Sunday, December 17, 2017

You vs. Donut

Passion sears my senses and burns like fire as we--

Oh for fuck's sake. Start over.

I am in love with this fucking donut.
It can sit there and say nothing just as good as you,
but I can eat it--

Okay. Point taken. You 1, Donut 1. But wait, there's more.

I am in love with this donut, and this donut doesn't care
if I drool over its twin cos it has a million twins and so therefore I need never be lonely again in my lifetime.

This poem is for my beloved donut. Donut could give a shit less. 
Donut 2, You 1, one draw. Goddamit. 

ridiculous nonsense for micro-poetry: fire and ice. 

Friday, December 15, 2017

Cat Angel

Cat Angel forgives our sins.
Why not?
She doesn't care about them, and wonders why we do.  
The Church of Cat Angel issues a denunciation of rocking chairs
and proscribes the covering of piano keys.
Cat Angel hears our prayers
but doesn't care about them and wonders why we do. 
Obey. Receive a dead bird.

a 55 for my BFF

Wednesday, December 13, 2017

Here Comes Some Bitch

Here comes some bitch up to your door
over to your table
knee-walking across the goddamned bed
to tell you she's sleeping with your honey and there's nothing you can do.

Here comes some lunatic with bad hair 
who's got nukes but no sense
no filter
no off switch and by the way slept with your honey, too.

The first thing I'd advise is--don't panic.
Most things can be solved by litigation or homicide,
and those that can't can usually be put out of mind with intoxicants.

Then again, maybe you've been through all that,
teeth gone, hair gray, with a thousand cats on the davenport.
Maybe you pitched that bitch out the window,
the upstairs window, and never felt so good about anything before in your life. 

Good for you, Toots. Bitches love free flying lessons.


Sunday, December 10, 2017


Here is the truth:
I was a mouse-girl, a shooting gallery duck,
knocked flat a dozen times a day.

I didn't have a lot to say.

If you kicked your big clown shoes out,
I'd meet them half way and feel like I'd had an appointment.
I was a "kick me" sign from the time I was alive.

Damaged goods.
Not pretty.
Head in the clouds.
Just like my father. 

So here came Momma with the big test-your-strength hammer. 
Metronome BAM!
Off to school I went, for more 
Lookin' at my shoes, not much to say.
Waiting for the next hit.

I coulda grown to be a nun or a serial killer,
But Momma had dibs on God and I was too shy to turn evil.
Now looka me.
Bold as brass when it suits me to be.
Momma's dead, both inside and outside my head.

Mostly good.
Not pretty.
Head in the clouds.
Just like my father, down to the mental case girlfriends.
Can't stand lies, so I'm still lonesome.

Here is the truth:
I'm Athena's owl with big bad-ass talons
and feathers soft as well-lit paradise.
I got here in a roundabout way.
So what?
I'm here,
and will screech and strut just as exactly as I please.

for Wordy Thursday: Silence Breakers.



Friday, December 8, 2017

Warmth From Other Sources

Hidden in a bear's pelt
government bean counters discover
the weather thief.

Clocks being notoriously duplicitous,
they call in the air strike,
but the pilots, raw with romantic disappointments,
stay drunk on the tarmac.

Winter comes. 
Whole departments are deleted.
The bear sleeps.

And the weather thief?
She escapes to find
warmth from other sources. 

for my BFF's Friday 55

Monday, December 4, 2017


More and more I have come to believe
that ease is where one finds it,
in quantities and dimensions
of one's own devise. 

Yes, things fall out of the sky
all the time--
flights gone from radar, fireballs from frozen space,
angels who whisper softer than morning dreams.
More and more I have come to accept all of these
with as much grace and courage as I can.

Gunfire, atrocities, sinkholes, hurricanes--
these exist, but must do so in the same world
with kindness, silver maple trees, dogs, weddings. 
There will always be
bills and break-ups,
jobs to go to, children to shelter, parents to bury, 
and only so many hours or heart beats for all of it.
There will be a shortfall,
and it will  break your heart in the end.

Still, there is balm in Gilead for gathering 
moment by moment.
More and more, I have come to believe
that ease is where one finds it,
in quantities and dimensions
of one's own devise. 

Saturday, December 2, 2017

A Pose Of Monkeybones

This isn't just a pose of monkeybones--
no one made of flesh ever willed a fever down,
or talked sense when fingers curled just so to make the nightstorms roll.

You might think I'm made of straw and stone,
a long-skull girl with marrow-eyes in every broken bone
so close to heart and beat and breath--
Mercy tangled in my hair, out of reach except
for the loud-strike, rain-shriek
inside these abandoned bones--
woman, monkey, open sky that shakes and moans
until there's nothing left.

for Camera FLASH.