Oh how fucking stupid. Lo. Really? Lo dee oh doe. La la la. Down shoobee doo down down. I wonder what Neil Sedaka's doing these days? He might be dead or something. Never mind! Write!
The heart, bedded neath its blanket of care, opening on golden--
No! It sounds like a burrito or a pill dispenser or something. I can't work hungry. What's in the house?
~one trip to the store, and fixing lunch, and eating lunch, and a nap, later....
heart cart fart part K Mart
Maybe if i walk the dog, my head will come up with something. Don't forget poop bags.
~one dog walk later~
Lo, the
I wonder what's on Face Book? Ha! Talking cats, I love those. LIKE. Oh here's that silly woman asking to be friends again. She actually posts pictures of her bunions. That's low...
Lo, the springes of the heart open under Psyche's...
Psyche? Circe? Mars? March! I'm gonna march you down the aisle! April! You're the Easter bunny when you smile! Yeah, yeah, my heart's in a whirl--
Spring-ed heart, lo the ...cart? chart? Convenient Food Mart?
I'm hungry again. Then bed. Zac's tired. Wait, there's an "ER" re-run on. Oh wow, the guy's in a coma. That's rough. They say that waking up is hard to doooooo, I know it is, I know that it's truuuuuue... What about the poem? *yawn*
This is the sort of thing that has those bitches snickering behind their hands-- I burned the bed, including the one in my mind,
but I took one of them outside first, so I'm not as rash as they say.
I have shelves and shelves of poetry-- my own and everybody else's. "My love is like a red, red rose," like this, and like that,
What a load of crap.
Now I sleep on the couch, in case there's suddenly something good on, or I feel like steeping myself in a trash novel all night like some sort of nocturnal tea bag.
I'm always brewing something.
So fuck you, you with the soft lips; you with the strong arms. Here's the list, you're on it, get lost.
At 3 a.m. there was a show about dinosaurs. They had shrimpy brains and big spikes and some had clubs on their tails. Half of them were girls, all they cared about was laying eggs and eating. I watched that shit until the sun came up.
My friend says, "You could still meet somebody." It's true, I could. Here I am flying through space with my big bright tail. Here I fly, with my shitty track record and my poems and my passion. Here I come, down through the atmosphere, not looking for you, but on my way anyway. _________
for Sunny's "sleep and insomnia" prompt at Toads. I love to sleep. I never have insomnia.
This is what it means to be La Bruja, the witch-- (swab honey on your ears before I speak, or they will curl like dry leaves.) It isn't like people think, from storybooks and bullshit they've heard. It's like this-- a candleflame-colored Moon rising through dreams and trees into night sky, and not nearly so distant as it seems.
If you are La Bruja, you must barter with every wild thing-- taking some of each, as they keep some of you. Sorters appear, you know the ones... made of hair spray and bibles, scared of the dark, rattling on about their birth right. You will kill them, whether you choose to or not; whether you feel good about it or not. Ah well.
There will be those who come into the trees, even into your dreams, to avenge what you've done while you were sleeping, walking the stick path, or baying at the moon. All I can tell you is, wear a long cloak, keep moving to the stone-feather pulse inside you, and know the Moon saves her favor for you, not dwarves or fools. ______
