Reanimated Lavender Granola Switchblade Nun rides again.

Saturday, October 31, 2009


It could have been the champagne

Or a trick of the light

Or his pain

In the weird and misty night...

Dressed to the nines

For Halloween of '25,

Arrow collar, Chesterfield lit,

And lonely--more than a little bit.

On Halloween of '24

He'd seen her standing near the door;

The perfect flapper

The lovely Lenore.

Had he been a raven, in his tails and top hat?

If he had, she didn't seem bothered by that.

Outside by the fountain, he'd kissed her, swift--

She'd leant close and whispered, " this..."

There'd been dances and kisses and smuggled gin,

Then his Packard in the drive and Lenore getting in...

An Autumn rain began as he started the car,

And the drops on the road were like scattered stars.

There was his smile and her laughter--

A cloche hat on her head;

A careless black cat, a swerve,

Then one of them dead.

Now it is Halloween of '25...

Outside by the fountain, tears in his eyes;

The night, his tails, and mood are black--

No silly wishful penny can bring her back.

But wait, shimmering on the surface, a face!

He gasps and staggers back a pace,

Then with a cry, he leans in close,

And feels a sudden, strange repose.

I can only tell you this:

They say he saw her perfect lips;

The fountain held some pennies, no more,

But he drowned to return to his lost Lenore!

My apologies to E.A. Poe. Happy Halloween!


Thursday, October 29, 2009


The Queen Of The Vampires fails to make the cheerleading squad because she is not perceived as being "perky."

She has another problem as well--

She makes a friend, they seem cool, she bites the friend, they become immortal, yadda yadda;

Then after a while, she is in a different space, they've grown in different directions,

And the friend becomes a little tiresome but still has to be invited to parties, whatever, and this goes on forever,

Because the friend has been made eternal,


The Queen Of The Vampires' boyfriend senses her fragile mood

And takes her to an Italian restaurant.

Garlic, duh, and so she has to stagger outside and have a ciggie while sitting on the curb.

"I'm sorry," he says, his cloth napkin hanging stupidly from his throat.

"Please fuck off," says the QOTV, but her voice is such

That she can tell you to eat shit and die and it sounds so sweet, so pleasing,

That you end up wanting to kiss her.

The QOTV can change shape at will--

She becomes a panther and glides across the street into the Sav-Mart lot

Where she

Leaps into a truck being loaded with junk by some dark-haired chick.

The QOTV knocks the paper sacks back out, one by one, then stares at the woman with her unsettling yellow eyes.

Leaving the ice cream to melt on the pavement,

Dark Haired Chick gets in, starts the engine, and drives them in companionable silence directly to

Danny's Coffee Shop in Norman.

They walk in and grab a spot.

When the waitress arrives, the QOTV draws back like an upside-down "U" or a big black bad-tempered accordion.

The waitress is God.

"Relax, She's here all the time," says Dark Haired Chick, then adds, "Try the Pumpkin Spice."

The Queen Of The Vampires shreds her side of the booth with her fearsome claws, then settles in.

Although it is not what she normally drinks, she orders what The Chick suggested.

While they are waiting, the little bell above the door jingles

And a bunch of blonde cheerleaders blow in, jabbering like mad.

Dark Haired Chick and The Queen Of The Vampires just look at each other.

What were those girls saying, just now?

Neither of them knows.

(They don't speak a word of Perkinese).


Wednesday, October 28, 2009

I'd Like To Thank The Academy...

...but I can't. It was RachelW who gave me this award. Thank you, Rachel! There are rules. Um...can someone please open a window, I feel stifled, suddenly. The rules it hot in here? The rules are, post seven bits of trivia about yourself. Then pass it on to seven people.

1. I keep a book journal. I started it in November of 1987 and can look up every book I have read since then. It's kind of fun to look and see how my tastes have changed, or not changed. The only blank section is "X". No X authors in 22 years. I read the most books in 1988 (41) when I had injured my knee and was off work for quite a while. The least was 13 in 2002. I had other fish to fry.

