What a spicy meatball of a life
This curious little salamander body
That is birthed and breathes
While the moon continues to orbit overhead
And space debris wink in the night sky.

Our individual unique little faces and souls
Born from millions of protein lego pieces,
And worn by family and circumstance
And sometimes pure chance' caprices.

What a deliciously weird solo recital,
These pink-and-green,
Everything-in-between
Fleeting lives,
In these absurdly floppy flesh costumes,
Bound by a slippery fable of time and place,
Of colour and race.

Some chapters are full of pain and struggle,
As we dance on the precipice between
Textbook norms and rebellious liberation.
But what fascinatingly quirky,
And gateaux-rich our little short stories are -
Sometimes swollen and aflame with sadness
Then extinguished with timely humour.

This time we are gifted in history,
Whether the first journey or our souls 332nd
We have it to taste fresh bread,
Chat to bus drivers,
Stroke the perfection of a pompom dahlia
Talk baby to the neighbors dog
Laugh heartily at our shortfalls
Pop pimples,
Sob out the pain in our body
Smell old books
And laugh our way to double chins.

We're all a little mad
In this world of spinning dreams.
Where teardrops turn to waterfalls,
And fate's determined by the sea.
We're all a little crazy
In this field of life and love.
With winding roads and rabbit holes,
And things you wouldn't dare speak of.
We're all a bit insane
Each dealt a different hand to play.
Though we shuffle the deck of cards,
The Queen of Hearts will still remain.
We're all a bit bizarre
In this place of mystery.
For time ticks faster, faster still,
A kaleidoscope like history.
We're all a little weird
Like Cheshire grinning ear to ear.
But in this Wonderland of Life,
Grand adventures find us here.
©KSS 8/2015

Dream is a bubble,
easily burst from a light touch.
At time, I forget I am a guest in my dream,
A host and a guest;
In control yet not,
bizarre yet naught,
unexpected yet forgot.
Life too, is a dream,
a very long dream indeed.

The phone rings,
Or rather vibrates,
As I stir my instant coffee
Because my Keurig is broken
And I haven’t gotten around to replacing it.
The lady on the other end
Of the call
Says she’s with the bank.
She’s selling identity theft protection subscriptions.
I listen to her
Explain
What that is
With mild excitement growing in my stomach;
Not with regards to the
Subscription,
But over the
Tones and intonations —
The way she breathes:
Softly,
Warmly,
Unconsciously.
I let her run with it,
Feigning curiosity at first.
A question here,
There,
To really get her going.
I wonder when she was last ******?
She asks to verify my name,
Address.
She mentions a credit score package
(Ooh la la)
That will provide me with insight as to whether my identity has ever been
Stolen.
(This call
Is getting steamy)
She tells me that in order to receive the package I need to confirm my enrolment in the subscription.
‘What?
Could you repeat that?’
I can feel it
Tickling,
Licking,
My soul,
As I sip my ****** instant coffee.
I tell her
That I absolutely won’t enrol,
That I refuse,
But that she should be a voice actor
Or that if she was a voice option for Siri
I would surely select her.
She doesn’t have a response,
Choosing to wish me a good evening instead,
And to thank me on behalf of her employer.
‘No,
Thank you dear.
Call this number whenever you like.
I don’t want your talents to go unappreciated by other customers
Who I’m sure are all swines.’
Click.
I stare at the ended call
And fantasize about your voice,
And when you were last ******.
Too bad the coffee is ****.