Of First Dates and Frankensteinish Crabapple-Rose Bouquets

My sexy Piano Man and I went on another first date… and my hair could barely control its excitement… Either that, or the wind was feeling artful. Seriously, three minutes into the ferry ride from Manhattan to Staten Island, my hair looked like it had just exploded.

I pretended to be very vexed, and the wind behaved itself for about five seconds…

…but I made the mistake of grinning too soon…

…and my hair ka-BOOM-ed again.

Our yearly date went as usual—we shared a ricotta pizza (mushrooms, olives, green peppers) at the place we had our 1st first date, and followed the cheesy yumminess with homemade ice cream. After that, we headed towards Silver Lake, the spot where my Piano Man and I proposed to each other and have partaken on many first gropes.

We walked by Mundy Avenue. This bit might not be as cool, if you’ve never read Fables.

My lover walked on a tree that fell over a creek a few stormy summers ago…

…sat on a huge rock…

…and I noticed a nail quartet that had been hammered into a pine. Poor tree.

About a mile from the tree, we met a huge turtle. Well, we met 2 huge turtles. But since turtle romance looks rather disturbing, I figured that it would not be a good idea to post pictures of the loving couple *cough*. Say hi to the female…  pre-disturbance.

Once we got over the shock of seeing huge turtles making wee turtles, we continued our walk towards Silver Lake…. where I climbed a crabapple tree. The ecstasy of getting up on that tree without feeling the excruciating pain I felt last year (when I wasn’t trying to climb anything) was glorious. The memory of it is making me grin like a lunatic.

At some point during our journey, my Piano Man rescued some roses that had been recently crippled. I grabbed a half-snapped branch from the crabapple tree and brought the beautifully freakish bouquet home.

When we stepped out of the train, a man who seemed to be drunk enough to set his own breath on fire, looked from my face to my Frankensteinish crabapple-rose creation (which my Piano Man was carrying), and said to me, “You are very lucky, both of you.”

I nodded my thanks, but said nothing (since my mouth was dying to ask him if he meant that my Piano Man and I were both lucky, or if he was seeing two of me… and I suspect the latter might not have been very polite). But I did smile at him, thinking, Yes, we are.

Then my Piano Man and I got home, and made each other luckier.

I Am Made of Wild

A bright, sexy and rather modest Toad invited everyone to ask themselves, “what am I made of?” And then, craft their answer into a poem or short story. I decided to answer by expanding this blackout poem, and letting that beautifully freakish Toad know that:

.
I am made of Caribbean
dirt, blood and bones,
thought and screams.

I am made of free
women and men, of souls

kissing hurt on the mouth,
grinning with sharp teeth.

I am made of muse
birthing breathing words
of bright and dark
small minds can’t shroud.

I am made of wild

brilliance dancing
with rage, control
and haunting memories.

I am made of wild.

.
the wee notes…
– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads ~ “I Am Made of…” (Poetry and Flash Fiction with Magaly), and to Poets United ~ Poetry Pantry 357.
– I suspect this will become some sort of Made of Wild series. There is just something about those words, which keeps on asking for more and more and more… and I want to give it. So, while we are at it… what are you made of, my Wicked Luvs?

“Passion”, by Oscar Ortiz