to be visible again, after a longish stint in the radio static

Raw energy is building
turning and churning

in the pit of my stomach,

familiar but almost

forgotten in the midst of

the repeated repeating

broadcasting sounds of

metal sounds of crunching

the screen door slamming

and the insidious silence

on the other end of the line.

I almost forgot this 

strange sensation,

almost drowned it out

in my increasingly 

deafening din, 

in my ineffectual effort to

forget where I was.

But the energy's buzzing, and burning, and beckoning, 

and suddenly there appears a blinking arrow,

a synchronized sign of fireflies

dancing in the evening air,

with the words in cursive

above my head

"Silly Girl 

Here"

l

l

V

(Oh, There I Am.)

Om Appliances

The refrigerator in my
cream colored kitchen
never stops humming;
always the slow and steady
thrumming,
a gentle reminder
of its constant conversion,
churning,
electric current coursing.

Sometimes the thrumming
becomes a gurgle,
                           drip
and I imagine my fridge
with a cheek full of mouthwash,
spitting sour milk
into the sink.
Then it clicks
and quiets--though never
to silence--

And the HVAC,
sensing an open space
to fill,
makes the whole apartment
vibrate
and the walls exhale
a dry heat
that sucks the saline
from my knuckles,
from my pores.

So I turn to my nurturing
moisture machine,
and its gentle whir
joins in the chorus
that builds to crescendo
in my seven hundred and
fourteen square feet,
and the ring of their singing
drowns out the TV.

My neighbors' laughter
fades into the mix,
and some days I feel
like a leaf, discolored
and crinkled, afloat,
whipping about
in the gusts of noise.

But some days,
like today,
I feel more like a sail,
the energy around me
a favorable wind.

And I feel myself
begin to
huuuuummmmmmmmm.

scratch that itch

the girl in the corner

with long dark hair

bats tired eyelashes,

flecks mascara
in her eye.

she turns to the window

and blinks -- long and slow

like she'll open her eyes

and be somewhere new.

but when she turns back, 
he's staring directly

at the spot on her chin
she had tried to forget.
just a wasp sting,

she says,

hunching her shoulders,

when the slow itch sets in

and she begins to twitch.
he leans, she twitches

he speaks, she itches

he touches her knee

and she can't help but scratch,

the bump on her chin

pinker and warmer

with every angry
demanding touch.

he grabs her hand and

holds it still,

and kisses her there

in front of god

and everybody.

and as soon as he's done

she pauses

and then
leans in,
rubs her chin

in the thick

of his beard.

***
Thanks for the inspiration, L.T.  Who knew your wasp sting would bring us so much insight? ;o)