Reanimated Lavender Granola Switchblade Nun rides again.

Tuesday, June 29, 2010

An Overview Of Acceptable Margins Of Error In The Interpretation Of Predictive Data

The deliberately misleading weatherman loses his job

And moves in with the needlessly unpleasant saleslady.

"I love you," he tells her.

"So what?" she answers. "I could almost care."

His job search progresses poorly.

At interviews, he gives prospective employers made-up names, uses cartoon characters as references, and insists that, if hired, he needs the solstice off in order to summon Aphrodite from out of the spirit realm so that she can join the saleslady and him for a threesome.

She kicks him out.

"You're crazy," she tells him. She throws away his gifts and changes the locks.

All day at the department store, she is abrasive and nasty.

She goes to a sub shop for lunch and berates the girl there for assembling her sandwich in exactly the manner she requested.

"Go back to Pakistan!" she says, and leaves without paying.

In the afternoon, she gets caught between floors in a malfunctioning elevator. 

She is visited there by the Holy Spirit.

When she emerges, hours later, she is a changed woman, courteous and kind to everyone she meets.

They let her go anyway.

Meanwhile, the deceptive and demented former weatherman has reinvented himself as a self-help guru.

His is a multi-million dollar empire based on doubletalk and preposterous claptrap. There are waiting lists and limousines.

At one of his seminars, he meets a sixteen year old part-time Sonic carhop named Amber.

It is instant love for him, and he begins to shower her with attention and gifts.

He is convinced that Amber is the reincarnation of Lily Langtry, the famous "Jersey Lily."

He worships her.

He believes that she is the Perfect Human Being.

She likes that he buys her all sorts of expensive shit.

She tells her gf that he is "not so bad, even though he's older than fuck."

Her famous beau is thirty-one years old, adored around most of the world, and cannot distinguish Nirvana from Nivea cream.

St. Valentine's Day arrives.

He goes to the department store to get some nice things for Amber.

The saleswoman, a different one, is abrupt and insulting. 

He buys more than he had intended to, trying to cheer her up,

And she makes a nice commission.

Amber isn't pleased with her gifts,

Which include a riding lawn mower, several bowling balls, and a South American themed patio set.

She decides that the gravy train has gone off the rails for good, and so she calls her gf to come and pick her up.

He never sees her again.

In the asylum, he meets a woman named Brenda, who is a kleptomaniac.


Yes, she....

Steals his heart.

They are released and move in together.

He discovers that she makes uncommonly delicious soups,

And is kind to strays.

He keeps her lawn tidy with his riding mower, the only thing he has left from his days as a pop guru.

In the evenings, they sit on Brenda's couch together, 

The one she curb picked and re-covered.

They watch "Cash Cab."

She is better at guessing the answers than he is, but he doesn't seem to mind.

One night he takes her hand and says, "It will always be sunny as long as we are together."

It is kind of a sweetly dopey thing to say, but she smiles and decides to go with it.

"Sure, babe," she says.

Why not?

Monday, June 28, 2010

Study Partner

I was ill with a fever.

"Redundant!" thundered Professor Ragbone. "Repetitious! Needless!"

I was well with a fever.

So well, that I kissed her again, until I no longer needed air, or thoughts, or recompense--

Only her, until the seed became a strawberry,

And she told me her name,

Swimming in sugar,

Poured over my melting bones as if they were rich with cream and sweetness and desire.

"Hyperbole!" grumbled Ragbone, pacing. "Hackneyed. Derivative!"


Is sister to thirst.


Either breaks or transforms.


Does as it pleases.


Oh yeah.

Sunday, June 27, 2010

Two Moods, Men/Women, Four Travelers, Double Post

Every Sunday, the amazing Daryl has a feature called Tell Me A Story, in which she posts one of her photographs and asks her readers to tell her a story about it. Here is this week's picture, and my scene spun from it:

Rider #1: So how about those neo-cubists.

Rider #2: Oh man! The merging of reality with unreality and the presentation of familiar forms in bizarre and distorted shapes just makes me think, you know, Ed?

Rider #1: I'm with ya on that, buddy.

