Reanimated Lavender Granola Switchblade Nun rides again.

Wednesday, December 29, 2010

Small Talk

Don gloves before handling porcupines;
Dark glasses when in love with the sun--

Protect virtue with dozens of petticoats;
Slouch in doorways and call, to meet men.

Never trust captains of ferry boats;
Feign boredom when purchasing wine--

During lovemaking, do not consult your notes,
And keep your damn mitts off what's mine.


for magpie 46

Monday, December 27, 2010

The Far Garden

When I was young, I asked,

Why are my arms made of blackberry vines?

And why do I

Most love to sit

In the far garden filled

With strawberries and mint?

And why do I have

Cat-tail colored hair?

Why is the thunderhead

A black mother bear?

Why is my skin filled with restless blue lightning

And the pull of the moon?

You dreamed it, child--

Is all that I

Was told, and it's

A sin to lie

A sin to lie.

When I was young, I ran

Away through the wheat under bright summer sun

Until I was alone

Save for sparrow and crow

With south wind for sign post

And further to go

I sang to the quicksilver

Dead in the earth

Who lay with the bear's teeth,

The strawberry red,

And the sweet things that were

You dreamed it, child--

Was all I was told, but the

Far garden called and we

Grew up wild

Grew up wild.


visit One Shot Wednesday #26

Sunday, December 26, 2010

The Price of The Best Kisses

The Christmas we went to New York,

Before you even packed,

You had decided how the whole trip ought to be--

Life was your bonsai tree--

Small and crippled,

Trailing after you like a shadow child;

Product of a rotten womb.

You found me wrapped in darkness,

And decided I was a star--

You say I drove you mad in trying to touch me--

But I think it must be

That you were already that way;

Your very bones stuffed with some sort of sick larvae

That I could never even name,

Let alone have placed there.

The Christmas we spent in New York,

You took a child's delight in the lights--

You will always seem bright and be able to

Find someone who wants to take care of you,

Until you burn them out and scorn the cinders.

It was your kisses, you know,

That made me want to be with you--

Your kisses, like the lights,

Hid the deeper darkness.

You will always be disappointed with what is--

Finding dreams of What Should Be more pretty;

As for me, now as in New York,

It is always

Night in an unfamiliar city.


for One Shoot Sunday

I have never been to New York City. The trip was to a different locale, but I altered it to fit the prompt. The rest is true.

photograph by Adam Dustus

Saturday, December 25, 2010

The Postal Parade

It is Christmas morning, and postal carriers pour out of the doors of the main post office

Like pellets from a torn bean bag.

Some weep without shame.

Some laugh.

Some slap their knee with one hand and wipe their eyes with the other.

Christmas delivery season is over.

One carrier turns slowly in a circle, arms outstretched,

Grinning as if all the world had suddenly become chocolate-frosted.

Two mail ladies dance together on the sidewalk, to wonderful unheard music.

A carrier named Gary strips off his blue jacket and flings it away;

Soon his tie joins it, discarded on the snow-dusted ground.

Another places his mail bag upside-down over his head like a drunkard,

And pantomimes blindness as his friends hoot good-naturedly.

A civilian in a black overcoat approaches the group, holding out a letter.

This sends the entire blue bunch into hysterics.

One mocks, "Cad I bail a ledder?", and they all fall over, howling with glee.

A window opens on the second floor of the post office,

And several empty trays and buckets are flung out;

Then a rather shapely ass appears in the window and waggles.

On each side, in red lipstick, is written



Cheering and wolf whistles fill the chilly air.

A group of strong young carriers push a mail truck onto the lawn,

Knocking over an idealized stand-up of some soulless company shill hawking products.

When the truck stops rolling, one of them opens the back gate and pulls out an old forgotten Redbook magazine.

He rolls it up and peers through it like a pirate through a spy glass,

Until a little blonde co-worker takes it and uses it like a majorette's baton,

And they all parade away down the avenue.

It is the Christmas postal parade.

Hooray! Hooray!

They will go home and reintroduce themselves to their husbands and wives;

They will hoist up their children in their arms,

Ruffle their hair,

And spout love words you can see in the winter air.

Behold the Christmas miracle!

Ease and happiness--

Gifts falling into their lives like letters from the angels into a collection box.


