“I used to be Snow White, but I drifted.” ~Mae West
Pack. Survival of the fittest. Strapped into our harness of the weather,
we measure death in inches these days. The dogs always die at the worst times.
We have meat now. But nowhere to cook it. We used all the coal for buttons.
My arms are many-fingered sticks. I keep breaking fingers in the tearing.
Drift. Wind-blown death in triangular form. I stopped watching the news
after they called it the the storm of the century. If that’s as bad
as it gets, what hope is there for tomorrow’s daggers? Icicles drip
cyanide from every slanted gamble. I watched a boy tongue the point.
Fall. This slippery slope. Girls in pink pantsuits lay themselves down
on dirty blankets, spread their legs. You can’t see wings anywhere;
it’s white on white on white and coming down hard. Every surface is slippery
as it seems. Advanced hypothermia makes you believe you’re burning up.
Layers. The peeling away of. A red shawl taints the landscape. Gloves butterfly
over ice and get lost in the flurry. My bare feet make tracks toward milk-carton igloos. I’ve lost the sled trail. Somewhere this is home.
Image taken with iphone
Words written on the big couch at Cloud City Coffee, watching the snow fall
Time Taken 12 minutes
Brain on Portland, places, trains
Ears on the sound of Dido, Waits, Joan of Arc