Rider #2: So how's your son? You said he was going through some sort of Chagall phase...

Rider 1: Aw, he's doin' great. We went down to MOMA last weekend. A buddy of mine had tickets, so we went.

Rider #2: How was it?

Rider #1: My man, the surrealists totally kicked ass, but the critic blew the call.

Rider #2: You're shittin' me.

Rider #1: If I'm lyin' I'm dyin', amigo.

Rider #2: Wow. So Ed man, did you catch the game last night?

Rider #1: Game?

Rider #2: Yeah, the baseball game.


Rider #1: Sometimes you worry me. Why would I watch a baseball game?

Rider #2: Aw I dunno, Ed. Forget it. It's just...the wife likes it, so we...never mind.

Rider #1: (shakes head)

Rider #2: (clears throat, pedals harder) So Ed man, how about those post-modernists?

Rider #1: My man!!! (both riders reach across and high five.) I'm all over that shit!

Rider #2: Dude!

Rider #1: Dude!
And, as promised, a new poem:
All girls are gypsies in their hearts;
They have wood smoke in their hair,
Soft boots on their feet,
And can spot a black cat or an easy mark from a mile away.
Gypsy girls all wear bright red and burnished gold;
From the womb, they can dance
In lazy turns like an old country road,
And they can fix a wagon wheel if the men are too drunk to do it.
When I look at a fence,
I can only see the broken spot that might be slipped through;
And when I lay out the cards, or stare into the scrying crystal,
All I see is
All girls are gypsies, carrying chocolates and well-sharpened silver blades;
We toss our hair and smile, then disappear down a dusty road under hanging trees.
And what will you do then? And what will I?
When with our different bands we have gone, and there is nothing but the turning wheels, the wicks of the lamps, and the memory of each other's
Painting: "Gypsy Girl Kate" by Fran J. Scott.

Saturday, June 26, 2010

Plastic Joy Award

Well. This is awkward. Ily has given me the Plastic Joy Award, and I am supposed to name five persons with whom I would like to get jiggy if I could. That's so cute. "If I could." Anyway, the thing is, everyone already knows that my list would look like this:

1. Joan Jett
2. Eva Larue
3. Joan Jett
4. Jordana Brewster
5. Joan Jett

Clearly, they've been delayed in traffic. I expected them by now. So, while I'm waiting, why don't we play a little game? Let's imagine that I've been hanging around with rampantly heterosexual persons such as Riot Kitty and Ily. 

Let's further imagine that I've begun to feel a little strange.

Then let's imagine still further, that they conspire to shove me into their giant Straightmaker Machine...

...and that I've emerged with a new view on things.

Suddenly, I'm going through men like M&M's. How can I choose just five? Well, it won't be easy, and I'll, um, have to conduct a great number of extremely private interviews, but for you, my readers, I have culled the herd and these five men have survived. (Note: the heartless Ily, after shoving me into the Straightmaker Machine, proceeded to scarf up Ed Harris, Andy Garcia and, of course, Johnny Depp right off the top. Who's left for me, Ily? Doctor Freaking Phil?)

Well, I have my little ways, just the same. And to prove it, here are my five:

1. Edward Norton. The man is just hot. Intense. Like he might buy you dinner or burn down the restaurant, depending on his mood at any given moment. Plus, in "The Illusionist", he plays a magician, a favorite archetype of mine. "Watch me pull a rabbit outta my hat!" That trick never works...for Bullwinkle. But for Edward Norton, I bet it would.

2. Sam Neil. He's understated, but he gives me the impression that he would be the kind of guy who would know where all the secret (and best) places to go are in some marvelous foreign city, and that he would have the means and the easy charm to make a gal feel as if she had found the secret to something, just because she was with him. And I like his smile.

3. Donald Sutherland. I know that Keifer is the default heart-throb these days, but though I have nothing against him, my heart belongs to daddy. There is a light in his eyes and his smile is something special indeed. I don't care if he's a hundred, the man is sexy. Plus, you all know how I am about rules. My sense is that, at heart. he is the same way. Whatever he has in mind, I'm game.