Thursday, December 23, 2010

Learn French In Ten Days

Learn French in ten days
Lose weight without exercise
Learn to love
Your hips, bust, thighs

Learn secrets of New Orleans chefs
Take this test and find romance
Learn to rhumba
Or any other dance

Find your inner goddess
Learn ancient Chinese techniques
Start tonight
And know joy that lasts for weeks

Send no money now
Try it in the comfort of your home
Just stir in our tasty mix
With a little hair and bone

Learn secrets of New Orleans whores
Sleep all night without dangerous pills
Some may experience dizziness
Nausea cramps and chills

Find a buyer for dull remaining years
Have younger lovelier skin
Call 1-800-JZS-CARES
For prompt removal of sin

Learn secrets of New Orleans voodoo queens
Soothe cuts rashes and burns
Be sure to check the box on the right
Indicating acceptance of terms

Get rid of clutter, sell your home
Please write your name on this tag
Make sure to leave all valuables
In this trendy designer bag

Leave that unsatisfying grind behind
Get new flooring for your garage
Let us help you get back to the earth
Pauvre petite, quelle domage!


the last line translates as "poor baby, what a shame!"

Blackthorne & Celeste

I wasn't going to post this, having written it for sheer amusement. But then, wickedness whispered to me in the form of....well, I shan't name her. (oOooo, I just said "shan't". For my next trick, I'm going to sip Darjeeling with my little finger stuck out, just so. See? How cool am I? Don't answer that! We haven't got all day.) Now, as all of my regular readers know, when faced with the temptation to do evil, I generally cave immediately, thereby leaving me more time to actually perform the deed. And so, shower her with hosannas or bombard her with brickbats as you choose, but my friend prevailed, and so here is this lovely bit of doggerel, entitled...


Blackthorne crouched in his garret
Working feverishly on "Ode To A Backed-Up Drain"
Brooding in the dark--
Wracking his brain--
So very somber deep and serious was he
About finding a way
To shock the industrial bourgeoisie
That he hadn't bathed in weeks
Such that the dirt lay upon him in streaks.

His lady Celeste, light and airy
Dashes off poems
In the haiku form
About unicorns, sprites and fairies
Sort of a Sino-Celtic headache
In verse,
To make strong persons curse
Their fate
In having to read it.

They were married in the park
In June in the rain in the dark
His verse got bleaker,
Her haikus, weaker,
And now there's no telling when or if they will stop.


dedicated to Charles Bukowski and Jewel, the finest poets of our time   

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

Prairie Flowers

Her David lay on his back in the prairie grass, staring up at the sky

Where there was just one cloud

Shaped a little like a wagon cover without wood or wheels;

The blood was already pooling

In his back

And inside his boot heels

And anything he might have said

Or seen

Or been

Was over,

Because David was dead

And by the time the raiding party got close enough to start shooting her goats for the sport of it,

She was down into the little ravine

With her precious Hannah Rose in her arms

And her heart in her throat,

A prayer on her lips

For the two of them somehow, please sweet Jesus, not to be seen

Down the crack in the land where the crick had been

Last spring

When the prairie flowers bloomed.

Her David lay dead in the prairie grass,

And her pretty Hannah Rose,

Last winter's baby,

Started to cry when they fell from her catching her broken-soled shoe on the uneven stones and clods

Down the gully

Where the crick had been,

Where the circuit-riding preacher had baptised them both

Just a month ago;

And now,

Oh God, oh Jesus, Lord and angels,

Let my child live

Let my baby live

Let my darlin' live

Because my heart and soul would turn to dust and scatter across Hell itself

Without her.

Her David lay still and dead in the prairie grass behind her

As she cut her hand on a stone pushing herself to her feet again,

Running, stumbling, holding her beautiful Hannah Rose to her full and terrified heart

In the moment she heard the hoof beats behind her

Coming closer,


She couldn't look back, she kept running,


They say it is better to die than to let the Comanches catch you;

But I will run

Until I cannot run

I will love

Until I cannot love

I will kiss my baby's face

Until I can no more,

Down in the little dry ravine

Where the crick had been

Only this last spring

When the prairie flowers bloomed.


for One Shot Wednesday 25

Monday, December 20, 2010


Word starts getting around about Danny's Coffee Shop--

A girl wearing black fingerless lace gloves and her skinhead boyfriend walk in and he stands right in front of the Succubus,

Snapping pictures with his phone

As the girlfriend swipes her dyed black hair out of her face and giggles.

The Succubus once owned this place. She was the first.

Then she got stupid over Chloe, and though they still share the air,

They are like buses at a stop--

Never touching and bound in opposite directions.

