sirmitchell:

Fat Bird prints are in the shop! 

http://sirmitchell.com/

i found myself getting a haircut
at 9 in the morning,
i wasn’t hungover or
on a sleepless high fueled by some girl
i was just empty and
my hair had gotten a little long

as the old lady
cut my hair
one of the other employees sat
in the chair next to mine
she was probably 30,
she…

Every Sunday we walked down Linnaean street,
crushing bruised magnolias between cobblestones
past the overflowing trellis in the garden of
the corner house, the house with new wooden floors,
and then the house with no curtains, just stark white walls.

The world spread out before us and you
saw vastness, but I only saw a sky full of rain,
the heavy breath of rising steam, drowning ground.
Some afternoons you would ask, can’t you feel spring coming?
Other days, you gave in, lying with me in the dark.

Just us—pressed between cool starched sheets,
waiting for my departure. Together
we listen to the world coming undone—
the falling of branches, the echo of rain in the courtyard,
the drum of copper pipes and wait.

My fingers trace the curves of your arms,
your skin recoiling under my cold fingers,
as our breath pools between us in the tiny room—
enough warmth to loosen the hesitant dogwood buds,
for our raw cranberry ardor to rise,

bringing my first luminous spring.
Away from home. With you.

(Source: whistleful)

The rice field birds are too clever for scarecrows
They know what they love, milk in the grain.

When it happens, there will be no time to look for anyone.
Husband, children, nine brothers and sisters.

You will drop your sugarcane-stick-beating of plastic bucket,
Stop shouting at birds and run.

They will load you in trucks and herd you for a hundred miles.
Old men will teach you trade with soldiers at checkpoints.

You will give them your spoon, blanket and beans,
They’ll let you keep your life. And if you jump off the truck,

The army jeep trailing it will run you over
Later, they will accuse you of giving up your land.

Later, you will stand in distribution lines and won’t receive enough to eat.
Your mother will weave you new underwear from flour sacks.

And they’ll give you plastic tents, cooking pots,
Vaccine cards, white pills, and wool blankets.

And you will keep your cool.
Standing with eyes shut tight like you’ve got soap in them.

Arms stretched wide like you’re catching rain.

My science teacher said
there are no monographs
on the dandelion.

Unlike the Venus fly-trap
or Calopogon pulchellus,
it is not a plant worthy of scrutiny.

It goes on television
between the poison squirt bottles,
during commercial breakaways from Ricki Lake.

But that’s how life
parachutes
to my home.

Home,
where they make you do
what you don’t want to do.

Moms with Uzis of reproach,
dads with their silencers.
(My parents watch me closely because I am their jewel.)

So no one knows how strong
a dandelion is inside,
how its parts stick together,
bract, involucre, pappus,
how it clings to its fragile self.

There are 188 florets in a bloom,
which might seem a peculiar number,
but there are 188,000 square feet
in the perfectly proportioned Wal-Mart,
which allows for circulation
without getting lost.

I wish I could grow like a dandelion,
from gold to thin white hair,
and be carried on a breeze
to the next yard.

Not once have I encountered a soft green meadow.

Printed words lie about lying down. Grass is never velvety or tender in the promised prescribed manner. Hence the colloquial term “blades” of grass. That’s true. Grass is composed of nasty little daggers.

Every summer, I find myself believing that maybe, just this time, it’ll be different. It’s May, but here in my hometown it already feels like summer. The weather is beautiful. We never hurt from want of sunlight. In fact, it is more frequently the complete opposite. It is h o t. Fifteen minutes is enough to sizzle your skin.

So when I saunter down the sidewalk in my carefully manicured suburban neighborhood, I am always taken aback by how inviting the grass appears. I know it will itch like a son-of-a-bitch. I know I will regret it. Yet time and time again, I throw caution to the winds (along with my backpack), settle down on the mother-fucking grass, and pretend that I enjoy it.

The thing is, often times I actually do. I get these angry red bumps along the backs of my knees and scratch for the next half-hour, but there are moments when I am just so… happy. There’s this peaceful contentment that comes from flinging away my eighteen years of inhibition and good sense to kick back onto the grass, and communicate with the sky. It’s the most profoundly serious thing in the world to do, because it is just me and the whisper of leaves overhead and a twinkle of sunlight playing with shadows on your face.

You forget about the numbers ticking away and you remember what it means to be human, that creature cursed with the faculty of imagination. It’s just you on the grass, sprawled out like an animal.

It’s a good feeling.