4. Don Cheadle. He's another one who seems to me to be in a constant state of slow simmer. I like his dark skin and eyes, and I like his smile, too, but what I like even more is when he is all brooding and complicated. I don't think he is probably ever entirely just one thing. You wouldn't ever have to cheat on him, you could just wait for the wind to shift and, presto, different guy. But the same, too. You know?

5. Jim Carrey. Really make me laugh, and I'll follow you anywhere. It's just attractive. But he also seems vulnerable in "Doing Time On Maple Drive" and "Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind." And he seems like he would just be a nice guy. Is crime? Come to Natasha, Jeemy, I'm seeck of dat Boris. You and me, we haff goot time. ;-)

Oh my gosh, I feel dizzy...I think the effects of the StraightMaker Machine are wearing off. I hope Joan or Eva or Jordana get here soon! I'm going to go watch "The L Word" until they arrive. Meanwhile, please help yourselves to the Plastic Joy Award, if you'd like to participate. And there's Coke in the fridge. 

Poetry next post, I promise!


Friday, June 25, 2010

I Love Rock n Roll (and the 80s ladies who played it)

Okay look. I don't feel like writing poetry right now. There, I've said it. Oh, don't have kittens, the rhymes will be back. But for right now, I am giddy with the prospect of posting about anything I feel like. Oh my.....lack of adult's sounding better all the time.

So anyway, today my subject is rocker ladies of the 80s. You know the ones. If you were like me, you either wanted to be them, be with them, or both.

Now, it is well-established that I believe in Joan. *sighhhhhhh*

But back then, there was another singer I hyperventilated over liked nearly as well. Nena.

Yes, I know, she was a one hit wonder, and the one hit was 99 Luftballoons. But still.

By the way, she still looks fantastic today.

Then there was Kate Bush. She sang about Wuthering Heights, and swapping places with God, and had a fearless lesbian love song on her "Lionheart" album. Completely unfair that anyone should be both that talented and that beautiful. 

I also loved the sultry and smoky-voiced Martha Davis of the Motels. So L.A., dahling.

Can't leave out Annie Lennox of the Eurythmics. Would I lie to ya honey?

or Terri Nunn of Berlin. Got to love "Sex (I'm A....)".

And Cyndi Lauper and The Bangles and Bananarama, and The Waitresses and all the rest.

Some have not aged so well, like Dale Bozzio of Missing Persons. I used to be sooooo envious of her. Um, I'm not anymore. Especially since she got busted for animal cruelty last year.

So who's your diva from the 80s, 90s or 2000's? Once a rocker, always a rocker at heart, I think. Here's to all of them whose hotness remains weapons-grade, even if only because we love them. ;-)



Thursday, June 24, 2010

Babs To The Rescue!

Darlings! It's me, Babs, from Objets D'art!

I've made you some lols, because...

Fireblossom has gone entirely to pieces and...

Is down at the local java bar,

Praying to Joan Jett or something.

Aren't you glad Aunt Babs is here to save the day? Lambs, when I heard there was the chance to upstage her help, I came running! Well all right, RRRRRRRRRamon drove me over in the RRRolls. Is that so wrong? Enjoy, Lambs, enjoy! I've got to run. Tennis at three! Ta, Darlings! 

Air hugs,

Babs St. Argent, feeling practically saintly

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

Her Talent A Mere Memory, Fireblossom Resorts To Hokum

I made these lols. This one is not Bosco, but rather, a Bosco wannabe.

I will never get the hour back that I spent making these.

I could have been reading.

Or visiting misery upon others.

But nooOOOOooo.

I made lols instead.

(I like them.)


Monday, June 21, 2010

Miss Dinwiddie's Guide To Black Tie

If you experience, at a swank luncheon,

Spontaneous human combustion,

Don't play the ass

As you're turning to ash--

Lest your demeanor detract from the function.


Sunday, June 20, 2010

Thoughts On Father's Day

Every Springtime, you would take the porch furniture out into the back yard and wash each piece down, the soap suds dripping off the dark wood frames like stars rotating out of a morning sky. The criss-crossing ropes that held the cushions would be wet as well, and if I twanged one like a guitar string, grasshopper drops would jump off, which delighted me.