2. When I was maybe twelve years old, I was taken along on a visit to an aunt and uncle and ended up in their basement by myself (can I go watch television? Pleeeeeease?) watching a vampire movie. All these female vampires were trying to catch this investigator and he kept running around this haunted mansion trying to fend them off. They kept inviting him to become one of them, but he was upright and moral, yawn, zzzz. I kept thinking, if it was me, I couldn't run TO them fast enough. Become a lady vamp, be gorgeous, live forever, offend the bluenoses. There's something better than this? I think part of me left Duckburg forever, that afternoon.

3. One Christmas, I asked for a doll house. I didn't get it. I never got it. I'm bitter, right now still. Next life, I am so all about Barbie's freaking Dream House.

4. I had a dream once, before I started writing poetry again, in which I was walking around the grounds of some university. From a long distance ahead of me, I saw someone running in my direction. He turned out to be a medieval knight, with a black beard, armor and chain mail. He wasn't wearing a helmet, but he had all the rest of it. It was late summer, and he was running in all this heavy stuff and as he got closer, I could see two things. One was that he was working hard to keep running. Whatever he was intent upon doing, it had to be important! Secondly, his left hand, on which he wore a mailed glove, was on fire. He held it out to his side as he came closer, intent on his mission. I stepped off the path to let him pass, but he slowed down and faced me. "I have a message," he said. "Who is your message for?" I asked, amazed at this fiery knight before me. "The message is for you," he answered and pressed my hand to his flaming one, holding my hand fast with his right. What I felt was a wild combination of burning, electricity, pain, ecstasy, and a million more emotions too difficult to explain. I never forgot that knight with the flaming hand. Especially when I began writing poetry again... in the late summer...of 2006.

5. I have an angel. Her name is Lorelei. She is beautiful, lively, and a trip. I adore her. At this very moment, she is saying, "Hey Annie Shakespeare, 'bout time you wrote about me!" and is snapping her fingers and posing. I don't see and hear her in physical space, but in inner space. Sometimes I forget to tune in to her. She is showing me white lotus flowers. I don't know what that means, but she says that someone who will be reading this will understand.

6. I write my poems in a single sitting, longhand, in spiral notebooks. Usually, I begin with a single idea, or point I want to make, and a line or stanza (not necessarily the first one) in mind. Next I visualize the framework I will use for my poem, rather like a crossword puzzle that hasn't been filled in yet, that gives me the basic starts, stops, and cadence. Then I write like mad, just to get something down on paper while inspiration is present. After that I go over it and over it, changing whatever needs changing, but once I am done, that's it, I'm done. The only time I will ever go back to a poem to alter it, is if it didn't turn out. Then I may steal a phrase or section that DID work, for a new poem. I very rarely sit down to write and find that I can't, though. At least 90% of the time, I end up with a new poem I am happy with. Oh, and....when I am writing, I won't stop to eat, pee, answer the phone, or run out of the house if it is on fire. I'm locked in.

7. Cheeseburgers are nature's perfect food. I know, not very dainty, am I? If anyone is going to California, please mail me an In & Out Burger. I'll gladly pay you Tuesday....

The fab seven:

Twin, a.k.a Riot Kitty. I love my Twin!

Vesper, because she is a brilliant writer!

Scarlet, the Chica who IS Miami!

Gabriella Moonlight, because she is so creative about living.

Kay, because she writes such cool poems!

Cloudia, because she is the Queen of clickable photos!

Mama Zen, because. What? I need a reason? ;-)


Monday, October 26, 2009

Five Wolves

I can't say for certain if it's true or not. This is how I heard it. I ain't swearin' on no bible or no other book, neither. You're gonna have to take my word.

