Shel Graves' Sensorium

Taste: Mom's apple pie Sight: starling in the lawn; dragon VW bus Sound: The Presets, "Girl and the Sea" Touch: dazed by the bright sun   Smell: black man and coffee   Extra: a Basque Spanish undertaker; Ibiza; banana bread caked with nuts; "You matter because you are you. You matter until the last moment of your life, and we will do all we can, not only to help you die peacefully, but to live until you die." — Dr. Cicely Saunders, founder of the first hospice   Grateful for: lips and tongue

Taste: salt and pepper   Sight: crinkled wilted pink and white daffodils   Sound: "Renegades of Funk," Rage Against the Machine   Touch: the back of your hands press together; that part where your ass jiggles, that gasping burn wherein you can't breathe   Smell: rotting flowers   Extra: "Birds circling. Carrion likely. Could be us."; a cheetah in a field of cows, a cheetah takes the little black dog instead; savor solace;  "At lunch you order steamed vegetables because you're remembering that you have a heart too. You feel humbled by your heart, it works so hard. You want to thank it. You give your heart a little pat." — "The Bowl," Aimee Bender   Grateful for: heart, hands and feet

Taste: no sugar peanut butter; pistachios   Sight: The clean-cut missionary boys in their black suits and crisp white button-up shirts proselytizing to the giant arm-waving black man who walks down Broadway are blocked when the walk sign blinks red. The homeless man carries on into traffic as they stop, stare stiffly — How can you save the world from Satan if you can't cross the street?; sunrise orange Zinfandel   Sound: "You Are My Sunshine," shy singing softly in a restaurant; "Outsiders."   Touch: sodden two cubic feet bags of mulch hefted in the chill rain   Smell: petrichor, scent of rain; breath of death; microwaved apples Extra: bookish memory: When I was in fourth grade my violin teacher gave me the battered, tattered copy of Watership Down by Richard Adams off her bookshelf at the end of a lesson. I read it that weekend on a camping trip by flashlight. Grateful for: Yoga Circle Studio

When you return to earth as a bug, I will dip my spoon into a glass. While they discuss permutations of industrialist hippies, Pausing to exclaim, in disgust, as your wings spin eddies; I will torque the handle and raise you out of the water. See you crawl to the lip: Six, sticky, crooked legs, Green and purple prisms glint across your back. I release the spoon and lean over: My empty plate. When you return to life as a bug, I will lift my foot off of the gas pedal. While he recites lines about comatose rapes, Remarking how the splatter of bodies resembles Chihuly; I will watch as the wind gust bends you under the blade. See you twist below: Bent wings, striated body, carmine/yellow, bursting of dark gels, emptied. Your wings flutter as I grip the wheel: exhale Late, love, late.

Taste: multi-green Synergy chia Kombucha   Sight: Blossom Bat ; a dried pink bouquet; shaggy, cream ragdoll cat belly; old prom pictures   Sound: jazzy tunes, orangerie Touch: a smooth round plastic disk; slimy, chewy chia seeds Smell: urine and feces Extra: today, a day for different things.; Tortoiseshell, Birman, Ragdoll, Bermese - kinds of cat; There is not enough failure.; Joyce Carol Oates' story "Amputee" from Sourland Stories ; " Watching the Lights Go Out: Helplessness ," physician David Hilfiker blogs about having Alzheimer's Grateful for: My writing room: Castle Green.

Betty jangles the tambourine. The crowd, dotted-blue, records every silver fleck. A 50-year-old man axe-kicks over them; An adoring stadium, applause. In the last turn of the wheel, we become — Rock Stars! People who are loved even when sickly, when moody, when gravely ill. Fame, like generosity, cannot be stolen, cannot be given away. Betty's sleeping in her miniskirt. The bag, left under the window, is gone. Fishnet tights strung out in the alders, Cottonwood underwear clung damp with dew. Pajamas, pillows, socks, a poem, a pacifier — stolen! The Walkman was worth $50, maybe, in 1980; But who, but herself, would want a used, pink toothbrush now? Betty's fearful dogs were just starting to come round; Backslid by a door left ajar on a windy day. Plastic bags and dried leaves flung into furred faces; Leftover objects, turned terrifying. Intruders are undeterred by pitchy barks — whirling! Sounds made like toys: Now who plays with these? Anyone's things ...

Taste: spicy taco soup   Sight: Magnolia blossoms on a trimmed limb; pink and peach blanket/bruises; yellow roses   Sound: "Read that again."   Touch: a palm dusting of cloves/tumeric   Smell: grandmother's house; burnt plastic   Extra: the starvation potluck; sounding just like your mother; "Our mothers always remain the strangest, craziest people we've ever met." ― Marguerite Duras   Grateful for: Fast ship, meant to precede Friday's spring snow flurry. Early finds, Lori: cozy, kind. If he walks you to work, shouldn't he be in Joaquin? Yes! Another! High fashion here — Why not, oh, vegan Seattle?