Authentic Blue Lettering

Of the many vivid memories that help shape who I’ve become, it’s the memories from the dinner table which I cherish most, an eager little boy listening to everything embracing all that was said. I’d watch all the hands and mouths going about their joyful tasks imprinting it somewhere in memory. Bread resides in many of those memories.

White bread was all my dad ate, he’d transform white sponginess into a utensil and push food onto his fork with its folded shape, a soft loaf of Tip-Top bread nearly touching his big elbow lay always open, allowing easy access to another slice. My mother savored dark hefty breads wafting with aroma’s from her childhood in the orphanage. Pungent rye filled with caraway seeds was her favorite for sandwiches. My fathers viewed himself and others in a simple easily defined generalizations while my mother saw layers and shades of complexity in most people and situations.

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Yellow Line

Ellen inhaled the stainless aesthetic, then slowly exhaling, savored the anticipation washing over her. The vendor folded back the stainless doors releasing the sacred aroma into a cloud of rising steam, and smiled. Taking the cue Ellen stepped forward to place her order, “two please,” she said smiling back at the vendor. Silver tongs plunged …

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Iced Grease

[podcast][/podcast] On soft cotton sheets, fresh with spring air, Franny dropped her robe, edging herself onto the bed. With her finger tips she placed warm bacon upon her inner thighs, letting juices dribble to the sheets, letting the grease adherer each slice to her skin. Using her salty fingers Franny massaged the bacon with ice …

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Pale Blue

[podcast][/podcast] Carole King wafting across the quad sun shinning on our bodies, reaching up I touch sky blue cotton dress with spaghetti straps, compelling anorexic dancers creating permanent jealousy binge infused with cheerleaders, wondering could they possibly, like you. Grass between toes, classes for the toads reefer madness swirling puffing circle hula hoops around your …

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Orange Peel

With one hand I pluck a round fragrant orange from the white china bowl, ignoring its pedestrian neighbors. Tossing it from one hand to the other wanting to know it, balancing it on finger tips rotating the fruit in and out of the palms of my smooth yielding hands. Cupped hands encircling the California navel …

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