Reanimated Lavender Granola Switchblade Nun rides again.

Wednesday, November 30, 2011

Because Becca

Because Becca,
Hawks (which Becca likes) matter.
(More than blue jays, which Becca doesn't,
And which are nothing more than puffed-up mimics anyway.)
Also, sweet rolls
And switchblades.
Becca is greater than Sally, Meghan, Jane.
Becca is less than...
(Empty set.)
Because Becca,
I have worn my red hat,
Red scarf,
Black suede boots,
And jean jacket.
Because Becca,
They will all find new accomodations,
Placed by the extra heater
In Becca's white bedroom
Overlooking Stroud Avenue.
In the moments of dark late afternoon,
I posit:
"Because Becca, everything else."
The way I feel,
The way the world seems to be (better),
My body, full of endorphins,
Up a flight of stairs, and behind a multi-colored brick wall,
One storey up from Stroud Avenue.
The reverse is not true:
"Because everything else, then Becca."
That shit was all here before,
And so what?
Write this down, (I say to her dog,
Whose eyes lift up, but not his head, from his paws)
"Because Becca,
Everything else."
His tail thumps.
Eat my dust, pedants, philosophers, muthafukkas!

posited for Kenia's challenge at Real Toads.

Monday, November 28, 2011

Red / Black / Blue

I know it stings baby,
I said, and my hand was shakin
which dint help a thing.
what she did to you.
There's enough
fuckin skinheads,
fuckin bible beaters
fuckin corner boys
as will do this to us
any time, any day
just for holdin hands in the daylight,
without that we do it to each other
for no good damn reason at all.

What set her crazy this time, sugar?
I swear, she calls here again,
imma toss that phone in the river.
Shhh now baby,
I said don't you worry,
let her come...
Janet's at a meetin, but her
chopper's in the yard,
and that bitch that done this to you
will see it and think hard
before she ever gets near the door.

That was five years ago,
and you been gone for three.
Janet said, let's pitch that thing,
so the sofa is history
though it probly had some life left,
and the blood stains were hard to see.

a magpie tale


Sunday, November 27, 2011

Hopeless Prayer

I would like one day when it was not a struggle--
To know ease in the morning,
All the way to the midnight chime.

Devil won't let it happen.
Devil not about to let such ease be mine.

Wish I felt sweet Jesus near me.
Wish I felt that holy shine.

Instead, each day is fret and trouble--
Dodge the devil in the morning,
Cheat the reaper at the midnight chime.

Wish I felt sweet Jesus near me.
Wish I felt that holy shine.

Snake Mama

Snake Mama gave me the gift of a thousand knives.
"They are beautiful!" she preened, alight.
Over rusty, infecting edges, she crooned,
"They are perfect, pretty, and mine."

Striped with red, I dared to scream.
"So over-sensitive! What are you thinking of?"
Each invasion deeper, further obscene.
"Come, child, be constricted in my love."

Snake Mama can't be wrong,
And brooks no blame, she's smooth--
No harbor, no boundary, no private place
From the trenches undersea to the mountains of the moon.

Cut off one head, seven more will grow,
Each one of them speaking the same;
Snake Mama poisons her babies' bones,
Hard done by to find they're insane.

Find information for daughters of narcissistic mothers HERE.


Friday, November 25, 2011

Mandarin Manx

I see it all the time,
the way of things,
how season follows season,
and flake follows leaf;
but don't ask me what it means--
you'd do as well to ask the apple
on the tray on the table
on the porch up the steps
why the wind blows, or
why Sally is prettier than Jane, or
why cats can't speak Chinese...
it's a mystery to me.

Still and all, I have observed that
when I call you,
you call back,
and that's a righteous joy
beyond explaining.

linked to Real Toads, because I am GRATEFUL that I have friends who love me.

Thursday, November 24, 2011


There is a music unheard
at the edge of sensing--
I have danced to it until I was out of breath,
and my own beating heart surprised me.

