You Are Lapis Lazuli

I was thinking mango colored bruises
are not as sweet as the fruit. Then
I saw you. And my thoughts changed
from fruit to you. And I couldn't resist

the tingle of my lips. So I smiled.

It was the first time I've smiled

on the inside, for quite a while. But when

you didn't notice, and passed me bye,

my chest was hit with a Lapis Lazuli.

And I realized why I haven't smiled.

It's because you

chose to walk the other way. So my

thoughts returned to mango colored bruises,

which are definitely not as sweet as the fruit.

But when I look at one it tickles my lips

and makes me smile, and just for a moment

I want another.

Relationship Disclaimer:

Note: This information is not to be used for commercial purposes.

Warning!

The failure to adhere to the precautions listed below may result in serious injury.

-Keep out of reach of children.

-Keep away from easily encouraged people.

-This is not for people with sensitive skin.

-Direct eye contact should be treated immediately and thoroughly with water.

-Remove oneself immediately, if the situation becomes too uncomfortable or too hot.

-Be aware of the possibility of varying sensations.

-Exposure can lead to tingling in the extremities.

-Too much exposure can lead to scarring, the swelling of the cardiac system, and anemic speech.

*Please do not respond to this message, as it will not be seen, nor read, by a human.

Mail

Dear Mail Room Girl,

I guess I should start with an introduction. My name is Pancake. For months I have seen you around. If I said I saw you a lot, it would be a lie. I only see you a few times a week for brief moments. Usually our interaction lasts less than a minute. A good morning perhaps. Maybe, have a nice day. Not much more than that. I'd like to ask your name, and take you to lunch. Just to get to know you a little bit better. You see, for those brief moments of my week, those few and far between moments, that I see you, they brighten my day.

When I'm preparing for my day just in case you see me, I comb my hair. Just in case we speak, I brush my teeth. But when we do meet, and finally have the chance to speak, I'm usually holding my breath. Not because you stink. Because I'm afraid to speak. You see, for those brief moments of my week, those few and far between moments, that we meet, I feel complete.

In a few months, you see, I'm going on my way. I only have a few more weeks. I probably should just ask you on a date. But every time I look at you, my mind goes blank. All I could say would be something like: you're awfully beautiful today. And I'm afraid you'll take it the wrong way.

I'm not following you around all day. Maybe I pray to see you on more than one day. But I'm not lurking in the shadows. So you see, all I really want is to introduce myself one day. Unfortunately, those moments, those few and fare between moments, are not here to stay.

So Mail Room Girl, to conclude what I've been trying to say. Have a nice day.

Beneath a Bench

Old ladies smell funny, and old men smell like couch. And church smells like old ladies sitting on a couch. Ian McGriff was only four, but he knew this for a fact. Because every Sunday his mom would feed him breakfast, make him take his weekly bath, and imprison him in his Sunday best. Then his mom, dad, brother Seth, and little sister Julia, would get in the car and drive the four blocks to the white cinder block building his dad called the Apple Chapel. His dad would hold open the glass doors for ambling old people, his mom and sister would find a seat on an empty, green cushioned, pew. Ian and Seth would walk in the glass doors and sneak off down the crowded hallway to the drinking fountain. Because Seth was older, Ian would kneel down on his hands and knees so Seth could reach the water. Then they switched, and Ian would get a drink. The water always tasted funny, but Ian didn't care. It was water from a fountain, and there was nothing better than fountain water. After quenching their thirst, the two brothers would sneak back down the hall, hoping to escape the searching eyes of their dad. Unfortunately their dad could see a fly from a mile away. Or at least that's what he told them. Before long Ian's family would be sitting "reverently" in a green cushioned pew.

The pews were better than the hard metal chairs in the back. Sometimes, if Ian was lucky, he could find old crackers hiding in the crevice between cushioning. But benches did have a tendency to smell like an old lady. And Ian didn't really like the smell of old ladies. Old ladies were the worst part of these Sunday excursions. They would always call him cute or a sweet little man. If they could get their hands on him, they would pinch his cheeks, and kiss him, leaving their sticky pink lipstick lips on his forehead. He didn't like the smelly old women and church was full of them. Naturally this led to a dislike of church.