"I've become a Point Of Local Interest," thinks the Succubus as her ashy heart turns over in her undeniably perfect chest...

"I've become a demon in a zoo."

In one motion, she stands up, all seven glorious feet of her, and spreads her black wings,

Knocking over everything within her wingspan;

Soon the skinhead's phone is dust and the silly girlfriend's skin has gone all to hell--

Well damn,

Sorry about that, kids.

The Succubus strides out, imperial and evil,

And everybody just steps back.

Nobody has seen her like this in months.

From rooftop to rooftop she moves in the frozen night,

Until she finds the place she was looking for...

In she glides, like a knife drawn from under a peasant girl's skirts, and slid into a wound,

Killing the priest who accused her.

She is here to enter the dreams of the woman who sleeps before her,

A genuine beauty,


Hers for the plucking.

When the Succubus enters someone's dreams, their dreams turn sweet beyond imagining--

It's just that

They will never have another one.

Pity that.

Together they rise, they join in this wicked illusion,

But then,

The Succubus smells smoke.

No, it's not the Boss.

The space heater has set the blankets on fire and the place is going up...

The Succubus looks at her prey, whose name is Angeline, and she can't help herself,

Can't stop herself...

She alters their dream to one of cool water, pitchers of cream poured over soft skin, all things soothing and sweet-scented.

She wraps her body around Angeline, but not as she had planned to do--

She carries her out onto the balcony near the fire escape. All she needs is a goddam day-glo yellow helmet and an ax.

The freezing air wakes Angeline and she makes her way down, down,

To the street and to life.

Around dawn, the Succubus walks back into Danny's Coffee Shop.

The Queen of the Vampires starts to crack wise, but is stopped by one lifted finger with its razor sharp red nail.

"Don't," says the Succubus,

And sits down where she was when the camera kids came in.

She is not the same.

Time will reveal whether this is a good thing or not, and time is one thing,

Along with a deep, black melancholy,

That she has plenty of.

She curls one foot underneath herself

And folds her wings back in

As if they were her dark intentions

Brought back to the roost like bats.


Sunday, December 19, 2010

Entre Nous

This is where I love you.

Oh yes...

Here, where little black plastic wheels bring the dawn in on a cart,

Where lightning has turned our little sand burrows into glass

And we goggle

At how many different faces we have broken into.

The rooster is dead.

We soon will be, so kiss me now,

Right here...

We'll pretend the black mold is dark grapes

And that we are goddesses

Lazing in the baths, those spaces between panic and blankness.

Did you think I loved you

In a better way?

With dainty little shoes to kick off as I sit on the fresh hotel bed?

Would there be little mints?

A magnum?

A rose falling  with the languorous, unpromised hours?

I tell you,

The rooster is dead,

The fox is hiding.

Here, we lean,

Like sick trees, denied enough light.

It is here that I love you,

Here that I tat together the bubbles that will stop my heart

In the moment that I reach for you,

To place a veil between this place and every hope that ever came in carrying a clip board,


Oh yes, yes, bring this one,

And we will see...

The rooster is dead,

The fox is hiding.

This is the place where I love you,

Where the corridors split like bronchi,

And I finally whisper,


Don't leave me here.

I am instantly shamed by my weakness,

But I never know whether to crow, be silent,

Or just

Admire your beauty through the musty parallax

Of this place I have always called home.


for One Shoot Sunday 

I am back, darlings, typing away madly on my new netbook. My welcome back is to be soundly outdone on this prompt by the evil Hedgewitch.

Friday, December 17, 2010

The Calling

Hello again from the library. Shhh! Hey where are the Dewey decimal catalogs???


When the tiger speaks,

I am the one who dresses her words like a morning bride,

Changed and adjusted a dozen different times.

I live between the tiger's teeth,

And when she speaks, it is of blood, sinew and bone--

By the time these sounds mark the world,

I have made them roses, tall grass, and gemstones;

I lie between the tiger's teeth--

I always bleed

And am always alone.

When the tiger strikes,

She is pitiless and violent, but it does not seem that way to the one stricken;

To them, her warm breath and close embrace make her seem like a mother--

She lulls them, not into comfort, but into oblivion.

Will you be the one cruel enough to say the difference?

I refuse.

When the tiger sleeps,

I slip from between her teeth and lay close at her side--

I am one day dark, the next day light, and never of a piece,

And so she does not see me,

There, along her stripes;

She does not kill me,

Not even in her dreams.