There lived a man name of Ciaphus Wert. Made money from lumberin'. He didn't do no lumberin' himself, he had men he hired to do the sweatin' for him so he don't muss his lace cuffs. I wouldn't have no man wore lace cuffs, but he brought a woman out from Boston, named Abigail, and married her in the year 1878. Had fair skin and green eyes. I never seen her myself, but I heard.

Come the year 1883 she had a girl child, but not without that it cost her plenty. All Christmas Day she lay groanin' and wrappin' her small fingers around the brass bed frame, prayin' to whatever God there is to let the child see the day. It took two days, but that child come, and was a girl like her mama. Ciaphus Wert, he was struttin' like a barnyard rooster and thinkin' his family was just beginnin', but pretty soon Abigail begun to burn up with fever. All the night of December 27th, she talked out of her head and show no interest in her child cos she had gone mad with sickness. Then she died. They buried her in the Methodist chuchyard, said a few bible words, then walked home and gnawed on turkey legs. That little child, she lived but might have been a ghost all the same.

In 1885, Ciaphus Wert married another woman, name of Liddy Sharp. I expect was on account of her sharp tongue which she was in the habit of usin' on anyone she didn't need somethin' from. When she walked by on the mud streets in spring, the dogs run and hid. They knew she kick 'em if they got close enough.

Now the little girl, who was also name of Abigail, was called Abby, and she raised herself up, with just a little help from her daddy. When she were small enough, she stay mostly 'neath a kitchen chair whenever Liddy were close by, and then later she take to roamin' the woods like she were half wild. Liddy, her stepmama, see her only as a pair of hands to be worked right down to the bone, and so she do her best to accomplish that. Abby, she blow as far away as she could, as often as she could, like a storm in the night, gone before you know it.

Abby had a friend, 'bout a mile and a half away, a full blooded Ottawa woman name of Crow Eye. Crow Eye find this girl sleepin' next her well one mornin' and she haul the bucket up and Abby with it. From then on, them two were tight as ticks on a tomcat. Crow Eye fed her cornbread and Ottawa stories her mama had taught her. They were like two sticks in a fire, them two.

Crow Eye weren't old like you might think. Were young and had the black hair like it lookin' for a place to land. There were a man in town called the General, always set one eye on her and the other on makin' a dollar. That's the way the General was. Dollar be different, dependin'. If you was wantin' to buy somethin' he had, why then a dollar didn't go far at all. Take a whole fist full of 'em to buy an ear of corn from that man. But if he were wantin' somethin' you got, it weren't worth even one whole dollar no how, and he would 'splain why 'til you wanted to cut your own throat and you sell it to him just to make him hush.

He weren't no real general neither. A train rider told me he had knowed him in the war, that he weren't nothin' but a cook. One time, his flapjacks twisted up a soldier's guts so bad the man died. I heard this, I wasn't there. Say the cook were usin' eggs that'd gone bad and he knew but were too cheap and miserly to not feed 'em to folks anyway. He kept the good ones for hisself. Still, by time I'm discussin', he had so much money that if he wanted be called the King of England, people probably call him that. It's money. Damned if it don't beat all.

So, as I was relatin', Abby was mostly raised up by this Ottawa woman and become a red haired Indian herself. She had her mama's green eyes and by time she were twelve, she were tall and pretty like her mama had been. The General, his weedy eyes done started to stray to Abby by then, and he take to followin' her. Not so folks would see, but in the woods takin' what he called his constitutional. Just about dark one evenin' in November he block her way, he say things a man ain't ought to say to no young girl like Abby was. He take those big paws of his and do things. Evil things. She scream loud and Crow Eye come through the dusk and she got a big old steely huntin' knife with her and she suggest he stop what he doin'. She tell Abby run and she do, and the General, he weren't used to nobody denyin' him what he set his eye on, especially no Ottawa woman. Well I weren't there, so I don't know what exactly happened, but Crow Eye end up dead, with bruisy rings around her wrists and her knife no place to be seen. But Abby, she got clean away.