These were Saturdays when you were home and relaxed. I would lie in the fragrant new grass underneath the frame of the porch couch, and poke my stuffed toy White Fang's head up through the ropes of our make-believe submarine. "All clear, Captain," White Fang would report. I was always a watcher. And did you know, Daddy, that when I watched you, you were blessed and could do no wrong?

Once, my older brother invaded my little hideaway and stole White Fang. He held him out of my reach with his long arms until I cried, disgusting him by "being such a girl." Always was, always will be. Try and stop me.

So, I stole away to a different spot in the yard, and brought my puppets, Pretty Horse and Charlie Boy, with me. My grandmother had made them. They were gray felt with black yarn manes. Together, we made a world, until, looking up, we saw that the yard was empty except for the drying porch furniture. I set my horses in their shoebox barn and went inside.

There you were, watching W.C. Fields on the den tv. He was one of the gifts you gave me, along with Buster Keaton and all the rest. I am still not quite convinced you didn't invent them personally, so that we could laugh together. Mom would walk through, take a look and shake her head, never understanding what we thought was so funny. She thought we were crazy. I watched her fill her days with never-ending chores she clearly hated, and thought that she had to be the crazy one. I swore I would be never be like her. Turning back to the movie, I decided that being Mae West looked like a lot more fun.

You brought me so many things that made me happy, Daddy. Things I still love today, like slapstick, like chocolate, like books. They, and you, will be part of my heart until the day I die. But oh, the thing about loving is that it goes hand in hand with losing. Work, ambition, secrecy, a woman, and eventually California all took you away from me. I have missed you all of my life, since then.  My brother held White Fang over his head, and taught me about not being able to reach someone I loved. Eventually, I got White Fang back. 

I know you didn't believe in a life after this one, Daddy. But I do. Will I find you again, like I found White Fang, one day? And this time, will you let me tell you how much I love you? Because I do, and I always have.

Happy Father's Day.



Friday, June 18, 2010

Love Recipes

Your apple is no pomegranate;
There's plenty more than sugar in it.

Don't pick hemlock by the backyard gate,
Then serve it on a china plate.

The white dust on the tarts I'm fed
Came lately from the garden shed.

I'll miss the cookies, cakes and such,
But dear, I just don't trust you much.

Another thought, another look,
I'd better fire the fucking cook.


Thursday, June 17, 2010

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Untitled Nocturne


you said.

Like a memory
Through my hair



What use are they
In the dark?

Like a pot forgotten
I overflowed
And could not contain
All that I carried.

I had got lost
And though there was the whole blank night,
I couldn't have thought
How to put things right.


you said.



Monday, June 14, 2010

Please Be Stupid Someplace Else

Darlings, sometimes something or someone comes along that is just so stupid I have to sit up and be ill. Michigan Republican Paul Scott (Grand Blanc) is the latest human syrup of ipecac to stand up and take a stand for good old-fashioned idiocy.

As has been noted, I live in a place where the best minds in the biggest local industry thought that the Edsel was a good idea. Not so much, guys. As has also been noted, our state has plenty of pressing problems, including rampant unemployment, crime, an eroding tax base, loss of population and corruption. Also, the Tigers just can't catch the damn Twins.

Into this grab-bag of problems to be solved, leaps Paul Scott. And which, of these many worthy issues, has he decided to involve himself in? Mr. Scott is vigorously opposing relaxed regulations in granting transgendered people passports. Um, that's a federal issue, for one thing, Paul. See the big map? That's fed-er-al. See the little mitten? That's Mich-i-gan. Oh for pete's sake, let's go over it again for Paul.

Mr. Scott is also opposed to state driver's licences being changed for the transgendered. Ever. Under any circumstances. Quoth Paul:

I'll make it a priority to ensure transgender individuals will not be allowed to change the sex on their driver's license in any circumstance.

"It's a social values issue. If you are born a male, you should be known as a male. Same as with a female, she should be known as a female."

