Upside Down Kris

Molecule Mover I don't do it for the acclaim. Clapping or comments like "What a lovely voice she has" echo in my ear, but they're not what pushes me to perform. It's not sound at all, as paradoxical as it may seem. No. It's my vibrations that align with yours that I'm aiming for. Does my singing jingle a cell inside of you? Does it resonate with some memory, making you pause to listen? What is it that makes someone listen? What is the sound that literally strikes a chord which travels up to their eyes?  What sticks in my memory is this: a woman staring at me the whole time I sing "Hallelujah". Her eyes get progressively red and she is saying the words with me. During a musical break she puts more money in my hat and then sits down to listen to the rest. Her wobegone eyes have painted a lasting picture in my head–it's not the money that matters. Another vision: a lovely, vibrant little girl dancing as I sang. She is swaying with me, following

Earnings Her wheels are crushing my cap lying on the ground. It doesn't matter , I think. There were only a few coins in it . I watch as she clutches the microphone, singing for her clan. They are clapping and looking around for support from by-standers. I start to chuckle. At the beginning I had held the microphone for her, but I quickly learned that she wanted the microphone for herself, and wasn't shy. She is triumphant as she rolls away in her wheelchair. She knows exactly where she is going, where she wants to be. I had thought to do our duet from where she was watching me, but she had quickly joined me on my makeshift stage. She was sure of herself. Had I ever been that sure? I shake my head and look down again at the cap. I hadn't made much that evening, maybe even less from the time I had taken to arrange the impromptu duet. Why am I doing this? I think.  I can't lie: money is always welcome. But I had decided to do it so that I could measure myself with my aud

Pure Poetry The day was full of pure poetry. Morning's breath brought whiffs of dry grass and delicate linden. We paused at a field–our feet as well as our voices. We were rewarded for our silence by a cloud of black birds shooting up out of the grass. "How marvelous", I murmured. Something about the perfect angle of their flight in juxtaposition with the flat field fascinated me. But as I was contemplating their lifting point, another gift streaked past. A beige blur raced through the grass. If I had blinked, I would have missed the moment.  "Look!" I shouted to Stacey. "A hare!" she exclaimed. He was moving so fast it was hard to gage his gait, but when we focused on his legs it became apparent that he tucked the front set under his body and then closed it in with those in the rear. I felt awed by this rare scene, but there was another present in store. We continued down the path to a section full of underbrush. As I was soaking in the green around u

  Morning Stairs I am already out even though it's early. I am wearing yesterday's clothes, but I don't care. I can look pretty later when I have time. Right now, I'm my half woken self with a tender face from the morning wash. That's enough for now. The street is surprising. I mean, surprisingly empty. No one is waiting at the first bus stop I pass by, and only one commuter is at the second. Where are all the cars?  Asleep at home with their owners, I imagine. Their humans are still submerged in the land of slumber. The world of work has not yet entered into their consciousness. It stands at bay, ready to crash into the waves of deep sleep. I smile at my state, wakefulness blowing on me as I speed into it on my bike.  Ah, I can go as fast as I want!  I thought. There's nobody to stop me. The to-wake world had left me with space to start the day. I meet a friend full of sleep for a tea and talk, and then come back home. The foyer smells of stagnant perfume stick