Here are my purple Mexican Petunias after hurricane Irma slammed into Gainesville, Florida. They stand tall despite the ravaging.
I’m gathering and rewriting a collection of most of my published and unpublished pieces of flash memoir, flash stories, prose poems and a sprinkling of haiku.
I need help with the title:
- Streaking through the World
- Streaking through the Mall
- Running through the World
- Running through the Mall
- Thanks for Not Cutting Down the Purple Petunias
Let me know your vote.
Here is a prose poem I started in an MFA at Lindenwood. I’m playing with it. Comments are welcome. I’d like to include it in my collection. Yes, the title is tricky but then, so is the poem.
Welcome to disorientation. Just feel it without overthinking. Memoir zapped.
Don’t talk to me about man and his love of water. Water sucks down and away and man sucks any which way.
Don’t talk to me about women who walk on water or men who think they do. They all go under.
Don’t talk to me about sobs in the next room. The waterworks of a human running.
Don’t talk to me about twilight and its power to kill. I grow in silence.
Don’t talk to me about floodwater flashing over Ute graves in Durango, where fifty feet under lie villages of sorrowful maidens raped and rejected a millennia ago, their love knots melted into silt. We will never solve their love triangles.
Don’t talk to me about white men who once sailed the globe. Strip them of their money, their skin and who are they? White men without skin. Not much to look at.
Don’t talk to me about salvation. I have no idea what that is and besides, I walked on water three times and it wasn’t much fun.
Don’t talk to me about ice cream dribbling down a cake cone in outback heat, dog growling out of the shop, biting into my child leg as vanilla scoops tumbled to mud.
At least the dog ate them.
A purple bruise grows on my remembering.