Monthly Archives: January 2011

Jesus Burning Down my House

Bought a Jesus candle at Kroger next to the bags of Goya beans in a section labeled “Hispanic/Latino.” The Jesus candle is red and long and doesn’t have a smell. On the front, the picture of Jesus depicts a Caucasian man with brown medium length hair and a beard. His chest is sort of open and his heart is showing, except it’s not shaped like a real heart, it’s shaped more like candy. There are thorns around it as the Lord wore on the cross and all of it is glowing. On the back is a prayer first in Spanish, then in English, about the Sacred Heart of Jesus.

First time I lit it, it made the shelf above it really hot and warped a hole into the finish. It’s a good thing I walked by Jesus and knew that Jesus shouldn’t smell like that. Jesus the candle almost burned down my house coupled with my stupidity.

Now Jesus candle burns on my coffee table. It kind of makes my nose itch. I don’t know what they did to it when they made it in Mexico but none of my other candles make my nose tingle like that. This one’s different, this Jesus. I’m just glad that Jesus spared my house. Amen.

Photo credited to Sculpted Portrait.

(c) Ada Vaskys


The Lights’ Day

Sunday is the Lights’ Day at the University Apartments. Bud Light, Natural Light, Keystone Light, and Coors Light gleam in the sun light. They are the jewels that grow in the mulched garden in front of our building where the flowers would be. They are aluminum magnolias in our sometimes-cut grass.

They are more certain than anything else. They are more certain to come out than the sun is on  Sunday. All is always quiet for them; they own the morning. They’ve taken it in revenge. The students have depleted them, rendering them empty, so they take the morning for themselves to see and enjoy with only God as the dead sleep into the day.

(c) Ada Vaskys

Three Hipsters

Three hipsters sit on a street corner in New Orleans. They dirty their wash jeans in the grime, writing poems for a dime. They sneak a toke with a prostitute nearby, afterward calling him by name. They are cross with typewriters between their legs. The intoxicated barfly citizens stagger by and throw money at them for a different thrill, occasionally handing them cigarettes. The hipsters squint through their clear large-lensed glasses and craft the same poems, over and over again, giving the drunks something to challenge the senses. The hipsters’ fingers strike the keys with the extra strength that heavy vintage rings can provide. The streetlight blinds the drunks but fuels the avant-garde warriors. One holds a pipe in his lips, the smoke stinging his eyes but pumping his ego. The hot night allows sweat drip from beneath their wool caps, suffocating their heads in the Louisiana heat. After a long night of selling poems, one sniffs. It’s time to head to Snake n Jakes for a PBR.

first photo from WeHeartIt.

(c) Ada Vaskys

Honey Hot

(c) Ada Vaskys

when it’s hot/
the honey flows/
like water.