There are stars unburned
in a blank black sky--
I have seen them in the interstices of dreams
until my eyes, gone full, awakened me.

there is only dark Russian loaf
fresh butter
and blackberry jam,
all of them sweeter to me than they have ever been before.

the branches are bare,
they can't hold the wind;
my dog, gone blind, can't find the stick,
but he looks back at me with love
as he has always done and always will.

I have begun to hear a tune that I can't shut out,
though I try.
There is a burning that wasn't there before,
and so if you find me here in tears and ask me why,

I can only say how I'll miss it all,
how I wasn't ready,
but nonetheless
I can feel it coming...
without affect
and relentlessly.

Wednesday, November 23, 2011

The Best Trick ( or, Cywydd Llosgyrnog Does Toad Aid )

Woman, never trust a gypsy.
She will thieve your heart so easy,
And if she doesn't, then she's fake;
Watch hard to catch her at her crime,
The stolen dollar, pilfered dime,
The smooth climb of the charming snake.

Faith suits saints and children, not you my dear--
Cradle fear like a favorite shiv;
Hold it low and easy beneath your skirt,
To hurt if you must, but also live.

Woman, never trust a liar,
Hearts will fall that fly that gyre--
Better to wire a trap that keeps;
Catch thieving hand in fox quick fist,
Bind fast your gypsy by her wrist--
The best trick's sudden, sweet, and cheap.
for Grace's Welsh form prompt at Real Toads. Hey, I said I don't LIKE to use form, not that I couldn't!

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

Farm Five

it's christmas time at farm five.
ho ho ho.
it's state-controlled.

in the window,
a candle.
an egg.
behind the pane,
a touch of plague.

come to farm five, just down the lane.
the ostler is mad, the butler insane.

it's christmas time at farm five.
religion is dead.
obedience alive.

on the door,
a wreath.
a cross.
behind it, more
untimely loss.

come to farm five, for mandatory yule.
with last year's host's head
skewered on the newel.

Monday, November 21, 2011


Hi, Readers! Today is someone's birthday! Yup. 

She is beautiful,





and a great mom.

I can't tell you who it is...

but I still want to wish her a very Happy Birthday!


Sunday, November 20, 2011

Well Fete Me And Feed Me Fish Heads...

...I got an award from Sara! (That's not Sara in the picture.)

You know Sara. She does the Sharing Connection blog! She gave me this 7 x 7 Award, which means I have to do this list of 7 "mosts" and then pass it on to 7 victims. This latter I cannot do. I don't know 7 people who will let me close enough to tag them. Pepper spray might be involved. So, I say no. Just no. 

But, I will do the "mosts"! Here they are. Read them. I'll know it if you don't. For your reading convenience, each link opens in a new window. I think of everything!  I should get an award! Oh wait, I did. Back to that. Back to the "mosts". 

Most Beautiful Post. I'm going to say "For Scorpio", which I just wrote less than a week ago. I almost didn't even post it. I got shy to say "I love you" so defenselessly.

Most Popular Post. "Le Printemps." The Spring. It was linked to both Magpies and One Shot Wednesday, and got 65 comments, making it my most popular, evah. Blogger lists my most viewed posts in my stats, but all of them are viewed mainly for the pictures that went with them, not for the posts themselves. So I am going by most comments instead.

Most Controversial Post. Well, I know which one that would be, but I'm going to let that particular sleeping dog lie. Let's go with my story "Blackbirds" which first appeared here at Word Garden, but since has moved over to my story blog Night Blooms. It is about a doubly forbidden love, murder, and...well, you'll just have to read it.

Most Helpful Post. Who else but my ever-helpful alter ego Babs St. Argent over at Objets D'art could have written anything so helpful as "How To Talk To Your Man"?

Most Surprisingly Successful Post. That has to be "The Hungry Pussycat", which was nothing but a bit of doggerel (catterel?) about an extraordinarily hungry feline who eats several states. It got 52 comments!