Way to set those priorities, Paul. If the transgendered are allowed to change their driver's licences, what would be next? Parallel parking?

When asked to explain how such a mandate from the Secretary of State would benefit Michigan, he said it was about "preventing people who are males genetically from dressing as a woman and going into female bathrooms."
Oh dear. Bathroom fear. What is it that Congressman Scott thinks it is that transwomen want to do in there? Darlings, I think the answers are obvious. First, ladies' rooms have flowers and a sofa and men's rooms do not. And then of course, is the real reason...they want to go to the ladies' room for the same reason that women have always gotten up from the table and headed there in a pack: they want to get away from clueless blowhards like Paul Scott for a few blessed minutes.

He said his mandate would be in place even for those who had completely undergone sex reassignment surgeries.
Um...using the urinal is really going to be a problem, Paul. But hey. No whiskers in the sink. Speaking of the sink, Paul don't, no, oh Paul don't.....jesus, Paul. That's disgusting.

"That's who you are. You can have cosmetic surgery or reassignment surgery but you are still that gender," he said.

No pulling the wool over Congressman Scott's eyes. Someone has to stand up for traditional values. You are your plumbing. A black man is only three fifths of a person. The only good Indian is a dead Indian. God hates fags. Amen and God bless America!

As for me, my driver's licence and passport both say "F." Some have argued that in my case, the F stands for "fluffbrain." I say it stands for Fuck You if You Don't Like Me. I would make a lousy man anyway. I don't like chili cheesy fries.

All right then, anyone want to visit the ladies' with me? Thank Goddess for our own space. I understand that, in that other restroom, there are Republican family-values Congressmen in all the stalls, tapping away with their black FBI shoes. Omg. So that's why there's no sofa in there! It would only encourage them!

Sunday, June 13, 2010

The Miraculous Golf Cart

A golf cart is found in the La Brea tar pits,

Swallowed by time and turned to stone like a trilobite.

Angel Duran, Dr. Finnington's student assistant, painstakingly brushes away debris from the find.

Everyone calls Angel "El Gordo" and they waddle behind him like overinflated ducks, making fun of him.

A drop of sweat rolls into Angel's eye and makes it sting, but he maintains focus on his delicate and important task.

Someone walks by and goes, "Aflac!" This is followed by snickering and laughter.

Taco Bell bags are left in Angel's locker in the staff area. No one admits to having put them there.

In the evenings, Angel reads Neruda or sits on the little balcony of his apartment, smoking a good cigar and listening to Telemann. 

Morning comes and he is back at his task, though his back aches from the awkward positions he must sustain in order to reveal the golf cart, bit by precious bit, without damaging it.

Jennifer, who is supposed to help him, is talking on her cell phone instead.

She has a face an Italian master would sell his soul to paint.

"I got so fucked up last night!" she is exclaiming to someone.

The work goes on.

Sometimes Angel wonders why he was given that name. In school he was called "Chico." He was the only Hispanic.

Once, he told the other boys his real name. They called him "An-hole" after that.

It was years ago.

The golf cart begins to be recognizable as such.

What is it doing there?

How can it exist?

What previous assumptions will have to be discarded?

Angel likes good wine, though never to excess.

And yes, he likes his food.

Is this a sin?

The crucified Savior on the wall of his living room has never objected,

Never climbed down and rebuked him.

Instead, He gazes sadly,

Feet crossed like a ballerina.

Perhaps he would like some dinner, too, after all the centuries of quiet endurance.

Angel considers this.

Night falls.

Dr. Finnington comes around about noon the next day.

He examines the work and puffs on his cigar as if he were somehow scuba diving on dry ground.

He makes guttural sounds which might mean "good job",

Or, "this won't do",

Or, "I have an unhealthy obsession with young Asian women."

No one can tell.

Angel labors on.

The sun is punishing, and the little paper mask he wears to keep dust out of his lungs makes the heat even more unpleasant.

He knows, though, that the work is blessed, and is something larger than his own desires or comfort.

He knows, too,

That there is nobility in both knowledge itself and in the seeking after it.

