The whole reason for the mowing in the first place was to mulch all the leaves that were falling.  I explect things to fall.  Mulch, mulch, mulch. 

I wasn’t expecting this.  It could have hit me, for cryin’ out loud.

I remember that June morning just a few days before Kylie’s grad party.  We woke up, sipped our coffee.  One of us looked out the window.  One of us screamed.

Toilet paper.

I think of those adolescent boys now, acne faced in the moonlight, adrenaline pumping, rolling their cars up without headlights, tossing the roles high into the pine boughs, sneaking away, stifling laughter, spending their hard earned money on…

…toilet paper.

They could have done a better job.  I salvaged 21 rolls.  At the grad party I encouraged guests to use as many squares as they liked.

Now she’s in Mexico, and I’m dodging

.

I’m going to Mexico soon.  I’ll bring this for her.  She can squeeze it.

 

 

In truth, I think such titles are on the wane at CCCC. When I attended 15 years ago, I could swear that every other one paren(the)sized or bracketiz[ed] something of por[ten]tious (Un)Meaning (but I’m not going to support the accuracy of my memory; for this exercise, gut feeling is enough). Of over 600 scheduled sessions this year, I only found about 20 PoMo/DeCons. Also, of those 20, not one used []s (parenthesis ascending). How (Dis)appointing. I and Jacques Derrida de(rid)e a (de)clining down(turn).

My rule was to use only words or phases appearing in conference titles. I wimp(ed) out on my original goal to write a sonnet, but I offer it anyway as a monument to mean(ing)less/ful[ness].

Derrida’s Gift

(re)Defining Community
Reclaiming the (Con)Textual Product
(Re)claiming the Literacy Agenda
Facebook
Reasearch(ing) Spaces
(Re)Building Reality
Reinterpreting and (Re)inscribing Bodily (Un)Realities
Fundamentalism
(Re)Charting the (Dis)Courses of
Discourse(s)
Aliens, (Ex)Gays, and Lesbians
Call(ing) and Response(ding) to
Changing Realities
(Re)presenting Hidden Realities
(Re)Writing Political Landscapes
Writing Real(ities)
(Re)Writing the Realities of
New Orleans

at age 15

she does a squirmy dance.
hair of a man on her legs,
on her head; of a goddess.
wearer of Chacos,
whose eyes disappear when
she smiles a
grin so wide
her face should split.
heart of a lioness.
squeal of a pig.
peals of laughter
come from deep within
a soul untainted.
no anger over petty fights.
no tears over split milk.
forgiving.
if you squeeze her,
she may pass gas.

proof that Jesus walks the earth.

———————————————

And a blast from the past. This must be birthday number 10.

“I hope you don’t mind dog shit,”? he says.

A rumpled black plastic bag
covers a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma.
Springer Mocha snuffles modestly.
I shove my skis in the back.

Later under a blue sunlit dome we load
sled to be pulled to the shack behind skis.
Tool bag, oil pan, oil, funnel, plug, filter, shop towels
and mystery revealed.
Ice cream pails full of Mocha grounds.
A winter’s worth mined from
Mocha brewing and dumping on Mocha’s beach.
Forget vanilla.
Forget pralines and forget cream.
Forget Kemps, and Ben & Jerry, too.
Think Mocha Choca Latte. Think Grande.
Do you need a permit to transport these
lovingly processed nuggets?
Clumped, frosty, perfect in the hand nuggets for whipping at ice cream trucks?

“¦wait. Don’t touch. Such riddles have limits.
No, dump carefully
not in the garden but
in the woods where
small guys process microbe nuggets
for spring grass.

Springer Mocha, wet nose thrust in the snow,
stub quivering as we ski Blackhoof in our shirtsleeves,
percolates more mystery.

No, I don’t mind dog shit.

(Note: Special thanks to Vicki for the idea.)