little yellow girl

My mother, a modern woman, called me a little yellow girl while she combed my hair. an act that she hasn't performed in many years. She dug her fingers through the nappy space above my scalp with grease on her hands. i closed my eyes and marveled at the wonderful feeling of her touch. I hoped that she wouldn't use the pick or the hard toothed comb. I laughed when she said "Let me hit this kitchen with some heat."

I always laugh and she always asks me: "what's so funny?" I never have a decent explanation as to why that statement is so funny.

After all the sculpting is finished and all the primping is through, she turns me around and looks down at my face. "You little yellow girl," she says for no particular reason. I tell her i'm not yellow. I'm just like her. In fact, we're nearly identical.

She scoffs and rebukes me. No, she says. you're not. You with your good hair.

When my smile falters, i thank her and try to hug away the awful debt i've stacked for being different from her. Although, i was under the impression i wasn't all that different to begin with.

I'm number #34

The numbers i've seen don't compare to the identities i've tried to live.
24 is the cyclical reminder that i'm losing what mind i've left.
15 is the tight rope i danced only to fall off the left side. 15 hurt my feet.
26 is the fake life i carried willingly when i was sixteen.
940 is the interesting turn i took when i found the world was only out for my blood.
No biggie.
And then today, i discovered, unbeknownst to me, that i was number #34 all along.
I had to look it up, no one told me. As i counted, i smiled and believed things were
looking up.
I am a 34.
Have you seen me?

Like Bob "Said"

Like Bob asked me, I asked her:
“How does it feel?”
She ignored me and pressed her lips to the sun’s forehead, where the climate is more temperate than I had previously imagined. My dog could hear the approaching trot of green. And while I couldn’t see it, I could definitely smell it. The olfactory division of my face was on high alert. So were my toes.

I asked her again, like Bob asked me:
“How does it feel?”
Her chortle was like ten infants rolling around in the hay. Nutty and creamy. She gave the sun a bear hug. I’m certain it was uncomfortable by the gesture. Persons of astute wisdom can roll blunts quicker than they can tie their cravats. I’ve stuffed my lasagna full of wisdom. Let’s eat.

I added like Bob would have:
“To be on your own. . .”
When she did a headstand on the sun’s belly I was beside myself. What grace? I usually like my cars organic, but Prius will do. My cup-holders are on the roof, my café au lait is securely tucked away in the glove box with my semi-automatic rifle. I feel jealous and completely rational.

I reiterated like Bob did:
“With no direction home. . .”
Imagine my demise when I saw her intimately touch the sun’s skin. She’s brash, a rebel, and dangerous. I can’t have her on the force. Hand over the gun and badge. Aww chief! Put the safety on your finger. We don’t want any accidents. Not like last week. She passed the baton to me via the helios star, made millions of years ago to make me colored.

I pleaded like Bob did:
“A complete unknown. . .”
Kiss off. I can’t see the trees for the forest. And they said my detail was blurry. My eyes are only blurry, so suck it. I’m building rapport with the children on my block and I now know why they vandalize Chip Wade’s bushes. I won’t tell you though. Build your own rapport.

I summed it up in a manner that would please Bob:
“Like a rolling stone.”
I’ve taken the liberty of adding peas to the brisket. It gives the meat a country feeling you lack. She rolled her eyes and fell asleep on the center of my universe. I’ve the distinct feeling that she’s not listening. I was going to have a harmonica interlude, but my lips don’t want to work like they used to. Silly slackers.