It didn't matter which pew his family sat on, Ian's family always sat in the same order every Sunday. His dad on the aisle, with his sister on his lap, his mom next to his dad, and then Seth and Ian. Usually the meeting would start with the boys acting like little angels, but by fifteen minutes into the meeting Ian's mom would separate the little devils.

This particular Sunday, Ian didn't last five minutes. He couldn't sit on the bench any longer. Checking to make sure his parents weren't watching, Ian slide off the bench. He peered underneath all the benches at the all the feet. Feeling more mischievous and not very reverent, Ian slithered underneath the first bench. He crawled right up behind the feet of the smelly old couple sitting in front of his family. With the malice of a bored four year old boy, Ian reached out, pinched the nylon socks of the old lady, pulled the back, then let them go with a snap. The lady jumped in surprise. "Jus wike a ruba ban," Ian giggled in success.

His parents instantly became aware of their giggling son hiding beneath the pew. But before they could grab him and place him in reverent punishment, Ian slid past the old lady's feet, and underneath the next bench.

To Ian's gleeful surprise, another old lady was sporting nylons. Again he reached out and plucked the nylon with his tiny four year old fingers. Not only did this lady jump in place, but she squeeked as well. This was the best thing ever! He continued onto the next pair of nylons.

Meanwhile Ian's mom felt like she was going to die right there in church, from a severe case of embarrassment. "George", Ian's mom whispered to his dad. "George you've go to do something". Just then Sister Mitchell, four rows up from them, jumped in surprise as her nylons smacked her leg.

"I can't", he replied. "It would make a scene" he whispered.

"George get him now" his mom commanded.

"How? I can't see where he is," his dad replied.

Exasperated, Ian's mom said, "follow the jumping ladies". And true enough, looking through the chapel you could see a trail of ladies, jumping in surprise. So Ian's dad stood, and walked to towards the front of the chapel. In hopes of retrieving his mischievous boy.

Ian was pretty sure this was the best Sunday ever. Each row had at least one pair of old lady legs covered in that stretchy material. Each time he located a pair, he'd reach out, pinch the fabric, pull it back, then let it smack. And each time the lady jumped.

But just as he was reaching for the nylons of his next victim, strong hands grabbed his ankle and pulled. Ian found himself firmly trapped in his dad's arms. His dad quickly walked back down the isle, past his family, out the doors, and into the hall.

For Ian's mom, the meeting seemed to be in slow motion. As George walked by her, with Ian trapped in his arms, she felt all the old ladies eyes, and the muffled laughter questioning her motherhood. And for a brief moment. So brief that you would barely know it. Ian's mom wished she had been the one smacking nylons.

Robotics

Good evening, I will say.
Or maybe Hello, how was your day?
Her reply will compute. But
I respectfully remain mute.

I'll grasp the handle of the door,
and open it for her.
My driving is sincere.
My conversation required.
My interactions adequate.

I sure like being in this fancy situation.

A muttered thanks. We embrace.
I depart, and walk to where I parked.
I carry this too close
to my artificial heart.



PLEASE DO NOT RESPOND TO THIS MESSAGE, as it will not be seen nor read by a human.

Coastline

A salty breeze rides hard upon the memories

of painted gulls. Below these birds, on a beach

of driftwood dreams, children play, and their

exotic animals frolic in the waves. On this

beach a single plastic bag, tied by a single

piece of twine, begins to rise, and ride

the thermal currents of the breeze. Higher

and higher it goes, until the piece of twine

lets go. Then the plastic bag, that flew

with painted gulls and was abandoned

by the breeze, falls. Looking back

along the path, beyond the children, wading

in play, I can see a collage of kelp covered

dreams, trickling into the sea, like a ruffled

plastic bag, like a string, like a sun-bleached memory.