Smile when you feel the sunlight...

While you are upstairs sharpening your number two pencils and
doodling in your notebook about how you
hate
this small town

I

am listening to a song that follows the beat of my gum
pops and flip
flops and I'm
sharing it with the dandelions on the roadside

While you plot a secret escape to India

I

am constructing a tiny Taj Mahal out of
rotten pecan shells and I've got
plans to
expand

While you stare bleary eyed at your window trying to figure out what is wrong with the world

I

feel what's right falling like
moth tears
and my skin undulates with every ramshackle
dance move that finds my feet and

I

wear a honeysuckle perfume that drives the bees
wild and

I

rummage through the leaves
like a child in grandma's attic so
happy
to re-awaken her old treasures and

you

might
find me
on your doorstep one day wiping the gravel from my
knees

because while

you

were comparing
flight prices

I

(chased a lion)
(wrote a novel)
(planted a tree)
(planted a forest)
(kissed a whale)

traveled.

Why don't I read more Jack?

Here's to the crazy ones, the misfits, the rebels, the troublemakers, the round pegs in the square holes... the ones who see things differently -- they're not fond of rules... You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify or vilify them, but the only thing you can't do is ignore them because they change things... they push the human race forward, and while some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius, because the ones who are crazy enough to think that they can change the world, are the ones who do.

Something good this way comes...

So, since I started working at the Goodwill, I've been flirting mightily with this guy named Daniel. Daniel is from El Salvador, as are several of my co-workers. He knows a handful of English words, mostly work related-- "sweep," "lunch," "time to clock out and go home"-- although this has not stopped us from flirting on and off as he pieces together bits of broken furniture and I price my tattered books. My Spanish is a combination of over-cheer and misplaced accents, so this has mostly been an adventure in body language.

He bought me lunch last week. Chinese food. How very cultural.

So we stumble through our conversations, and I realize how very many Spanish words I am able to slaughter, and how useless my limited vocabulary is. I point to things, to the shoes on the shelves or the covers of my books, and I struggle with the foreign syllables-- "libros!" "caballo!" "zapatos!"

I made it my goal to touch him this week. I didn't realize how few times we make physical contact with co-workers until I made a conscious effort to nudge his shoulder or brush his hand. There aren't near enough excuses to touch one another these days.

This afternoon, my hands were so cold, all day, despite high temperatures outside. Fantastic, cold hands, what a perfect avenue to engage in some casual contact. The thought crosses my mind and I start to smile and heat washes over me and my fingers are no longer cold. Damn! Now what?

The freezer! Aha!

And unguarded moment in the staff kitchen...

"Daniel! My hands! Muy frío!..."

Mission accomplished.

I just want your kiss, boy...

She sat alone, watching the fireworks, giant blue and green orgasms that left spiderweb stains on the black velvet sky. Happiness puddled in her stomach, leaked from beneath her fingertips, oozed out of her pores. A tangy breeze tiptoed off the water to ruffle her hair and send tiny goosebumps racing down her spine. Her eardrums reverberated as the rockets shot up and out, and she couldn't stop smiling, and she couldn't stop crying, and she couldn't remember a better night.