The words uttered as I ended June and readied for July’s commencement into creativity: Here I come July- month of birth, month of creativity, month of doing, month of embracing the romantic, artistic Cancerian that I am.
With one and a half months left, I am struggling with not taking steps of Trust – the goal of OBP – that are needed to return to a more diverse school and city and home. And that is my truth, in sum.
With one and a half months left, I am embracing letting go and trying not to control everything – another aspect of OBP -so I am looking to trust in unexpected in Boise. So here is my work on doing and embracing the romantic, artistic Cancerian I am, in this the month of my birth.
Create:
Celebrate my birth: 
Do (aka-get out of my head):
Artistic – Part 1, Write:
Interrupted Solitude
Neighbors sit on well-worn benches out front.
Bird-dog lying in the sun,
the heat,
unplaused by it,
as loyalty calls
‘Mozman’ engraved on heavy plaster block
stacked over wood pylons marks its place,
even in his absence.
‘Atlanta Club’ worn turquoise, melon signage advertises
food,
beer,
cabins,
and Royal Crown cola.
And though the signage of this storefront is a misnomer,
as evidenced by the
PRIVATE
on the prestine, wood, white-washed front door.
The uninhabited
HOME
is anything but private.
He is not here. He is gone.
Atlanta fumbles on but senses a lack of guidance.
The street is not hosed down.
Trash unemptied.
A quiet
Quieter
than what is the impetus of dwellers has taken hold.
Conversation of 4th of July parades, Atlanta School visitors,
mid-summer heat continue,
but all with the undercurrent of health check-ups, stories of hospital journey, and dietary restrictions.
A palpable level of
warmth
and
concern
override the daily hum.
Peering through the porch’s thin-glassed, metal-rimmed windows
one gathers a taste of the void.
A fully stocked bar of bourban, gin, scotch, vermouth
and a vast array of glassware:
goblets, pints, and tumblers
line neat rows behind the wooden bar and accompanying stools.
A blinking, well-mustached pirate of a man’s bust.
Postcards of present, old, here, and far.
Tshirts of Atlanta’s charms.
Red and white checkered clothed tables
that speak to a heart’s love of picinic
sit ready for company.
A lime velvet lounging couch.
And paper-latterened lights hang in shapes
that speak of the owner’s profession.
He is a molder of clay.
And the view from the window of
the Atlanta Club’s front room’s gathering tools
speak well of his molding of community.
Part Two, Border Cross
: 
Romantic:
Still choosin’ to believe in my mate. Being open instead of closing down. Saying my words. Stating my needs. Trying to get back to my art – educating and using my talent of understanding people and using creative projects to engage – so I can thrive and find someone who sees me when I thrive, and says well that is a cool chick, even if she has a head-dress on her head.
Open Book Project 