Saturday, April 18, 2015

Constance

“It's not worth doing something unless someone, somewhere, would much rather you weren't doing it.”
Terry Pratchett 


Here is how I began:
a core, curled and sleeping
inside a temporary flesh of fruit.

The seed is the thing, after all,
and the rest just a vehicle
to be eaten or wasted.

Nonetheless, some say you and I must not rest too close together on the branch.
There will always be some busybody with a hammer and nails,
rattling on about what's natural.

Well, forget them. We have both come too far to listen to such stuff.
Here are my arms, the same arms as they have always been.
Here is my skin, so much like yours.

I have been told I was one thing, only to know I was another.
I love you, and that  I did not need to be told,
because home never changes; only the map, and the traveler herself.
_______

 "There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither bond nor free, there is neither male nor female: for ye are all one" Galatians 3:28

Al Pacino
“I don’t understand the hatred and fear of gays and bisexuals and lesbians…
it’s a concept I honestly cannot grasp. To me, it’s not who you love…
a man, a woman, what have you…
it’s the fact that you love. That is all that truly matters.”
Al Pacino 
for Real Toads "Legacies of Nimoy and Pratchett." 
 

Thursday, April 16, 2015

Good Woman

Baby, I'm a good loving woman;
I can make you feel like birds are flying all through you,
and singing their heads off, too.

Honey, I'm a good faithful woman;
Once I'm yours, I go deaf and blind to anybody else,
knowing only the braille of a singular devotion.

Sleep in, sweet thing--
I'll put on heels and get a job.

Anything you want in this big round world,
I'll find it,
fetch it,
bread it and fry it.

Sugar pea, did I ever tell you how my last love kissed and crossed me?
Never mind, I made your favorite dessert!
Just sit.
Just enjoy.
Just try it.
__________

Some culinary foolishness for LolaMouse. The image is "Always" by Jim Doran.


Wednesday, April 15, 2015

Folly

J. Prudent Anderson Pennyfarthing was many things.
He was a business man, a board member, a church elder, a Jaycee and a notary public.
"What, for immortality?" wondered J. Prudent aloud.
"What for the Divine, what for beauty, what for posterity?" he fairly shouted.

His basset hound looked up, startled, then set its head back down on its paws, bored already.

J. Prudent Anderson Pennyfarthing was disturbed by many things,
and cited the breakdown of traditional methods and mores as the culprit.
Like Noah, like Moses, indeed, like an avenging angel
(if avenging angels wore suits and drove BMWs),
J. Prudent decided to honor God by creating His very visage carved in stone.

Behold! After ten long years of back-breaking labor
(performed by a certain Juan Martinez, paid under the table at an appallingly puny rate),
the Divine Visage was complete.
The Deity Himself scowled grandly down His nose at all and sundry,
from a marble base in the middle of the park.

However, there were unforeseen problems.

Some disrespectful wag had soon spray painted "Jenny C. puts out"
with a phone number, on the lower portion of God's right cheek.
Someone else glued a Q-tip to His ear.
Yet another miscreant used a permanent marker to black out one of His teeth.
Finally, a pair of robins built a nest under His mighty brow,
and their droppings marred the Visage with gooey white tears,
not to mention the ceaseless racket of the baby birds.

All of this began to affect J. Prudent Anderson Pennyfarthing's health. 
He developed a tumor under his left eye, which gave the impression of a permanent wink.
This same growth stretched the skin at one side of his mouth,
so that J. Prudent seemed also to be grinning suggestively.
The fury in his eyes!
The pain in his demeanor!
The poor man could no longer sit down without homosexuals mistaking his expression
and sending over drinks.
How he suffered!

Even the basset hound found it necessary to relieve himself on the monument.  

