Sunday, December 31, 2017


We have your stooge, the bank manager,
and are providing a steeper incline for her than her stupid NordicTrack ever did.
She misses Hubby,
her curtain climbers,
and their matching pure breed dogs bigger and dumber than trash trucks.
Imma give her back her glasses, poor thing.

If you want your stooge, the bank manager,
back the way we found her, you will publish our manifesto.
I want the New York Times on the line,
not your wind-up doll of a hostage negotiator.
Negotiate this:
Listen close. Hear that?
One less loan officer in the world.
Imma shed a great big tear.

You have an hour, one hour exactly to publish our manifesto.
We want to see it as we wrote it,
not redacted and full of ads to subscribe to the fucking NYT. 
Our Swedish friend was here with us,
and suggested some edits. 
Our Swedish friend is the one we sent outside to kneel on the pavement
with his hands tied and the bomb belt on.
Please shoot him.
Imma decline his edits, and yours. We good on that?

We are sick of:
rape culture
corporate insanity
sanctimonious cowards
fuckwit presidents
tiki torch wing nuts
extremist imbeciles.
It's time to bring some order to the chaos, so publish our manifesto.
As is.
In the New York Times.
Within the hour. 
Or imma go off.

We would hate for your stooge, the bank manager,
to die because we overfed her, poor little goldfish.
We started with a rag, but she's still hungry, I can tell.
Our California friend is calming her
by reading her the manifesto.
Check it out while we're waiting, and tell your SWAT team of armed editors
to stand down
or we all go up.
Check it out and let me know what you think.
Come close, whisper me your thoughts,
and I'll respond, candidly and strictly entre nous, with my Kalashinikov.
Imma woman; I think and think and think and think and think.
By the time I act, 
you'll never see it coming.
for Bjorn's "manifesto" challenge at Toads.

Friday, December 29, 2017

Here Is A Sun

Here is a sun,
extinguished, small, 
not the same one at all, but a sun nonetheless.
On a bright morning or gray weekday afternoon,
take it out,
place it on the cafe table between you and your friend.
Feel the hum inside your head;
the tears that come without reason.

"What if we are only figures inside a snow globe?" you ask.
Your friend shakes her head, turns away,
opens her mouth but doesn't speak.
You're an idiot. Again.
An idiot carrying a small dark sun around in her bag,
on the bus,
queering the traffic signals as you pass underneath.

Big bang.
That was a long time ago, now.
You and your friend cast two shadows in those days,
so substantial and fine that they might have danced away on their own.
At night you dream of geologists
breaking their teeth by biting into geodes.
You call someone.
"I didn't sleep well."
Here is a sun to toy with, to set down and forget.
Calls end, days go on and on,
the sky fills with birds no one can identify.
Your head hums, 
tears come.
Nobody asks why.


Thursday, December 28, 2017

Logicians In The Sanitarium

Logicians, lit weakly by the skylight,
find each other.
Overtaken by passion, they posit avidly.

"Which," they wheeze to each other, holding bony hands,
"of the following is true, if any?"
1.If infirmity, then writing.
2. If writing, then infirmity.
3. red on the handkerchief reveals the heart's longing to express itself.

Doctors smile at the logicians, but hate them.
How are you feeling? Does the treatment seem to help? 
Who the fuck cares? Move to Arizona and die there, albeit a little more slowly. 

Dizzying excitements exhaust the logicians.
Staff wheel them in chairs out to the verandah, buried in sober wool blankets.
The sun stutters on the horizon.
The world displays its affliction in tones of slant red and crumbling orange.
The logicians gasp, but their minds race with articles
and the heady imaginings of each other's naked admiration.

And so here is what I want to say,
to you, to God, 
to anybody whose conveyance is locked to guard against accident. 
When medicated, 
when not hacking to the point of collapse,
I dream of the most illogical things.
I pretend that my body is not made of disintegrating papier mache,
and that you want to fuck me,
like somebody used to, in some other place, once, that I can't quite remember.
I see you and hope
that you, whittled down to nothing, incontinent and demented,
want the same illogical things.

That's when the logicians recognize it in my face like an obvious error.
They laugh uproariously,
joined by their new friends, the doctors,
who lobotomize me,
wait for me to babble through the froth,
and say, "See there? You're making sense," and walk away on skis
like giant L's held stiff by the wax and starch of correctness and clarity.

for "Aspire" at Real Toads

Monday, December 25, 2017

Salute The Magpie

Salute the magpie,
the solitary one without even a mirror-friend.
Turn a circle on the spot,
recite the rhyme out to its end.

In time, more arrive.
In time, a future told and spoken,
in magpie voice,
talisman and token.

Then, old love,
it is well enough to go
regardless wounds or weather
even so.

a 55 for my BFF.

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.

Friday In Hell--A Flash 55

Nothing is constant in this world,
but if you live wickedly,  dependability awaits. 

Let me explain.

In Hell, the first thing you'll notice is that everyone loves--really loves!--your ex.
They don't have Christmas; instead, a constant Black Friday.
Above your head, music--exclusively "Friday" by Rebecca Black.

Friday...but not payday. Sorry.

for my BF's kick-ass Friday 55 


Friday, December 1, 2017

Pas De Deux

The cat's always got your tongue,
but mine is loose by nature.
I had things I needed to say to you, and so I have included them
in private prayers by moonlight,
in court documents,
and mixed invisibly with sugar inside of envelopes sent via post.

I see you there,
on your front step, handing out the same bulimic claptrap to reporters
that's offered to your lovers in intimate moments.
You talk and talk, but say nothing--
the reporters starve, weaken, expire on the lawn, wondering how they failed.

I told a few lies, I admit.
Otherwise, the police photographer would never have followed you,
and the polygraph examiner would stand idle, tempted by devils.
The credits are rolling--
this is the time to confess or taunt or break down. You know the drill,
and yet you keep spare judges in drawers in every room,
to issue gag orders across the board at a moment's notice.

For the sake of all that was good, and soft, and funny
between us, say something, please.
Write a tell-all, despite the prohibited proceeds.
Bargain a statement in trade for a change of venue.
Let Old Sparky spur us
to get it all out at last.
We can circle it, like dizzy ballerinas,

Me imploring you to talk,
to open your everlastingly miserly fucking mouth at last,
and you
begging me to shut up,
for once, 
for novelty,
for the love of God,
shut up. 

for Skyflower Friday--"goodbye"