“Crayola Census”

 

“Crayola Census”

 

When I smell colors, this is what I see.

The brown smells like wet cardboard and soggy Rice Krispies languishing in a stodgy bowl in a dirty sink full of dishes.

The black smells like licorice flavored liquor and settled smoke obscuring my vision on a deathly autumn night that seems to last forever.

When I smell colors, this is what I hear.

The white smells like vanilla candles burning special, on vanilla birthday frosted cakes, too, too sweet.

The red smells like angry acne and sweat from a sleepless summer nights of rejected sexual advances, festering in a marriage bed growing toward displeasure.

When I smell colors, this is what I taste.

The blue smells like the mystery of a shadowed ocean being overlooked by a winter’s dark starry night above.

The orange smells like corporate cubicles during rushed at-desk lunches, peels peeled of pride and dead inside, cleaning the clogged dreams with citrus solutions.

When I smell colors, this is what I feel.

The green smells like the verdant vegetative estates of spring sprawling out into the forever, ground up for health drinks consumption.

The purple smells like mountains majesty and spiced plums bruised by vascular varicose varieties.

When I smell colors, this is what I smell.

The peach smells like generalized skin tones of nude pantyhose on a Kmart shelf hanging suggestively from a plastic egg packaging.

The grey smells like the ashes of dead relatives left on counters at mortuaries and funeral parlors sealed with precision so all that is left materially cannot escape order.

 

 

 

 

“Timeshare Chicanery”

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“Woods Hole Harbor” © C.P. Hickey 2009

 

 

 

“Timeshare Chicanery” *

 

Come at once!

Make haste, you’ve won!

For your time,

a handsome sum.

You don’t have to buy,

despite our best try.

You’re free to go.

Just a moment, though.

Sit inside this hotel multi-purpose room,

and listen to our pitch.

You can have a free blender,

even if you ditch.

Let’s share some time,

and time some share.

A few weeks a year,

now that is all we ask.

Are you and your new spouse up to such a task?

Imagine, yourself in a warmer clime,

just sign here,

upon this dotted line.

Floridian, Caribbean,

abroad in some exotic place.

If those aren’t the weeks you want,

you simply trade your space.

Our industry depends on you,

we value your inability to say no.

Once we get a foot in the door,

it’s nigh impossible for you to go.

So, come at once!

Make haste, you’ve won!

You’re luckier than most.

Sign upon the dotted line,

and enjoy a sunny coast.

Two weeks a year,

is all we need,

to puff our bottom line.

We depend on rubes like you,

you are our favorite kind.

*seeded from a phrase offered by, E. Vickery