, I’m seasick,
panicked.
At a touch,
Here is the entire world’s energy.
Right here, literally, it’s hay and pines, red-winged blackbirds and sky.
The flutter of wings moving whisper air and
I hear the roots pushing and wrapping around me.
Dizzying energy, I grasp and pull.
These pulses, my pulses, braiding in
fistfulls
tight twist, outside over center.
And then I know.
They’ve always been here.
I’ve always been a part of them.
Each choice joining my idea of right,
Positive parting around
Great human rocks,
Unhindered by the negative thrust.
A rainbow river of likeness
Formed in invisible,
global,
powerful,
powerless.
It simply is.
I feel my reverberations,
The shimmy of my whole self,
Join in the braided twists.
For just that flash among billions,
I belong.
I am magic.
Put Out to Pasture 