She run to Crow Eye's place and she hole up with Crow Eye's dog, name of Oker. Oker were a big black mongrel, mean as a devil to anyone whose name he weren't knowin'. Oker hate the General worst of all. Inside, they both were ponderin' on what to do, and Abby take out some things Crow Eye's mama had gave her when she were little. A wolf skin with the head still on it. A corn husk doll. Some beads and feathers and what have you. Nothin' old Ciaphus nor the General would think was worth the fleas off a skunk.

Abby, she were scared and she wrap the wolf skin around her and start to dancin' and Oker he dance with her. I weren't there, but what I heard is they look like they were fightin' near to the death but they was dancin'. Growlin' and thrashin' and young Abby, she wrap her fingers into that wolf skin just like her mama done when bringin' her into the world. Cryin' and burnin' same too. Oker were actin' like the devil turned loose and howl like Death come up from the bottom of the deepest pit. All the while the fire were burnin' behind 'em, just like Crow Eye had left it when she went to help her white girl when she screamed.

While this were going on, the General must've seen what he done and regained his senses, that is to say, he start worryin' about preservin' his own neck. He start back to town, makin' up lie upon lie about what happen, shiftin' blame like a load of logs headed downstream. He might as well never have bothered to do it, though, on account of he never made it home.

Men went lookin' for him in the daylight and they found him sure enough. Some left of him, least ways. These men knew trackin' and huntin' and they found prints of five wolves what had torn the General to tiny pieces all black evil and red blood across the snow. But the thing is, they all swore those tracks came from no place and went no place after, like five wolves had just appeared like a storm in the night and gone the same way. They tried blamin' Oker, but Oker was discovered asleep with his body wrapped around Abby's to keep her warm and old Oker wouldn't let no one touch her for some three hours neither, 'til she finally called him off.

After that, Abby never more went home to her daddy and Liddy Sharp, and didn't talk neither for a time of five years or a little longer. All that while, she wore the wolf skin and Ottawa charms on her arms and hands and everybody start to call her name of Five Wolves, rather than her christian name. Oker the dog were always at her side as well.

Like I said before, I won't swear on no bible nor no other book about what I have been describin' here. I weren't there myself, but I heard the story from someone who were.

Abby Five Wolves were my grandmother. I hope you ain't suggestin' she lied.


Saturday, October 24, 2009

Spaghetti Girl

If we go to a nice Italian restaurant,

I'll only embarrass you--

Shoving rolls in my purse


Every time I'm near you,

I feel the air is full of angels

And Armageddon must be barely a whisper away.

While you're making conversation,

I'll be wondering what you would look like

Wearing only this red and white

Checkered table cloth--

I'll be crossing myself and praying to remember

How I can pull it off you

Without upsetting

The water glass in your hand.

You'll talk about Jack White

I'll talk about Joan Jett

And you'll be the Spaghetti Girl

Straight until wet.

Well, this is just torture in a public place.

I'll only embarrass you

Because I am hungry,

So hungry,

And once I start I will never be done;

I think the Judgement must be barely a whisper away--

So I'm waiting for the deluge sure to come.


Friday, October 23, 2009

My Cafe

I have opened a cafe on the pack ice,

And though patrons are few,

It seems well-suited to me

Because everything I touch begins to steam.

I have observed the polar bears--

They fear nothing

And eat anything.

Besides that, they are as white as brides,

Though when there is blood,

It is never their own.

I want to kiss their claws.

I think, if I could do that,

I would soon write something meaningful.

I have started a cafe on the pack ice,

But immediately after opening,

I slept for seven days--

One for every letter of your name.

I think,

If only some woman would come way the hell up here,

And having come,

If only she would






Exactly like you,

Then I might be able to get something to burn;

I might be able to get her to stay,

Calling her always by the wrong name,

And treasuring her

Like daylight.

I have opened a cafe on the pack ice,

And am having trouble staying awake.