Most Underrated Post. Hands down, that has to be "The Hill Is Closer To Heaven", a short simple love poem that I have always thought was one of my best. It languishes with 5 comments.

And finally, Most Pride-Worthy Post: "Strippers." For all sorts of reasons.

Thank you, Sara, for thinking of me. Anyone who would like this award and its attendant labors, may pluck it! And thank you, readers.

The Beauty Of Dance

being a Balassi strophe for Real Toads

Fat Otto, dumb kraut head,
I wish you would drop dead--
Here, try this poisoned strudel.
Your singing is off key
Like a busker's monkey
Weirdly trying to yodel.
Lumbering lunatic,
You Teutonic limp dick,
Dance, and make my scorn total.


Friday, November 18, 2011


A baby was born and born on fire.
They said, "Here is your burning baby.
Here is your infant in flames."
They dropped it into its mother's arms
Like a crying comet without a name.

"Shhh," mama crooned,
Her arms gone to cinders
Right down to the bone.
"Leave us, you assholes," she said to the doctors.
"Leave us to smolder.
Leave us alone."

The child was a girl, of course.
A little star,
And though to cradle her was to roast on a spit,
The mother held her,
And damn any do-gooder,
To hell with any child welfare fuck
Who tried to interfere.

There are kinds of love.
Some warm,
Some reward,
Some scorch.
In time, the mother was nothing but ash,
But by then the girl was grown and rose
Five hundred feet into the sky
Like a mushroom cloud sharp
And bright enough to blind.

Look at the doctors, how they fumble;
The ministers, too, with their useless bibles.
Now comes the day for an infant in flames,
A baby born and born on fire.
"Look," says the new mother,
"How red-orange limns
My doubled and darling
Yellow-white twins."

Thursday, November 17, 2011

Dark Roses

The dark roses that crowded, tangled, 
On the latticework, spoke to me
As I knelt in the deep black dirt, adoring them.

They said, behold the spitting clouds.
You cannot stitch them, you cannot
Make a wedding dress or a shroud from them,
They are beyond that.

There are things dark roses do,
Practices they keep, that leave
A girl such as me bitter.
This is what I told them.

The dark roses that crowded, tangled,
Around my body, within my mind,
Choking off all rivals, all future,
All breath,

Laughed at me, and were still beautiful
Even down to their hateful thorns.
I offered, to the leaden sky's face,
To become a bird just to vex them,

But my dark roses only relented enough
To tell me that I am pale, paper-skinned
And bloodless, as doomed as happiness,
Not even worth tears.

Here is the truth I learnt and then poisoned myself with:
My dark roses are flawlessly formed,
Vicious and unforgettable,
As soft and compassionless as worms.


Tuesday, November 15, 2011


You can't blame it all on me.
I broke that bottle square on your boat's fat beak,
And looked damned fine doing it, too.

Is it my fault
That a little pink ribbon dragged her down?
Was it my doing
That the captain you engaged was a freak, a fiend, a fool?

Tell those idiots to lay their tubas down.
The breeze is picking up,
Everyone is heading home,
And not another soul blames me, not one.

So hit me or kiss me,
But don't stand there stupid
Like a dressmaker's dummy.

It's easy to react after the fact,
But at least I twitched,
At least I spit in the wind and went whistling past the graveyard;
If you sink, you sink alone...
Don't try to blame that stuff on me.

Also, find my new prose poem at Night Blooms, HERE.

Monday, November 14, 2011

For Scorpio

When love makes me desperate--
When I need you to be
As close to me
As each creature is to its heart beat,

I go down through the grasses and the trees
To a place that exists in the world
Simply because you do, my girl.

You know that I am a gypsy,
Though I stay like a book upon a shelf;
That's as may be,
But if I keep to myself it is only so that I
May write you these poems
My maddening darling, my sweet.

In this hidden place, I have but one thing to wear--
My summer robe which hangs faithfully there,
Made from strawberry silk and white;
I have a porch that I may pace
As I watch for you, your face,
And I am always constant, in the noon or in the night.

