Saturday, June 6, 2015

Pitter patter of literary feats  

The head-author-in-charge of this town
comes at me at the book party, his long 
praying mantis neck stretching out on me, 
yeasty smelling as a New England food co-op, and asks,
You write?”

“You right.”

This backed him up a little, against 
the venetian blinds of the kitchen window, 
letting some moonlight in. 


"I beg your pardon?"

"What genre do you write for? SF? YA?"


"FU? What?"

"No, MU. Not FU, though that may come next."

"What's MU?"

"Made Up." 

That was the end of that conversation, and 
I walked out the back porch door, where 
two friends were obviously waiting for me, 
by their body language. The moon, 
FULL tonight, sparkling her earrings,
and my old friend, the talking raccoon, 
who I hadn't seen in five or six years.

Their body language, and sense of quiet
anticipation, also said: We're listening. 

"I just said something nasty 
and catty to a guy in that party, 
but after you've been humiliated 
as much as I have, you do that 
for protection, I guess."

The moon shrugged and looked off towards
the sun. The raccoon looked up at the moon,
then back at me, said "Yeah, we heard it.
What do you think, Moon?"

"I thought it was funny. You did the right
thing. That guy wanted to locate you 
on some kind of shelf. You didn't want that.
Neither do I or the raccoon, who aren't even
supposed to be able to talk."

"Yeah," said the raccoon, "what genre are we, 
do you think, ha ha ha!"

I laughed but I wasn't yet on the same page
as the moon and the raccoon.

"But maybe he was right. I mean, maybe
the man just wanted to know who I am. In 
literature - what this party is about - or in
life, aren't we suppose to know who we are?" 

"You're getting warm," said the moon,
creaming the sky. 

"Aren't I suppose to know who I am?"

"Warmer," said the raccoon, licking a paw. 

"Or ok, maybe not always know, because 
it changes, every minute, every second.
But in the end, as it was in the beginning
I get to be what I want? Day or night?
And holidays?"

"RED HOT!" they both said and laughed. 

Then the raccoon went over the fence;
rambunctiously as Gene Kelley, lasciviously 
as Mick Jagger, languidly as Snoop Doggy Dogg.
The moon slipped sensually, softly
behind the mysterious range 
of powdery blue midnight clouds. 

I went back into the party, a little less mean 
but ready for anything.

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