Oh, how I want to dream

Of anything besides polar bears.

They read my journal,

And laughed so much, they soon fell over on their sides,

Great paws waving helplessly in the air.

I went to them,

On that one occasion only.

They were like big deadly pillows,

And so I lay my head on one of them, never expecting to really get away with it--

I kissed its claws,

And called it by your name.

I had never felt so alone,

But just as it's been with every hopeful love-seeking nut job who ever set out from home,

I knew it was back where I started from,

And that I was already bones.

photo: Evelyn Nesbit

Thursday, October 22, 2009

My Afterlife

When I die,

Forget the light--

I'm staying right here.

My spirit will hide

In the cupboard, behind the crackers,


And making a godawful racket.

Just try and stop me

Just try and stop me.

I'll be sitting in a mixing bowl

Like a girl moses

Except dead

But not;

I'll make the kitchen

My haunting spot.

And the new lady who lives here,

Her dog will howl


Cos there's a cat in the cupboard

'Cept not.

It will be a ghost in the pantry

And that ghost will be


In the midnight

When the moon's right,

When men have left her itchy,

I'll kiss her in the kitchen

Try and stop me

Try and stop me.

And she'll either

Move out in the morning

With her dog and her belongings,

Or she'll feel as if she knows

It's all those eggs she broke

Come back for their revenge

In the end.

'Cept not.

It was me,

Girl moses floating into her world

Like the caramel swirl in the ice cream she came down for in the first place.

She'll either

Move out in the morning

Or join me in my moaning


Try and stop us.


artwork by Siphen

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

The Hound Of Silents

My dog is a fan of the silent movies--

And because it is my role to serve him,

I rent them

And pop them in the player

For His Majesty's enjoyment.

My dog is a fan of silent movie actresses--

With their cinched waists

And enormous hats.

He works his mojo on them

Until I half expect them to lean out of the screen

And scratch behind his ears.

The silent movies are simple and rich in emotion

(Like me!)

And I like to believe

That's why he loves them so.

It being my role to serve him,

I fix supper

While he watches

Mary Pickford

Lillian Gish

Olive Thomas

Out-foxing the evil landlord

Or finding true love at last.

When we go out strolling,

I wear tons of make-up

With my hair hanging down my back in ringlets,

And despite my high neck and long skirts,

I know I look good in a way

That's not found today.

My dog just loves the silent movies,

And I just love His Highness--


More handsome than Valentino,

More fabulous than Fairbanks,

And if I have to bat my eyelashes,

Throwing my arm across my forehead with a sigh

To keep him by my side,





For my pooch's pleasure,

A silent diva am I.


For Bosco, of course! Photo: Lillian Gish

Monday, October 19, 2009

Lives Of The Saints

I'm actually pretty quiet.


It's just my head keeps coming crashing down through the rest of me like a

Bowling ball down the front staircase;

And if that's not gauche enough,

It's got ma name on it.

It looks like

I won't get that part

In Swan Lake after all--

Never mind all the parts I was handed and spat upon

Cos I got no more manners

Than a pig at the State Fair.

My body has played dirty tricks

All my life,

But the better part of me

Floats like a lantern on a lily pad


Just try getting in if I don't want you there.

The entrance is piled high with bones.

Last night I dreamt

That the hour was late

And I was far from home.


That's life.

I have my moments, though--

Mostly I flail

As if possessed by cats in a sack

And time is the river;

But in a moment of perfect bliss

When I am,

For example,

Egging my neighbor's mail box,

I am Athena with her bolts.

I am Artemis with her arrows.

I am hanging out with God at Danny's Coffee Shop,

And when the cops come in

Asking where have you been?

God vouches for me.

"She's been right here with me, boys," she tells them just as sweet as honey rolling off a warm biscuit,

And I whisper,

"Oh You

Are so cute

When You lie!"


This poem is dedicated to Dulce and to Mama Zen. Danny's? Three-ish?