I have a silver bucket, to draw water,
And two French doors, always parted
To welcome and invite my beloved only guest;
Within is my bed, no table, no chair,
Where I wait for my favorite, the one I care
For fiercely and softly, desperately and best.

Linked to Real Toads open link monday

Sunday, November 13, 2011

The Jesus Look

She was the Palmer County Green Bean Queen,
Her face on every can the trucks took out
To stores in Lincoln, Springfield, and Durban.

It was 1967,
The sky was a weird yellow,
And the grass had already given up.
Even the air had a strange ozone tang.

In '66 her mama told her,
"Take care of my beefsteaks, the cherries, and even the early girls I tried this year."
She was a woman who had always lived close to the earth,
So she knew, sure enough, when it was calling her.

Her daddy had been a wing walker between the wars.
He said, "Kissin' your mama and kissin' Heaven are just about the same fine feelin' "
But she couldn't remember
Because she had been nothing but a blue-eyed baby girl.

The Palmer County Green Bean Queen wasn't afraid that day.
Even the cattle had headed for the far corner of the pasture,
But she stood in the yard near the house
So she'd not have to carry the chairs so far.
She turned to me, beautiful as she had ever been, and said,
"Ellie, he's coming."
I tried to pull her down to the cellar,
But I knew,
From the Jesus look in her eyes,
That though she stood there still, waiting in the wind,
She was really already gone.

for Magpie 91

Saturday, November 12, 2011

A Parable

On the beach at San Creola
--the very one where the famous Miracle occurred--
A little boy cries because a sea bird has stolen his candy.

If he were older,
He would curse the bird colorfully and with passion;
But if he were older,
What confection could matter so much?

Suddenly, the child senses someone near.
He looks up, a fresh-faced little ball of innocence, tears, and snot;
And sees a lady--
It is the Saint herself!
The beautiful and wise Saint Creola!

"Once upon a time,"
Says the saint, carefully blowing her cigarette smoke off to one side,
"There was a greedy sea gull."
Saint Creola wears a black dress,
A silver cross,
And a shawl,
Yet even by Divine standards, the woman is hot.
This is truth. 
She continues.
"This gull stole so much candy from the local children,
That its fine white feathers turned to sugar.
'Foolish bird,'
Scolded an old woman,
'Now you can never return to the sea.'
And with that, she caught him and kept him inside of a sugar bowl,
So that he could never steal candy again."

This is why, over the doorway to the girls' school at San Creola,
There is a seal,
Composed of a white bird with its beautiful wings spread above a gleaming and holy sugar bowl.

The little boy, despite being visited by the Saint,
Can never attend.
He is a boy.
Tough rocks, Butch,
You will have to wait for a mixer when you're older.
On that day, you can approach one of the girls as our beloved Creola once approached you,
And you can ask her to dance.
She may refuse you,
Or she may pluck your offered heart high into the air and spin with it
Like a pilfered trifle.

for Real Toads fairy tale prompt

Friday, November 11, 2011

A Delicate Thing Considers Her Swain

I am a delicate thing in a delicate hour--
Twelve is the time
And I assure you that I'm
Mulling on your answer, Sir;
I'll meet you in the bower,
Where my crickets most delicately chirr.

Before that, I have so much to do!
Like wiping out the traces
Like the hanging shrunken faces
Of my suitors before you;
I'll be slaving like a servant
Hide the potion
Stash the serpent
And put on a bashful face, a smiling face,
A suitable face to turn so delicately toward you.

I am a delicate thing in a delicate way
And if you knew what was on the way,
I assure you, Sir,
You'd faster stir
Than any of my suitors who came before you;
They linger in the bower
Right under your feet,
With root and rot and eternity sweet
To yearn for a delicate girl,
A wonderful girl,
A girl too good to be true.

for Real Toads excellent fairy tale prompt!