Thursday, July 31, 2014

Infectious Haiku

below twin mountains
thunder crackles and rumbles
pinkeyed summer cold

After that horrid “Vegetarian at Fall Feast Haiku” I wrote last March, I thought I should show you that I’ve been getting better at the ancient art of haiku crafting.

I was partly inspired by the cold torturing my head, nose, throat and lungs, which remains as gritty as ever. But a girl can’t let thunderous coughing (that might be giving her downstairs neighbors nightmares of tuberculosis) keep her down, right?

So I decided to close my eyes (it helps soothe the conjunctivitis) and think of some witty poetry. It was a terrible idea… I don’t know why I find the phrase “Infectious Haiku” so freaking hilarious. The moment I wrote the words, I started laughing and coughing uncontrollably. I bet you didn’t know poetry could be this perilous, huh?

I’m actually feeling a tab better, my Wicked Luvs. My eyes are troubling me less, and my throat no longer feels like it’s on fire. Nights are still rough for me. Thank goodness my Piano Man sleeps like the dead, if not I would be feeling horribly guilty right now—he is conducting The Wizard of Oz, and cannot really afford sleepless nights.

That’s all for now; what are you up to? 

I thought a touch of
Gorey’s  Gashlycrumb Tinies
would be quite fitting for this post. ;-)

Tuesday, July 29, 2014

Run for Your Eye!

I grew up in the country, surrounded by animals, dust and all sorts of bacteria and viruses that seemed to be extremely curious about the thin layer covering children’s eyeballs. So my cousins and I got pinkeye at least once a year. Our parents maintained a stash of antibiotics—hospitals are not that accessible when you live in the blessed boondocks. But the synthetic ointment was always used as a last resort. Whenever conjunctivitis attacked the prepubescent bit of the tribe, the first line of defense was breast milk.

Yes, breast milk; when you grow up using things like dried goat’s feces to treat certain wounds, you don’t frown at a bit of breast milk in your eye… unless the breast providing said milk belonged to Tia Chiguete. Auntie Squirt wasn’t really anyone’s auntie, by the way, but in those days anyone older than you was an aunt or uncle.

Anyhoo, most ladies were happy to deposit some milk in a cup. Then a parent would find an eye dropper and we would get treated. But Tia Chiguete demanded to squirt every afflicted in the eye. Maybe she was testing her aim or something. Who knows! The woman had enormous tatas that I’m sure gave every kid—not just me—nightmares about drowning; or at least, about being the helpless victims of waterboarding.


Today, I’m 37-years-old and very far away from my home village. I’m pretty sure that if I went around my building asking who was breastfeeding someone would probably call the police. So it was to the hospital for me and my conjunctivitis. I already had 3 appointments scheduled for today. And my doctor’s super nurse found a way to squeeze the eye clinic in between.

I saw the eye doctor after my second scheduled appointment. I was very happy to see that he was rather flat-chested, so he couldn’t possibly be breastfeeding. He examined my eyeballs, made small talk about how much it sucked to wake up with one’s eyes stuck together, and prescribed some eye drops and cold compresses.

“Don’t worry too much about it,” he said. “It will be gone in one to two weeks.”

“Two weeks?” I stared at him. My eyes hurt too much for me to hear the one bit. And maybe time moved faster when I was a kid, but I dont remember ever having pinkeye for two weeks.

“It will get much better before that long. Just give it some time.”

“Okay,” I said, looking at his chest expectantly. But no, the man had nothing under his shirt.

I walked to my next appointment wondering if Tia Chiguete was somewhere, laughing at me, saying, “I bet you wouldn’t mind a squirting right now, Fireball!”

Ah, the good old days…

Runner, by CraftBench

Sunday, July 27, 2014

Playing My Bone Blues Away

With your hand pressing ivory circles
on the small of my tender back,
I’ve coughed feverish chills
and felt your fingertips play my bone blues away
as I thank my Faerie Godmummy—

no sic here, Miss Grammar nosy,
I had one of those other fairies when I was small
and we didn’t like each other much.
Then a Daydream Believer made me a faery
with enough wit to know
that the best magic is self-crafted.

To my Faerie Godmummy and to the Universe
I thank for unfulfilled wishes.

When I was nine,
I wished to grow up to be a lawyer
married to a cowboy from outer space.
But what space cowboy would stuff a piano in his saddlebag?
Or understand why my fist won’t hesitate to break a bad man’s jaw,
but fall into a puddle of tears
at the sight of road kill? 

No one but you grins happily,
with eyes closed and lips looking for my mouth,
after I lick your ear at the Witching Hour,
and whisper, “Marriage lets you annoy one special
person for the rest of your life.”

“Ready for bed, my Counselor?”

“Not even close, Cowboy of my heart.
Tonight, we ride to the final frontier.”

And just like that,
your hand is again on the small of my back,
playing my bone blues away,
pushing forward with me and by me,
crafting magic that only (you + me) = us can make true.


for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (Play It Again, Toads! #7)
and here is where I found the bit of fortune cookie wisdom you see below