Angel's fingers ache,

But his soul is radiant.

One day, filthy and disheveled from his sacred work,

He summons his courage and asks Jennifer out.

She declines, and her careful courtesy in doing so only makes him feel worse.

That evening, there is no Neruda, no Telemann.

He sits on his balcony and watches the sun set into the smog.

On the wall in the living room behind him,

Jesus spreads His arms as if to say,

"What can one do, when women are so desirable, and yet so hard?"

Midnight arrives, and Angel has not yet come back in.

Finally, the ancient golf cart is fully revealed, and then loaded, piece by piece, into carefully labeled crates,

And transferred to the University for study.

Dr. Finnington thanks Jennifer and hugs her, perhaps for a beat too long, but she may need a reference and so she lets him.

Dr. Finnington makes a guttural sound in Angel's general direction,

But who knows what the fuck it may mean.

Angel goes home.

His mother says she is glad he is no longer digging for a living.

"I was an intern," he explains gently. "I wasn't paid."

"Dios mio," she says, and crosses herself at the idea of such evil.

Months later, they are watching the NBC Nightly News with Brian Williams. Dr. Finnington has been honored by some lofty body and given a prestigious award.

There are clips of Dr. Finnington accepting this award, with a pretty young Asian woman at his side. They also show the golf cart from the tar pits,

Gleaming now, and on permanent display in a Los Angeles museum.

Angel walks outside and looks up at the sky.

It is late in the year, and dark, even though it is barely dinner time.

There are a million stars.

Angel, despite his scientific bent, makes a wish on one of them,

Then goes back in the house where his mother is watching Wheel Of Fortune,

And starts to make a sandwich.

He finds, however, that like the saints, he isn't hungry anymore.

"Why do you test me so much?" he asks Jesus, who now hangs over the stove.

Perhaps Jesus,

Wounded and sorrowful,

Was a scientist too.

Angel knows

That one must always consider every possibility.

Thursday, June 10, 2010

Life is Good Award.

Lambs. Some of you know my jaundiced view of blog awards. But this one I stole received from Joanna, isn't really an award at all, but a meme. Some of you know that I am a meme whore, just like Mom always warned me I would be if I didn't listen to her. I didn't listen to her and here I am.

Thank you, Joanna. Joanna has provided 10 questions which I am expected to answer, so that I can be feted better known by all of you out there in Readerland. But you know how I get. And so I am throwing all ten of Joanna's lovely and thoughtful questions into the bin and using Eddy Bluelights' questions to Joanna instead. Stop hitting me, Joanna. I said, stop hitting me. Thank you. As for Eddie Bluelights, I have no idea who he even is. Some say he is a pygmy god. Some say he ghost wrote all of Barbara Cartland's romance novels. I simply don't know. The man remains a mystery.

Now then, the questions, and my answers.

1. Do you write blog posts to please yourself or to please your audience? I write them to please myself, but I sincerely hope that they please my readers as well.

2. How do you make people visit your blogs and to elicit nice comments on your handy work? Do you employ the heavy mob to bully your readers or do you use your gentle wit, charm and good nature. Seriously, what do you consider the best way to interact with your fellow bloggers? How do I "make" people visit my blog??? By main force, if necessary! I've also been known to hire Montana cowboys to herd them here. But seriously, to borrow a phrase I heard someplace, I rely on attraction rather than promotion. I don't try to catch readers in nets or send out letters promising phony cruise tickets. I would hope the certain knowledge that Mama will be displeased if they don't visit and comment would be enough.

3. If you were starting your blog again would you do something radically different? Yes. I would post only in Serbo-Croatian, and only on financial subjects.  Okay okay, I'm lying. You caught me. How awkward. I would not do anything radically different, but I would put more of "me" in the blog, as I do now. I didn't used to. I had to be coaxed out into the light, with the promise of sugar cookies and the chance to sit in the nice lady's lap.

4. What is the most significant event in your life to date? That's easy. When my Secret Crush calls me "honey" or "babe." After that, there are no more mountains to climb. I mean, seriously. You know?