When the tiger listens,

I have hidden inside her ears, and all she hears are heartbeats and sighs;

Each creature wants its own as badly as does any other--

Only men have vanity enough to believe otherwise.

I have stayed curved behind the tiger's claws,

Rich with the scents of swamp and lawn

And every solitary shadowed place between,

All of them reflected, distorted, in her eyes.

When the tiger, at last, leapt

Through a night window, I saw my love--

I saw her dark hair and her hand just there;

I felt her wild dreams and the softness of her throat...

I fell away from the tiger with her anger mute and dense,

Falling wet and stunned, heartbeat by heartbeat,

To the one who had called me

Without lies

Without predation

Without defense.

Thursday, December 16, 2010

Bartleby the Personal Computer

Like Melville's Bartleby the Scrivener, my ancient comp has been increasingly apt to respond to requests that it do its usual tasks with an uninspired "I prefer not to." And like Custer's Indian scouts, it further decided, yesterday morning, that "it is a good day to die." And so it did.

I am at the library tapping this out, and it may be a bit before I can trade enough ambergris or animal pelts to acquire a netbook or something to get back here with. Until then, I am a library rat and will check in as often as I am able.


Shay, back to the stone age

PS--please feel free to check out my "best of" list on the sidebar, if you need a Shay poem and no one is here at the counter.

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

Ballet At Lakeside

My friend Hedgewitch says, write, even if you think it's crap. My horoscope in today's Detroit Free Press said the same thing. I might resist one of them, but never both. So I wrote.


I throw my bones out on the dark smooth surface of the water;

I say, "you are as hard and as pale as the one I love the best--"

My flesh no longer holds you;

My bleeding does not move you;

So I reject you,

And in so doing, can no longer stand.

I lie on the shore like a castaway or a starfish,

And my bones get up and dance--

White ghosts on the polished black floor in front of me.

I say, "you haven't any guts...they are not synonymous with hubris--"

But as long as the depths adore you,

As long as I care enough to lift my head and spit,

You, my bones, will glow in the emptiness

Like a shell thrown into the night sky by a dying gypsy

Already cooling in the light of a thousand stars--



And too proud to go dark without a dirty word and a wink.


Monday, December 13, 2010

She's Come Undone

it's too late

she's gone too far

she's lost the sun...

she's come undone

I came to a place where I found I had forgotten all that was good about myself, and all that had seemed hopeful about the future. One day I was going about my life as usual, and then gradually, the light went out of it, and I walked in a world that no longer seemed safe, or worthwhile, or promising. Just a terrific effort to try to tread water, only to sink further into the thick bottomlessness of it. Even my words failed me and ceased to have value. The song in my bones stopped, and that silence is the most frightening thing of all. I have been to this place before, and found my way out, when I was young. But now I don't know the way out, or if I have the will to get there even if I did. My house is not on fire. It is freezing to death. I know that all of this is the work of the Dark Bird, and the illusions that comprise its suffocating shadow. And yet that is my truth, at this moment, as honestly as I can say it.

 quoted lyric from "She's Come Undone" by the Guess Who

Saturday, December 11, 2010

Idle Hands

Idle hands are the devil's workshop
That's why I've dropped by
To see you again, my love

It is a failure of the heart
To tear someone else's apart
And stomp on the pieces, singing.
I would never do that
I would never...well maybe just the once
And I did say I was sorry

Idle hands are soon steeped in sin
And that's why I've dropped by
To see you again, my love

I realize
You don't feel the same
Still, no one can hear you
Call me those names
Let me in
Let me in
Let me in
Just pretend I'm a nice person
What have you got to lose?
What harm can it do?
Let me in
And put these idle hands to work again, my love.

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

Can Anybody See Us?

Susie didn't want to be a debutante
Not now, she said
Not now, not ever

Not even when she shaved her head
Did anyone believe her
Not even when she lost all that blood
Half gone, half dead
Did anyone believe her

They said, give it time, you'll see
That we were right
And how happy you'll be
That you listened, listened to us, sweet pea

Jake didn't want to work in dad's factory
Not now, he said
Not now, not ever

Not even when he walked out of there
Did anyone believe him
Not even when he dressed up like Cher
And kicked away the chair
Did anyone believe him

They said, give it time, it's a phase
These things are here today,
Gone tomorrow, and they were...
Gone down the road with their thumbs out
To any damn place but here.


for One Shot Wednesday 23


When the plane went down, at night, in the desert,

The cargo hold burst

And a few things were thrown clear.

