Shel Graves' Sensorium

Taste: blue cheese and Zinfandel, mold and ferment, the Zinfandel does not have enough bite, it washes away, watery. I am becoming ever more particular. I seek an assertive red wine that won't be forgotten. Touch: the tackiness of waxed fruit, the thin vacuous layer between me and the skin over the life-giving flesh, the tightness between my shoulders from hunching over my keyboard feels like my thighs after a five mile run Smell: The grocery store aisles evoke memories of the orchard rows, the filled bushels, the cider press, the murky gallons. It's time to eat apples. Sound: the hound baying in response to the ambulance, an urgent, sad sound hidden in the forest, Should I come to his aid? What would I find? But when the woman comes out from the trail walking her dog there is nothing extraordinary about this scene at all and nothing for me to do but keep driving. Sight: the crow's feet on trajectory with the wire, it's the take off and landing that are difficult, ...

Taste: cilantro sweetened with apple, a strawberry sugar wafer Touch: soft fabric with a bit of courseness, merino wool Smell: grimy, enclosed metal lingering oil and damp cement, a parking garage Sound: absence of radio noise, rehearsing a speech inside my head and writing an essay there too Sight: a cylinder of green rice on top of a circle of tofu topped by shredded mushroom, a flurry of yellow oak leaves billowing across the road in magical swirls Extra: flounces, lace and tiers of fabric wrapped with emerald green satin bows, what if I began to wear party dresses to work and carry pink sparkling purses from Betsey Johnson on a regular basis? Would it change my life? 20 percent of the proceeds will go to support breast cancer research

Taste: taurine, found in energy drinks but not in the bellies of people who eat a lot of chocolate , the chemical cocktail of bottled amino acids Touch: unwavering, unblinking the psychic intensity of her brown eyes, the feeling of nonverbal communication Smell: decay, old meat, chewed bones lying in the sun Sound: the breathy man says he sings like moaning Sight: traditionalist colors: burgandy, forest greeen, walnut, creme, and the matching russet, black and white dog with dewy eyes, erect ears, attentive posture like a painting Extra: presence, she lies a foot length away with her backturned to you, she's still, she'll wait, but she wants you to go to bed

Taste: acid, cheap Cabernet Sauvignon and Italian roast Touch: smooth, pub table and Celtic Tarot cards Smell: waffles Sound: Morris Graves' box, three-hours worth, the sound of creating art, construction, hammering and planks of wood falling filtered through a fuzzy recording and entering a silent, contemplative space Sight: LED lights-electric flowers, the undercarriages of hanging cars overhead, suspended and still, but for how long? Extra: Surrealism, West Coast Funk, the man-sized black mouse sitting on the white bed made out of some fine nap, Bierstadt painting the West Coast he'd never seen and almost capturing it exactly except something's just a touch surreal - the lighting? the position of the sea around the inlet? the drama? Infused with his imagined sense of adventure?

Taste: only sweet, a lack of flavor that becomes more of a sensation: synthetic, plastic sugar Touch: I feel the coldness first in my hands. Smell: forced floral scent puffing out of Bela Lugosi's green nostrils, the teenage renters are using dryer sheets in their laundry on an October night Sound: three, three, three - words, words, words - Sylvia Plath Sight: flowers curled pink like a fairy's cap, the glittery sheen of light trapped in these succulent petals Extra: the fog of time, twelve hours float away and leave me stranded at the end of the day, ready to curl up under a lone palm and await rescue