5. Would any of you like to appear on The Sunday Roast programme? TechnoBabe will tell you it is quite painless. If you would like to be interviewed please email me at There he is again. Who is he? What is he? The mind reels. The sad truth is, that I was the last blogger roasted by David McMahon. Immediately after posting my interview, David closed his blog and withdrew into anonymity, where I hear rumors that he has dispensed with clothing and language altogether, and swings from the trees like an ape. But I never credit rumors, and you shouldn't, either.

 6. What do you like to do in your free time? I am building a miniature Taj Mahal out of pipe cleaners and clear drinking straws. Okay, I'm lying again. I admit it. In my free time I do memes.

7. If you could go back in time which event would be of interest to you most, and why? I would like visit Amherst, Massachusetts, and have a heart-to-heart with Emily Dickinson. But I have. And I did.

8. Are you addicted to blogging? Do you think it is addictive? or can you take it or leave it? Addicted? Me? Pffffft, I can quit anytime I want. No, really. Oh all right, I'm addicted and I'm just fine with that. Poetry is who I am and what I do. I would do it if I were marooned on Saint Kitt's a deserted island, so blogging just makes something I would be doing anyway much more rewarding, and all of you are the reason why.

 9. Which person on planet Earth, past or present, do you admire most, and why? Marlene Dietrich. She lived out loud. She had intelligence, beauty, daring, talent, passion, courage, and she looked absolutely killer in a man's tuxedo.

 10. When this life is over do you think it is curtains or do you think there is an after life? To me it seems completely obvious that the spirit continues after physical death.

I must now pass this on to five victims bloggers and pose ten questions of my own, to them. If any of you don't care to do it, you clearly do not understand how deeply and bitterly I can hold a resentment  mustn't feel obligated. Here are my Fab Five:


Mama Zen



and TechnoBabe.

Your ten questions, ladies:

1. What is your favorite bird, and why?

2. Free shoes for life or free coffee for life?

3. Do you have a lucky number?

4. You get to re-animate someone from the past. Who would you choose?

5. You discover that your dog can talk. What do you do next?

6. You have to change into a man. Who?

7. You have to change into some other woman. Who?

8. I am your Fairy Godmother. I can make you fantastically wise or fantastically sexy. Which will it be?

9. You have to live the rest of your life as some type of animal. What kind?

10. You're going on a cruise with someone. Where are you going?

Do this meme right now Have fun!


Fireblossom :-)

The Killing Cure

"I've heard all the songs that the children sing

I've listened to love's melodies

And felt my own music within me rise

Like a wind in the autumn trees"

--"River" written by Bill Staines

Those of you who've been lingering in the Word Garden for a while know that I frequently turn my dreams into poems. I had a dream last night that I want to tell you about, but turning it into a poem didn't seem right this time. So, I'm just going to tell it. Okay? Got your coffee? Cos this one is insisting that I tell it.

Lately I've been  on a 30s gangster kick, reading books and watching movies about them. No surprise that little ole femcentric me finds the women especially interesting. Bonnie Parker. Katharyn Kelly. Legend has it that when they came to arrest her man, Machine Gun Kelly, Katharyn threw her arms around him and lamented, "Those G Men are never going to let us alone!" thus coining the term "G Men."

So that probably accounts for why I dreamt I was part of a crime syndicate back in gangster days. The upside was that I was a good deal younger than I actually am. The downside was that I didn't seem to have any clear role apart from being Head Coffee Fetcher and Girlfriend. But then there came a job that only a woman could do.

It seems the big boss, who I had never even met, was in a hospital someplace and desperately ill. Moreover, the only thing that could save him was to receive blood transfusions from pregnant women. Something about the altered blood chemistry. Consult your doctor. In your dreams, of course. 

So I was basically told I had to help. In the dream, the deed itself was conveniently skipped over (Mac? Did you slip me a roofie? Be honest now...), and I found myself pregnant, though I didn't feel any different. A few weeks went by and the big boss recovered. So then some gangster in a fedora and spats handed me a little brown bottle and said I had to drink it. It looked like rat poison or something. I knew what it was for, but I did as I was told. Now you KNOW it was a dream, yes? Since when does Fireblossom just do as she is told? 

