Poetic Self

Modern Me

I am from Hot Wheels, from literary action figures (like Dickens and Poe and Austen), and Star Trek–always Star Trek, everything Star Trek.

I am from Hires Root Beer and Bubble Up: special treats from my Auntie and my Na—always ice cold and tickling our noses on hot summer days in the garden or by the pool.

I am from Looney Tunes and I Love Lucy 
and the World Series.

I am from the Mary Tyler Moore show and M*A*S*H (the novel), from Winston cigarettes, from “I can’t believe I ate the whole thing,” and from “How do you spell relief?”

I am from the LA Times 
and the Riverside Press-Enterprise and the Idaho Statesman I read for years with a dear friend–sharing the paper each morning over coffee.

From family values and the exact opposite of that.

I’m from the Mediterranean from boats, mountains,
 rocks, and scallops.

I am from the Macaroni Grill, writing on table paper while eating shrimp with pasta, spinach, garlic butter, and pine nuts—and Brooke eating teriyaki salmon.

From the entire run of Farscape I watched in one month because a friend said I’d like it, and I did. Totally.

I am from metal and Frank Sinatra and “Higher Ground” and “Casey Jones” and “Whatcha Gonna Do with a Cowboy?”

I am from LPs and 8-tracks and cassettes and CDs and digital music and blasting song after song while I write—two ways: loud and louder.

I am from open and good and wild and sugar and restraint and fear, from kind and hungry and art with black ink on white paper. I am from and for Open. I am open. Always open. Always looking at the view, always in the clouds even before the cloud was someplace we could store our information, our lives.

I am about three ways the game can go: you can win, you can lose, or it can rain.

I am from the hero’s journey and baseball and mythology and the travel, not the destination.


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