… or lapin, because I’ve always liked that word.
This weekend I make the short trek to
Port Townsend, home of: my mom, good food,
the Puget Sound as it nears the Pacific,
the Rose Theatre, and my siblings
(for the weekend, at least).
I’ve one brother and one sister;
they’re both older, and super-cool
(my brother let me beat him up when I was a tyke;
my sister tickled me mercilessly, and
had her friends chase me around with lipstick).
I didn’t grow up with my siblings;
rather I saw them over the Summer and on
various holidays. So, though I think we know
each other well, we don’t have that “know everything
about each other” thing that similar-aged
grow-up-together siblings do. As such,
our meetings are always half familiarity
and half exploration. This is not a complaint.
Port Townsend is full of memories:
childhood days of carefree exploration
(I was quite intrepid), and my pre-college
days of creative indulgences, naive ideals,
and romantic sulks (also known as “failures”).
I was 17. Need I say more?
If you haven’t yet, check out the mystery that is:
In the end, it’s basically advertising, true.
But it’s still absolutely fascinating.
A poem from 8/15;
a young-woman musician who,
traveling through Olympia,
played while we were sitting in Caffé Vita.
–
Your sultry voice like butter melting:
highs & lows
and caught-betweens;
songbird-wings and a smile.
Thin-boned for flight,
breaks easy and transparent.
You’ve got on your samurai kid-gloves,
prepared for gentille swordplay,
wordplay; “May I?” “You may.”
Spin songs, trap hearts,
blown apart at the seams,
you laud the diocese.
Saints speak lunacies,
heresy, are remembered
for their honesty.
You should be so lucky.
When your Icarus-wings
tear apart in the light –
like butter melting –
where will you fall then?
–
It rambles, groans;
mutters vagueries.
It needs clarification,
I think;
but there it is.