Up to now I've been pretty casual and goofy about this dream that I had. But what came next left me upset and disturbed after I woke up. I drank what was in the bottle and in a short while I began having cramps. As soon as they began, I realized two things: that I really did have a life inside me, and that I had destroyed it. I was desperate to undo what I had set in motion, but there was no way, it was too late. I felt horrible grief and guilt and loss. I knew I had done something terribly wrong and irretrievable. 

As I knew I would, I miscarried. Nobody else seemed concerned about anything except that it was one less problem to deal with. I tried to hide my distress, but I had to get out of there and get away from all of them. When I felt able, I walked outside. There was a rolling green lawn and a pretty iron fence painted glossy black, which divided the house we were in from our neighbor, who was none other than Gabriella Moonlight! She wasn't outside, but one of her dogs was, and he looked up at me like, "Hi, Shay!"

There was a little footbridge or stairway leading over to her yard, and I went over and fussed over her little dog for a while, to make myself feel better. He was so alive, and cheerful, and simple. Some guy poked his head out the door of the gangster hideout, looking for me. I could tell he didn't trust me and was making sure I hadn't run off. And that was it, the end of the dream.

When I woke up, I felt so bad about what I had done. For the record, politically, I am pro-choice, but this wasn't political, it was personal, and it broke my heart. Thanks, my readers, for letting me tell you about it.  

Sunday, June 6, 2010

In Egypt

In Egypt, in the seventh year of the drought,

The great Pharaoh puts down his tennis racket and says,

"Call in my astrologers, magicians and priests. An answer must be found. The Gods must be appeased!"

"Oy," mutters the Queen. I told you to go with irrigation and agribusiness. But nooOOOoo. You want Sidney Omar and David Copperfield."

"Silence, woman!" commands Pharaoh.

She rolls her eyes and starts in.

"Remember Thebes? It's not bad enough that I wanted to go to Rio and you insisted on Thebes. But fine. We get there and the Sphinx goes, 'what walks on four legs in the morning, two in the afternoon, three in the evening, and grows weaker the more legs it has?'

"You said, ' a monster truck?' I've never been so mortified in my life."

"Do you have to tell that whole damned story over and--"

"So I had to jump in, before we became worm food, and answer for you. I mean, duh, hellooo, the answer is 'a man.' He crawls on all fours as a baby, walks on two legs as an adult, and rides in a golf cart after he retires."

Later, while walking Anubis, the Queen decides to drop in on her BFF, Doreen.

"Omg," exclaims Doreen. "You're letting that animal wear the ankh I gave you!"

"Oh, don't have kittens, Sugar. You know I love you. It was either that or chase his sulky butt through the Underworld in my new sandals."

"Can't have that. So how's His Highness?"

"Not so good since you stopped fucking him in the temple anteroom every Tuesday. Please start doing it again. He's become impossible ever since you cut him off."

Doreen stubs out her Virginia Slim, then looks back up, exhaling smoke luxuriously. "You knew?"

The Queen spreads her arms and croons, "I know everything! I'm the fuckin' Queen." Then she looks at her watch and clips Anubis' leash back on.

"Leaving already?" asks Doreen.

"Yeah. Bangles concert tonight. I'm going with Chris."

"The little number from the Nile croc exhibit? The one that talks into a microphone and winks at the wives? That Chris?"


"Well now. Robbing the cradle, what a scandal. If she's more than twenty-two, then I'm Joan Rivers."

"Bye Joan," says the Queen with an evil smile.

"Fuck you," says Doreen, and they both laugh.

That night the Queen does not return to the Palace.

All across the land, everything is quiet. Even the adders sleep.

The pyramids rest upon the burning sands like Buddhas.

Pharaoh broods and watches Leno.

Then, about three in the morning, there is a little rumble,

And a little drop.

By four, it is raining buckets.

Anubis, squeezed in between two pairs of smooth happy calves, sighs and rests his chin on his paws.

Egypt will last many thousands of years,

But this perfect moment

Will not come again.