Finish this sentence for me.
Spell my name.
Read my resume like a musical score.
Scratch through the grace notes
but linger on the passages of dissonance.
Out from a tendril wrapped
around a broken toe
by a pebble in the park
where the water babies wade
with the ducks and dogs,
on the underside of a sandal
on the foot of a Sunday cyclist,
is a fire in a basket of neurons
lit by the breath of a mouse queen
crawling toward the storm
in the darker corners of the bone.
Her placement on the line
between fire and fragmentation
reignites the breath of the beast.
Will she step into the pool?
Will her slipper slip
into the secret recess
of her urge to defy? No.
She'll find a fractured rutabaga root,
and all the methods of memory
will fail to satisfy her search
for the string in the theory.
Nasty stuff is down between the toes.
It's never tried to be the sanitarium
that Mother Apprehension
told us we should stop
trying to remember.
Nothing separates the matter
from the momentary.
She will assure us that
something does and send us
down a lifetime of culs-de-sac.
The sun's a smear behind a cloud,
the trees are undecided:
to bud or not to bud?
Parkas over shorts and sandals.
We know the air will make up its mind,
but we don't know when, exactly,
and we want to know. We want
to feel the air with our heads bare.
We want to see the women wear
their tank tops & flip-flops.
Some of them do already.
Those of us still
in parkas and scarves
shake our watches
and squint at the pages
in our calendars.
Jesse Minkert started his creative life as a visual artist,
but a threat to his vision turned him to writing. In Seattle ,
he founded the non-profit corporation Arts and Visually Impaired
Audiences. His writing has appeared in magazines, anthologies,
dance performances, and recordings on radio and CDs. Each summer
Minkert teaches radio theater and writes radio scripts to be
performed and produced by visually impaired teenagers.