Monday, July 27, 2015

The Golden Duo

It begins and ends with the golden duo.
I can tell that you don't believe me.
I can see that you think I'm some crackpot, some hare-brained loony.

Wouldn't wanna be you
when they get here.

All this, these fields, that shitty old house over there,
the well in the yard where we used to play Lindbergh kidnapping,
it's gonna be a paradise.

You think I'm just some old biddie.
I've got the inside dope!

The man, he's as handsome as a Fourth of July sunrise,
as muscled and graceful as a Kentucky Derby winner,
and if he kisses you, well, you're gonna fall backwards, healed.

The other one, nobody can tell if it's a man or a woman,
but oh what a voice. Never talks, just sings,
and the birds on every bush and fence post just shut up and take lessons.

One gonna sing. The other gonna lay on hands.
I seen this once before, in the forties. They made me young again,
then I got old again, so I hope they hurry up and get here.

You watch. There's never been anything like the golden duo.
They make cats crap out diamonds and dogs quote Shakespeare.
They'll make your mama tall like she wanna be, 

And you? They could make you an astronaut or something fine like that.
You're already a brain 'cept for not believing me about the golden duo.
You wait. You watch. You're snotty quiet now, but when you spot 'em 

You'll crow like a rooster and lay an egg, both. You can thank me then.

Co-written by Poetic Naychur Cat (me), and Baby Puppy (Mama Zen's daughter.)


Sunday, July 26, 2015

Sky, Earth, Sky

earth, sky,
never try
piloting prop
when you're sad and high.
last night i dreamed that i
cleared my head, got out of bed,
and walked down the wing to kiss you.
never take random pills with warm wine--
sky, earth, sky, fall, roll, rise, you, us, i.

an Etheree for Play It Again, Toads.

Thursday, July 23, 2015


Maude Millicent Rosevear, generally considered pleasant and quite the beauty,
sent her hopes off, by mail, in 1955.
Consider her surprise when they return to her in 2015. 

Maude, now aged seventy five,
nearly trips over the parcel while walking out of her door
on her way to the pharmacy for her numerous prescriptions.

"Non-standard surcharge," states one of the rubber stampings.
(That business with Alice, at college, in 1959?)
The postal system cares about her package. The plastic wrapping says so.
Nonetheless, they have returned it.

"Postage due", "Addressee Unknown", "Unclaimed" all on the side.
Bent, frail, living in a mother-in-law apartment attached to her son's house,
Maude supposes the return of her hopes was inevitable, 
but it didn't feel that way when she sent them. 

Maude goes back inside and sits down to compose a letter--
--an old fashioned paper letter--
to the Unabomber in prison. 

"Dear Teddy," she writes, "I finally understand."
Perhaps this one will get through, she thinks.
Perhaps he will even answer, and if he does, 
she must be sure to be the first one to the mailbox, and to not lose her key.

for Get Listed at Real Toads. I used "prison", "mail", "inevitable", and "system".

CBU--Cluster Box Unit, a freestanding outdoor multiple delivery receptacle for mail.

CBU-55--cluster bomb fuel air explosive. 

Tuesday, July 21, 2015


What's with the weather, anyway?
If I wanted to live in some sweltering buggy outpost, 
I would wear a pith helmet and talk nonsense about rare beetles;
do you see me doing those things?
Doesn't National Geographic handle all that?

I have caught myself in a few rare moves lately, though, I admit.
I blame it on losing sleep.
I never know anymore whether I will put a sachet in the guest room drawers,
a bag of dog poop,
or one of Muffin's dead mice.

Behold the end of the world, when fey devils employ a single match
to devour, with light, all that is, and then almost delicately, 
throw the bar,
lock the latch.

Signs of The End are everywhere, not just the tv weather.
Have you seen Trudi Beauty Queen lately?
She's about the size of a zeppelin, and isn't even blonde anymore.
All day, she screams at the help in German,
while stuffing eclairs into her mouth like shells into field artillery.

I think, if it would snow, my chi would center and I could be my usual self again.
Instead, I have to wear sunglasses so huge that I look like a Mars probe,
and I can't see a blessed thing, sidewalk from six-lane,
Trudi from a tarantula,
Greek yogurt from green tea facial mask.

Perdition arrives on the arm of Despair, in evening's early gloaming
announced and feted, by Chinese lantern light,
to faces slack,
and ashy white.

I think I'll throw on a caftan, hire some sherpas to carry the tea cakes,
and go visit Bitsy Henderson, to have her administer a test,
running her finger back and forth in front of my eyes.
She'll tell me, if I'm a little off,
and whip out her planner to tell me that summer isn't forever--

only alimony, crow's feet, and naturally, us. 

Sunday, July 19, 2015

Voice of Martyrs

She had to do without a lot of things,
for your sake, to help you,
because God knows you needed it.

Go ahead, dive into those beer-battered iguana steaks
and RC Cola--
made by hunchbacks from old cancer drugs
and leaf-tea water from the bird bath.

Ungrateful, that's what you are.
She brings her sheepskin and her medical bag,
her sharp eye and her dull scalpel,
and all you ever do is buzz like a stupid toy as she removes the barbs
she put there over time, millions of them, placed just so.

Too bad one can't make a sampler out of a disappointed look--
you'd never need wallpaper.
Nature provides exactly what each creature needs,
though she has chosen to do without heart, stomach, ovaries,
in favor of giving everything to you, especially those betrayed, doleful eyes.

Now here you are, a donation box she has poured herself into,
sleeping it off,
hating yourself,
collecting methods of suicide like stickers,
last night's appalling Chinese take-out uneaten and wasted (!)
on the table and on the floor where it has spilled and mixed
with the pet hair on the carpet.

See the ants, as industrious as if they were going to Mass,
substituting congealed chicken kow for wafers and wine.
See the roaches, immortal and unstoppable as your jones,
demonstrating grace and sacrifice--
for you! again for you!--
by entertaining the cat
who plays with, and then kills them, but who sometimes

reverses the sequence.

grace for Karin.

Friday, July 17, 2015

Don't Be So Critical, Darling

Don't be so critical of me
if you could only be just a little bit nicer,
not swear, not hit,
not tell me that I look like shit
then I would be such a happy girl and make you glad you chose me.

I know you don't like the cats
but there are only three, okay twelve,
but nine aren't really mine
they just needed some love and some time
and I promise to brush the fur off your black jeans, I will, I swear.

Our day will come,
some band will need a drummer and there you'll be
famous and when you are,
don't forget me, don't forget me.

Don't stay out so late
till the moon is gone and the kitties have given up,
don't you see, they really love you
and I do, too
so please let us back in, this isn't funny, I haven't even got my coat--

Honey?-- Sweetheart?--
or any place else to go.

voice, for Kerry.


Wednesday, July 15, 2015

Lullaby Of A Beautiful Girl

I'm a beautiful girl, made of ice.
I am water when it stops moving.
If you want me, it is either because you're crazy,
or because you see summer, still, inside me--
a season preserved that you can't touch.

Invite me in anyway, murderer.
Make love to me with a hammer;
don't kiss me unless you want us to stay that way forever,
not eating, not speaking,
like poets, or the damned.

I was an urchin once, making cat shit castles in my sandbox,
wondering what I'd be when I became a woman.
It rained and I became a mermaid instead--
winter stilled the waves and left me half in and half out,
half a woman who will never bear a child,
half a fish caught on a glittering hook.

I'm a beautiful girl, made of ice.
I am water when it stops moving.
If I want you it is either because I'm desperate,
or because I feel summer's seed, still, inside me--
a season destroyed, yet suspended in my touch.