X Marks The Spot

Let me tie up my hair like an inventor and tell you, I found mica in the parking lot. I collected crumbling chunks in my hands and let it shine up my skin. Fists full I walked down to the water and placed small piles of stone shine on each bench. In my mind, I heard the children asking, “What is this?” They’d collect it up in their little hands like treasure and some sensitive guardian would tell them all about mica, searching some ancient memory from high school science class or an episode on the discovery channel.
As a child, I thought it held some value adults were unable to realize, and I’d collect it, catalog it in old ninja turtle lunchboxes, waiting for the day my discovery would be significant.

Lay down in this dead grass for me. I half hope your body will encourage it to green. There is sun now for your face; there is wind now for your lungs. You travel on sparks through gray matter posed and limited in your activities; gifts are strung around your neck and poured over your face as offerings for inspiration and destruction.

I look at what has made us, dirty clothes and winter worn idols. I make dinner and shower with simple products. I’ve got a jeweled crown and pills to take; my bed is unmade and my hair avoids the brush. And from your parallel, resting in your own orbit, what makes you human, warm blood and cold fingers. What marks your skin, dirties your clothes and leaves you smiling like a happy Buddha?

Still shoed, I dangled my feet over the side of a foot bridge.
I smiled at a stranger on the street and they smiled back.
I am almost out of milk in the fridge and it is only Monday.

Could you find me if you wanted to, would you know the path to take?