It's cold in the dark, in the desert,

And after the hulk burned itself out,

Three heart beats remained in the shadows.

The one with the injured head would fade out with the moon, before morning.

The broken arm would envy suitcases, rocks, anything that does not know pain,

And a third sat silently, and ridiculously, unhurt.

They had

Some Mexican dolls in crates;

Some California video games,

And a sled bound, like them, for Boston.

They burned the sled,

Trading the sky back for its snow, sending smoke this time instead;

Then the dolls,

Which seemed far too close to the bone, but they used what was at hand

Because they hadn't any choice.

In the morning,

It grew hot. One was dead.

The sun rose yellow in the sky like an advertisement for a morning newspaper--

Sports final, funnies.

They sat where they had found themselves, like broken weather vanes.

They sat amid the video games,

All that was left,

And tried to decide whether to wait or start walking.

For them, the decision meant everything.


The sky was a silly blue,

As blank and unconcerned as the face of a child holding a magnifying glass,

And whose kindness stops

At the end of his own nose.


for magpie 44

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

The Lioness

No one knew she was a lioness, at first--

It happened by degrees.

The other girls did not have

Teeth as sharp and white as hard ghosts;

The boys could not stalk and kill

Like she could.

In time,

Her own family locked their doors

And began greeting her

With the sound of cocked rifles.

So she wandered

Like a crescent moon across the summer sky.

She was the only lion in her entire range--

All through the close sultry nights, she hunted alone,

Taking hoof and horn until she was marked

Like a woman with tattoos.

In the day,

She had dreams that she was back in school,

And that she she had shown up naked;

Then upon waking, surrounded by dust and flies,

She really was naked

And still alone.

The land rovers come sometimes,

And the people with cameras--

They say,

Look at her,

So strong, so beautiful;

But she slips away into the bush.

She searches for any glimpse of a particular tawny shade,

But finds only hard dry dirt and roads to nowhere.

She can do things none of the girls she grew up with can do--

She is more striking than any of them,

In her own singular, wild way.

She is the only lion in her entire range,

And through the endless nights

And the killing, solitary days,

Being loved by some distant, feral god is not nearly

Not ever



Monday, December 6, 2010

Darling, It's Christmas

Darling, It's Christmas
Just take a peek out the frosty window
See our friends and neighbors
Coming together around their damaged cars
And exchanging blows

It's Christmas and once a year
We do these things
We hate
We hate
We hate
Put up the tree, string up the lights
Throw the rope over the cross beam
It's Christmas, it's finally here

Spending money I haven't got
Buying people I don't like
Things they'll never use--
Oh honey look
This one's for you

It's Christmas, and once a year
We pray at church
For the blessed thing to be over
Everyone's seething
Nobody's sober
Holly berries are poison
Come on over

Holiday hymns we take up
Until the police are called to break up
Another family Christmas
With the brandished cake knives
And the ruined lives
Merry Christmas, darling
Of course you're fine to drive.


An original work written by Fireblossom with hovering help from Babs St. Argent

Fireblossom's Monday Lethargy Rally

Hello readers. Welcome to Fireblossom's Monday Lethargy Rally. Sorry, there's no coffee because no one bothered to make any.

Here are the rules for Fireblossom's Monday Lethargy Rally:

  • show up late and unprepared, if at all
  • when addressing the group, mumble
  • when addressed by the group, doze off in the middle of it
  • bow to the Great Koala
  • (koalas live exclusively on eucalyptus leaves, which makes them kind of stoned. If they run out of leaves, and the next tree is too far away, they starve rather than make the trip)
  • tell everyone you know about Fireblossom's Monday Lethargy Rally, as long as you don't have to get out of your chair to do so
  • zzzzzzzzzzzzzz
  •  X   X
  •     >
  •  --------
Enjoy. And don't forget, any rally worth starting is worth fi


Note: the maid pictured is not my friend Mama Zen's. If it were, she would be talking. This is my maid, who only knows one phrase in English..."maybe later, I'm on break"

Sunday, December 5, 2010

Panama Jim

Panama Jim falls in love with Rosaria Morales in the middle of a performance.

Panama Jim has a flaming sword half way down his throat when she flashes past,

Standing on the back of a horse as white as clouds,

As white as cocaine,

As white as sheets in a five-star hotel,

And she has her arm extended and the smile of a transported saint on her (truly lovely) face.