Saturday, October 17, 2009

Wake Up Laughing

Did you ever wake up laughing?

I have,

But it's as rare as meeting someone you will love for the rest of your life

Or theirs,

And I've come into it just as unknowing.

One moment, asleep in the whispering of leaves, mind blank as a baby's,

And in the next, God has delivered the joke that explains it all,

And I wake up laughing.

Some things are effortlessly perfect--

Like a plate of scrambled eggs on a Sunday morning,

Tea on a wooden table outdoors in the afternoon,

Or the one you love beside you in the evening, reading with her glasses on, the ones she only wears at home;

And for some reason, that's as pleasing as anything you can think of.

I wonder sometimes,

Is it the rainy funerals that are the dream?

Is it the losses that tear one's heart like a paper ticket to nowhere

That are the illusion?

Will I one day close my eyes,


Just for a moment,

Lost in the whispering of leaves,

Mind blank as a baby's,

And in the next, wake up laughing?


(This poem is dedicated to my father. I hope he woke up laughing.)

Friday, October 16, 2009

The Disappointing Child

I did not go to no Bryn Mawr,

I did not attend no

U-ni-versity of Mich-i-gan,

I did not become no doctor

Cuttin' people open

Lookee, ya got your


Your pan-cree-ass,

And so forth;

I'd like to

Cut ya open and see

Maybe that girl that wasn't me

Is still in there


Lemme out

Got dammit,

I wanna marry a CEO and have his

Devil babies.

I know I dint

Be that boy ya wanted

Collect 'em all,

Cos everybody knows,

Girls are not as good

They tend to be


And needy


Wtf can ya really do with one once ya got it?

I drive

A shit car

Just ta spite ya,

I carry the

Got dam mail

Right out in public for anybody to see,

And how can ya

Brag about that?

How can ya

One-up the neighbors

With shit like that?

No CEO's

No devil babies

No PT Cruiser no Escalade.

I wanna

Kiss another woman

While wearin' a name tag

That says I'm yours,

I wanna

Not cut the grass

Til the city makes me,

I wanna hurt you

Real bad

For not opening your eyes and seeing


Your got dam devil baby,

Who is an angel with words

If you'd only

Get the shit out of your ears,

Lookee here,

Ya got your


Live and in person

Right in front of your nose,

Yours, whether you like it or not,

Heart on her sleeve,

The girl who would have just loved to love you

If you would only have ever

Given me the chance.


Thursday, October 15, 2009

Welcome To The Twilight Zone

The almost shockingly hip Mama Zen has somehow divined my irresistible urge to complete this meme, and has sent it my way. She's mad cool, I've always said so. There are rules, however, and while I don't always get along very well with rules, I can obey the main one, here. Each answer to the following questions must be one word only.

So, welcome to a place where time and space become distorted, where the real and unreal converge. A place where Shay gives one-word answers. Here it comes, at that sign post up ahead...The Twilight Zone!

Where is your cell phone? nonexistent

Your hair? wet

Your mother? conventional

Your father? celestial

Your favorite food? cheese

Your dream last night? crowded

Your favorite drink? mocha

Your dream/goal? book

What room are you in? computer

Your hobby? reading

Your fear? intruders

Where do you want to be in six years? partnered

Where were you last night? home

Something that you aren't? conventional

Muffins? chocolate

Wish list item? VW

Where did you grow up? Snobville

Last thing you did? bath

What are you wearing? PJs

Your tv? off

Your pets? Bosco!

Friends? indispensable

Your life? good

Your mood? happy!

Missing someone? Beatrice

Vehicle? beater

Something you're not wearing? rock

Your favorite store? grocery

Your favorite color? red

When was the last time you laughed? tonight

Last time you cried? yesterday

Your best friend? Bosco! (what are ya, new? oops, I broke a rule.)

