Thursday, March 23, 2017

Paperless Office

I saw her once, months
ago. Thought she was cute. 
Now she's back around.
She told me, in the morning, early
about the ditz where she's a paralegal
shredding all the hard copies cos "it's a paperless office."
There's people too dumb to live,
but it made a funny story.

My original heart is just a memory,
but talk to me, girl,

56 words for Mama Zen's "Words Count."  Yesterday morning at the bus stop, my friend told me this story about some chick's major dumbass moment where she works. 

Sunday, March 19, 2017

Miss Lonely

She asked me where I live.

I said, I live in the sewers, and come up at night.
I live in a shoe box that rides on top of a train car going through a tunnel. 
I live on the bottom of the ocean. Bluup, bluup, bluup.
I live on the sun, and the appliances keep blowing up.
Where do YOU live? 

She made a weird face and walked away down the block.

So, I answered for her:
You live in a graveyard, and lick the frost off the tombstones.
You live in a dog's mouth and bite mailmen with your own teeth.
You live in a jar of jam that got old and had to be thrown away.
You don't live anywhere because no one likes you!

Then the street was so quiet
that I bent down and scraped my knee bloody on the sidewalk
on purpose. 


for the "Home" challenge at Real Toads. My title is taken from a Bob Dylan lyric "Like A Rolling Stone." 

 Ahh you've gone to the finest schools, alright Miss Lonely
But you know you only used to get juiced in it
Nobody's ever taught you how to live out on the street
And now you're gonna have to get used to it

Thursday, March 16, 2017

This Man I Love

He is difficult to know, this man I love.
Often, he is above me, behind me,
but I can hear his breathing 
distinct and beautiful like a private language.

Many have left him, this man I love.
Without a word, they go, and never return,
as if they were letters without addresses, or addresses abandoned and dark.

I found him by rising. I took each step in turn as if I were a dancer, 
and all I had to do was follow. I found it in me to do this,
for the first time in my life,
and without resenting it, or hanging back.
I keep my hands clasped, but in something more binding than prayer.
This man I love, he waits, and I am the answer for his faith.

His are the hands of an artisan, and I am the vessel now full, then changed.
When I submit to him, I know his skill is for me alone,
and that he will not falter, or hesitate, or fail me with his touch.
I will lift my skirts and lower my eyes.
I will kneel.

He is difficult to know, this man I love, 
and wears the hood of his trade that it might remain so.
When he lifts my hair, he trembles and sighs,
asking pardon and coin, his kiss sharp and low.

for my Fireblossom Friday prompt on the theme of "incongruity."


Friday, March 10, 2017


The Moon is 238,900 miles away
in a sky
so immense
that it may as well be asleep inside itself;
and you,
we are less than motes--
less than the least detail
of a dream
spread out from cell to cosmos
like reflected sunlight
caught in an iris
at night on a small patch of grass.

Do you miss me?
How long will I live?
What is the funniest joke
anyone has ever heard?

The Moon is
238,900 miles away, but seems as if
it would fit inside a tea cup
and that is because
we taste its light in dreams--
we hear its gravity in the lakes of our bodies
as the next moment arrives and there it is---
The Moon, pale as certainty
in the lightening morning sky.

for "synethesia" at real toads.

Thursday, March 2, 2017


Anna was the only one of my friends that my mother liked,
but mom is dead, and Anna has moved to L.A.

Most of my friends, though big-hearted and funny,
were smokers, or "heavy", or "not going anywhere."
I asked, "Where is it you think I'm going?" 
and scooped myself a big-ass sundae.
You know that weapons-grade disapproving look? Mom invented it,
but felt it played better without dialogue.

Mom used to come knockless into my room,
pushing aside ten notebooks jammed with jumblefuck poetry and lyrics,
to tell me get up, do something, stick with something for once.
I wander into the weeds, it's true--wasn't I telling you about Anna? 
Well, back to that. 

Anna is the kind of woman Anna the girl started out to be.
No stops, no bullshit, just straight on and damn the roadkill.
For convenience, here is a planner for you:
If you want to be broke, make Anna your accountant.
If you want to be childless, hire Anna as your nanny.
If you want to meet doctors, install Anna as your chef.
If you want to test your strength, marry Anna and hold on.

I lost touch with Anna, but mom always liked her.
Anna was venomous, but had a perfect smile.
Anna was heartless, but used blusher to pink her cheeks.
Anna was vile, but dressed well for church on Sunday.
Anna was filled with rot from her hair to her shoes,
but knew the best salons
and always wore good perfume.

for Bits of Imagination: "Perfume."

Tuesday, February 28, 2017


Here is the thing about a Succubus--
she won't schedule a date at a mutually convenient time.
She'll just appear--always at an unsuitable hour.
Don't expect her to ask if you were sleeping. She knows you were.
Don't wait for her to say "sorry." She's not.

Here is the thing about your body--
with the Succubus so close that her breath is as near as your own, 
it won't be answering your calls anymore. 
Your old familiar will be off the leash, off the rails,
off to hell and gone--pardon the figure of speech--
and you may as well put a band-aid on the fault line of an earthquake
as to try and master your flesh, with Her there.

Here is the thing about her purpose--
it has nothing to do with your body. It's become a door, that's all.
Lemme in, lemme in, lemme in, that's why she's rattling your ribs.
She'll fog your brain with her honeyfire ways.
She'll draw every tremble from every lit-up synapse,
and perfect a reflex from all your sweetspots. Then again. Then again.
All just to distract you and make you deliciously stupid.

Here is the thing about your heart--
it's next-of-kin to the thing she really wants.
Try to catch the words she whispers to her Master,
The One you're not supposed to realize is there, but she's lazy about it,
and you know, in a feverish, unreal way, that He's in on this with Her.
It's a metric that measures how fierce her appeal is,
that you know but don't care that she's sharing you all the while.

Here is the thing about it all--
She is after your Soul, and even a sparrow has the instinct to be wary.
Her lips, so soft they could make a god give up,
are the vehicle for every lie under the sun. 
Resist Her--yes, you, barely hanging on in the gale of her attentions.
Resist Her, even as She takes you over the edge.
Hold back just that one particle, that mote She's come for,
and know you're winning when she curls her lip and bites you awake,
shaking, in tears, but still a lit vessel intact despite the storm.

From a dream I had recently.