Panama Jim searches the tents until he finds her,

Then spouts half a Neruda love poem before kissing her as if she were some sort of impossibly hot

South of the border blarney stone.

They do it.

Under the caramel corn wagon, they do it,

Then do it again,

Until the spoked wheels bow out from the sultry conditions,

And Jim and Rosaria relocate out of fear of a caramel avalanche.

Panama Jim has been a fire eater for seventeen years,

But suddenly,

All of that seems like ice cream,

Like laughing gas,

Like popsicles,

Compared to the inferno he falls into in Rosaria's arms.

Love is like canoeing on lava!

Then the canoe is gone,

And Panama Jim flails in the white-hot rapids,

Letting Rosaria polish his bones with her kisses.


(thinks Panama Jim later)

You don't meet a woman like this.

She doesn't just come riding by, on a coke-white horse,

With a rose in her teeth.

But this time she did,

And Panama Jim is glad.


for One Shoot Sunday

Saturday, December 4, 2010

Two Poems To Go With Daryl's Photographs

Hello readers. My dear and talented friend Daryl, of the Through My Eyes blog, has teamed up with me in hopes of entertaining you with our combined efforts. The following two poems are mine, written specifically to go with Daryl's original photographs.


She liked to sit out on the porch swing, did Aunt Dee.

Of a summer evening, she liked to watch the people go by.

She would say to me,

--about strangers walking down Albe Street--

"That one's got a heavy care,

This one's dreams are passing odd--

That one's a diddler with a wormy brain,

And this one shines and is touched by God."

Once she saw black horses high-stepping down the cobblestones

With somber plumes above their handsome heads.

I looked and saw nothin'

Except Mrs. Winton unloading her groceries and yelling at her boy to come help.

Aunt Dee turned kinda gray, like bad weather rolling in,

And three days later, Uncle George fell down the basement stairs on his way to fetch a screwdriver,

And snapped his neck.

I like to sit out on the porch swing and remember Aunt Dee.

Of a summer evening, sometimes I see black horses high-stepping down the blacktop

With somber plumes above their handsome heads.

I never tell my husband what I've seen,

But I do go inside and make sure everything's in good repair

And that he stays



The Church Of The Gingerbread God

Clouds pale and faint like the ashes of saints

Kiss the tower of the church of the gingerbread god

While birds brush the bell on their way through to hell

In the tower of the church of the gingerbread god.

Prayers rise and fill

The body of the bell

Til the striker can't move and it dies;

But it still seems to ring

Each year in the spring

Releasing the prayers like sighs.

Birds with no wings and clouds with no mouths

Nest in the tower of the church of the gingerbread god,

While the pony-up basket is kept in a casket

Buried below in the yard.


Friday, December 3, 2010


I had a fever, but only in one eye.

I opened it--

Tripped-out fractals,



I closed it--

My naked love

With a wicked smile on her gone-gypsy face.

I wrote poems, but only with one hand.

The other did the most batshit-crazy things, all unbidden--

Got a job,

Wore a ring,

Spooned pablum til I wanted to cut it off and fling it away.

So I cut it off and flung it away.

Now I spend afternoons reading Soap Opera Digest by the freeway,

Nestled between two stone-loony lunging German Shepherds I have named Bonnie and Clyde

But I call them

Doll-Baby and Pookie-Face,

And I wink at them as I feed them Sonic burgers and stroke them with my stump.

They know

That I have a beautiful heart,

And who but them will love this heart?

I have a fever, but only in one eye.

I open it--

Tripped-out fractals,



I close it--

My naked love

With a wicked smile on her gone-gypsy face.


The Trash Wolf

i am the trash wolf,
gliding through the yards
under a chicken bone moon.
if your terrier's gone missing,
it might have been me,
or maybe that little bitch
down the way. tease me with
a pizza crust and I'll
kill you.  kiss me and i'll stay.
i told you, i am the trash wolf.


Thursday, December 2, 2010

Snakes In The Snow

There are doves in the rocks--
In my walls they are sealed--
The whole house may lift away and wheel.

There are snakes in the snow,
Torpid and dull--
"How soft and thin are suede boots and skin."

Late last night and the night before,
Little robbers at my door...

I am Dorothy,
I am Eve--
Afraid to stay--
Afraid to leave.

for magpie 43