One place that I go over and over? bathroom

One person who emails me regularly? Kelli

Favorite place to eat? Outback

If you would enjoy doing this, please feel free to do so! :-)



Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Kitty, Kitty

I am quiet,

Like a feather falling--

As you drone on and on, oblivious.

I am soft

Like a toy.

But look!

I just won't stay on my shelf;

And who knows

Where I may have crept off to?

Shhh, shhh, shhh...

You need to stop talking now--

You've been careless.

See how far the lighted windows are behind you?

A woman I may allow

To scratch under my chin--

My eyes gone thin like crescent moons;

But you,

If you don't get a clue and stop chattering,

Saying, "I think this!"

And, "What you must understand is that..."

I will get up softly.

I will approach you quietly,

And wait.

Who knows

What one so soft, so quiet, so stealthy,

Might be thinking?

Still your foolish tongue and try to imagine

What she might be kind enough to teach you

If provoked.


Monday, October 12, 2009

The Heretic

The trouble with loving gypsies

Is that gypsies always leave.

Oh Mama,

I have been leaving since the day I was born,

And yet I am not a gypsy--

Just a restless soul.

I stood in the fields

Trampled and red--

Put my hand to my shoulder

On the place that it bled...

I wish to be as brave and beautiful

As my horse draped blue and white,

But I am just a wanderer

And fodder for the fire.

I can tell by the way you're looking at me,

You've heard and you know

About the saints mysteriously whispering

Selectively and low.

I heard them

In her perfect voice so sweet,

As she told me

That I was, and I believed.

The trouble with loving gypsies

Is that gypsies always leave.

Oh Mama,

I have been leaving since the day I was born.

My dreams are all of gypsies,

But my life is endless war.

I wish to be as brave and beautiful

As pure and fierce desire,

But I am just beloved of God

And fodder for the fire.


Photo: Evelyn Nesbit

Sunday, October 11, 2009

Lovely Blog Award

I have been given this Lovely Blog Award by Ekanthrapadhikan. Thank you, my friend, I appreciate your thoughtfulness. I shall display it proudly.

Now, there was something about rules, but you know me, rules cause me to break out in hives. Here are my fifteen recipients, which won't actually be fifteen, because, well, you know how I get.

Dulce, because she writes such marvelous and beautiful poetry, because her sidebar is filled with all sorts of wonderful stuff, and because she's nice to me.

Cloudia, because her blog really is like a daily Hawaiian vacation, but more than that, it makes me feel enriched and happy every time I go there. Plus, she is nice to me.

Mama Zen, because her blog is unique in all the world, like the Taj Mahal, except with geckos. Plus, yup, she's nice to me.

Pheromone Girl, because she is all grown up and can carry it home herself now! And because she kicks tail, and because she sends me tea and because she's--you guessed it--nice to me.

Pouty Lips, because nobody does Nonsense like she does. Nuff said. Except, of course, to add that she is nice to me.

Shadow, because she writes the most expressive, thoughtful poetry and somehow manages to do this nearly every day. And because, uh huh, she is nice to me.

Daryl, because she is the total Queen of Monochrome Monday, because she tells me good books to read, because she rocks, and because she is, I meant to say, because she is MEAN, very very mean, to everybody, all day long all the time. At least that's what this sheet from her publicist says. ;-)

Enjoy your awards. You deserve them.


Friday, October 9, 2009

Recuerde Esto

Tea leaves,

Tangled sheets...

You mustn't believe a word they say.

So you've poured your entire self into a passion again,

Right to the top...

As if you were something sparkling, and you are.

Just because the music ends,

Doesn't mean you shouldn't have danced.

Broken hearts and full ones

Both express themselves with tears,

And there's no shame in that;

No crime in taking a chance.

One day, maybe soon,

When the house lights dim and the red light's on,

You'll roll a hat down your arm and steal everybody's heart

Just as if you'd never let one fall;

Just as if you were something sparkling,

And you are.


Photo: Stevie Nicks