Monday, September 23, 2002
Wishful Raccoons and Trampolines

It's pitiful when one has to hole up in the office all Sunday afternoon, attending to niggling bits of administrivia, when one would much rather have spent the afternoon being a
SlackerDyke -- sitting on the front porch swilling Rolling Rock (an ideal swill beer, really . . . one can pound down a goodly amount without becoming too inebriated), listening compulsively to Patti Smith's "Horses," squinting into the lazy, thick incense-like curls of sweet, spicy smoke curlicuing up from a Djarum Clove cigarette, eating cinnamon ice cream, and watching the leaves come skittering down from the trees one by one (spin and twirl), then splash the sidewalk with decisive brittle splats. (Well, perhaps Rolling Rock AND cinnamon ice cream both at the same time is rather ill-conceived, but then again, fuck it, since I'm reconstructing the afternoon I wish I'd had, I should be able to consume any combination of food and libation I choose, no matter how potentially revolting.) It's quieter on the street than on weekdays . . . a few bike-riders, dog-walkers, the neighbor's ill-tempered cat who clearly wishes to usurp my porch. (But not the skinny, eccentric bearded man who parks on my block Monday-Friday and returns to his car over the lunch hour, approaching at a dead run in dress shoes and a dress shirt. He then, inexplicably, eats his lunch in the driver's seat of his car, and takes a little nap afterwards before heading back to his office -- once again, at a dead run). Catty corner from me, neighbor kids jump up and down, up and down, on their trampoline. One thinks it might be nice to have a trampoline so one could jump up and down, up and down, all afternoon too. One wonders if, as B. suggested, raccoons come and jump on trampolines, in the moonlight, at night. One thinks (even though perhaps this is just the Rolling Rock one wishes one had swilled talking) that this would be a delightful way to spend a night . . . jumping up and down, up and down, in the moonlight, the wind in one's hair, leaves spilling down in a yellow clatter, on the trampoline . . . with raccoons.
Posted by Artichoke Heart | 12:02 AM |
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Books by Artichoke Heart
Beyond Heart Mountain
Year of the Snake

Poems by Artichoke Heart
Songs for a Rainy Season
Toothpick Warriors
Snake Wife
Happy Hour
Girl With A Bowl On Her Head

Pillow Book Courtiers Of The
East Wing
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Pillow Book Courtiers Of The
West Wing
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