My Cardboard Balcony

Folks, it's been a lovely week. I met a new colleague of mine over coffee and lunch, went to the gym and kept up my routine, got my hair cut again, celebrated ye olde Independence Day, and got to spend time with my sister and brother-in-law, who are visiting from New York. I'm sleepy. That's about all I have to say for now. Have a great night and a great weekend, everyone.

Ferris Wheel's Day Off by Belinda Roddie It broke from its base and hurtled toward the sea.

The 'Merica I Know by Belinda Roddie The 'Merica I know is on strict life support, the tubes linked to its arms and face, as it rasps for breath, pleading for its wife and kids to visit it. In this cold place of white walls and white rooms, it tries to thrive, yet its burden is caught in both the past and present, as its deeds have harmed the lives of everyone who does not dare to cast a pallid and pale light from their own skin. The 'Merica I knew was not perfect, yet I believed it had some strength within to become better. Now they all correct me, as its prognosis gets worse and worse. The experiment was, in fact, a curse.

Quilted Heart by Belinda Roddie Sometimes I wonder if the concave eye in my chest is covered by a sheer, or perhaps, in the end, something must thicker: A handstitched, painstaking design - one representing an ancient past, or perhaps an awkward, yet steady, future. I have a quilted heart: The kind that needs protecting. The kind who tucks Washingtons into plastic jars for public opinion. Who orders pizza for a dear friend thousands of miles away. The kind that appears strong, but fabric is only fabric. It tears easily. The holes are noticeable, flaws and indiscrepancies. You can swaddle what's beneath a ribcage, but the cradle is never safe from impending wind. It rocks and it sways and it falls according to the song.

The entire apartment was infested with them. Creeping, crawling, making strange noises. Pretending that they could fly without wings. Leaving everything rotten, every food product ruined, every can emptied. They were attracted to sugar, to alcohol, to salt, to everything. I didn't know what to do. So I called an exterminator. "Ah, the hipsters," she chuckled as she surveyed the problem. "I'll play mainstream pop and have 'em out in no time."