In time, the Divine Visage cracked and fell apart, leaving half a head staring dolefully,
and the other crumbling in the crabgrass.
J. Prudent Anderson Pennyfarthing died,
and no one remembered that the purpose of the Visage had been to elevate morals.
It was sad, and very tough shit, you know?
Oh well.
_______

For "History Is Twistery: Folly", a challenge by the fierce Viking chick we know as Hedgewitch, at Real Toads.   
_________________

          
         

Saturday, April 11, 2015

In My Book

In my book,
there are pages and pages of you, babe.
I have organized my own alphabet,
and this is what it says:
"Oh yes, Mama like!"

In my Saturday,
there are no religious zealots,
nobody killing people, creatures, trees, themselves.
Call me shallow, I don't care.
What there is, is ice cream and trash tv.

In my closet,
there are only soft fabrics, 
pleasing colors,
nothing too tight or too young for me.
Everything smells nice,
cos of that junk I use in the dryer.

In my book,
things are moving right along.
It's Saturday,
there's sweet rolls in the oven,
and I've got the couch cushions arranged just so.
My dog is chewing on her blue crocodile.
All of this is necessary
if I am to engage the world and save it, the way I always do,

on Monday.

for Sherry Blue Sky's prompt at Real Toads.


Friday, April 10, 2015

Dumb Beasts

There was mud--
but that was far from the worst of it.
Hooves sank, jerked up, sank again--
flanks heaved, nostrils flared and burned like the air itself.

There was blood--
but that was not the worst of it.
Each time a shell exploded, limbs, ears, nerves, souls came apart,
ragged, absurd, destroyed, haunted forever.
The horse tried again but was held back,
leaving knots of red flesh on the barbs of the wire.

Horses, like men, find themselves where they find themselves,
but that is still not the worst of it.
This horse, caught in the wire, a round in its ribs, frothing, struggling,
could as easily have been cantering around a track in Kentucky
or pulling up clover in an Irish field.
Great men lighting cigars in gilded rooms saw to it being otherwise.

But listen to me.
That animal has rotted to white bone, along with its rider.
Any sunrise they ached to see has long since come and gone without them.
So here I am, standing in front of the house I grew up in--
I left bloody wads of myself caught on the twists of love and hate,
hope and despair that existed here,
but that is not the worst of it, either.

The worst of it is what I brought to my own child
in my panic, and in my pain.
I hope that armistice came soon enough.
God forgive me for carrying on traditions like these on the innocent,
and God bless the dumb beasts
who live only in the moment for their simple needs
and by doing so, prove their masters fools beyond all telling.
______

for Mama Zen's "Dear Past, Dear Future" challenge at Real Toads

  
 

Wednesday, April 8, 2015

The Birder

I fell out of love with myself--
I was cruel, I admit it.
I said things, things I'm not proud of,
and had no mercy, no care for what I did.

All the birds I am made from--
my own distinct darlings and devils--
elude illustration,
cataloging,
and most particularly, shotguns.

This happens, from time to time--
this disenchantment, this anger, this flocking out on the ledge.
Loud noises ruin everything,
and when I am feeling this way,
I am a cacophony.

See how clever you are.
See how my birds come to you, in winter
in summer, in distress and in droves,
saying "She is gone mad again, and we cannot reckon anymore."
See how you shush and shelter them,
my storm orphans.

Here is the curved sky,
the similar earth below;
here is the birdhouse with its precise holes for entry,
and its green shingled roof for keeping out.

You asked me for a bird, tonight, knowing I wouldn't refuse.
You brought no cage, no tether.
How quiet it got, so that all there was to hear was feathers
as I flew back into myself and became this poem,

the one you saved,
the one I wrote in birdsong for you.
______

for Every Day I Write The Book at Real Toads. 

 

Sunday, April 5, 2015

Rich In Words

I am rich in words,
but words are shadows.

Every beautiful thing I can twist out of nothing
is just the fuck-you of a joke prayer.

The lens of the eye is a bald liar--
refraction masquerading as color,
upside down on the back of the brain

like love, like sky 
the blue-black
of rotting
card sharps.
_________