The Sad Demon

A demon is depressed,

Has a headache,

Is reduced to perpetrating mere mischief.

"So many bunion-ridden priests,

Splattering holy water and going on about

The-power-of-Christ-compels-you yadda yadda."

The demon sighs and the hanging plants wither and smoke.

"I knew a succubus once," says our demon,

"That girl's kiss could set your hair on fire."

But the succubus got sick of stealing sleepers' souls

And became a realtor.

"The last job I worked, they didn't even bring in the church,

They called their homeowner's association instead.

'Possession is prohibited within fifty yards of an occupied dwelling,' they said.

What could I do? Those guys work for the big boss."

The demon is depressed,

Has a headache,

Gets a job at the Department of Motor Vehicles.

They give him a rubber stamp that says "application denied."

It is his only joy.

______________________

Fire Doll

You flamed me.

I blow like ashes,

I just can't keep it together anymore.

You were my sun and you

Scorched me, my warmth and you

Torched me...

So how do I write this poem, how do I

Live alone?

Not to worry Sweety,

Darling,

Baby,

It all burns except the bones.

__________________________

Tell Me, Gray Cat

O gray cat,

Often have I sought your wise counsel;

You stink of fish,

You never blink,

And you are happy as a cloud.

Take your heedless head out of that trash can

And tell me what to do now--

It is Ann,

O Ann...

She will not love me.

Stop batting at yellow butterflies long enough to tell me

Why she must be so cruel

And so carelessly beautiful.

Try to keep your eyes open long enough

As you doze on the porch rail,

To tell me why

O why

My heart must break?

She would love you!

She would clap her hands and follow you like a sweet breeze,

Holding out her heart like tea on a tray!

Shall I

Stick my head in the garbage can?

Shall I

Bat at yellow butterflies and then

Doze off as she pours out her heart

As I am doing with you now?

She might throw an old shoe at both of us, you know--

Still, I will set out sweet cream

In the gray dawn each day;

Set it out with my hopes

Til, gray cat,

You steal them away.

_____________________

Karen's Coffee

When Karen makes coffee,

Mercy.

Just to get into a cup,

There are squabbling scenes

Between beans.

She might add in

Some cinnamon.

Anything else?

She'll never tell.

When Karen makes coffee,

Boy howdy.

Just like it should be,

Karen, Queen

Of morning dreams.

--------------------------------

Dia de Bloglandia

I just wanted to say, that before yesterday, I had very little understanding about what Dia de los Muertos was all about. But thanks to Susanna and Stephanie and all of you who shared your amazing talent, creativity, and memories, I spent most of sunday going from blog to blog being just absolutely dazzled by all that I saw.

Today I found myself already planning to make an ofrendo next year. THANK YOU from my heart, to Susanna and Stephanie for planning this marvelous event, to everyone who paricipated--you each and every one made my life richer--and to everyone who was kind enough to visit Word Garden and say hello.

It seems to me that this Dia de Bloglandia celebration ended up being deeper and more meaningful than anyone ever realized that it would. From the fun of sugar skulls to the color of the marigolds, to the sheer love of the ofrendos, the whole thing meant so much to me.

Love,

--Fireblossom

______________________

Day Of The Dead

The moon and the stars rise like lilies in the sky,

A white-labeled bottle spills sangria wine,

And I wait for your kiss in the night.

Meet me at the haunted Menger,

Just as in so many summer dreams--

Card players will deal the ace of spades

At the touch of your silver fingers.

You are the shadow on everything I do,

A mantilla of black across shoulders so slight--

I'll be there at the Menger with lilies and wine,

And wait for your kiss in the night.

____________________________________

Dr. Merriweather Addresses His Anatomy Class, November 1st, 1908

Observe the body.

The head like a stone balloon, weighed down with every thought accumulated like storm debris in a pipe, the foreign displaces the native.

The throat like the trunk of a tree, solid, showing only the rings of each expression bitten back and stifled; behold the wooden-ness of silence.

The chest and the shifting molten fire within, a submerged unstable violence counterbalanced by the purpose and order of breath and beat.

The stomach is the repository of all that is taken in, the agreeable and nutritious, the vile and poisonous; all forced together in a confined space like relations at a holiday gathering.

The genitals are like phases of the moon, with tides always at cross purposes: desire, connection, invitation, betrayal and damage--the tide in and the tide out, endlessly.

The legs contain all that we believe, set in bone before we've realized it, holding us up and separating us within ourselves: we split down the middle trying to touch the earth with our one true self.

And the feet at the bottom, collectors of all that we hide and reject and drop into the depths; to stop dancing is to let it all gather like an embolism, rising like an avenging bird through gut, heart and brain, bringing darkness in its wake.

Or madness.

Systems working together largely beyond our will, we are riders in a physical cocoon; but we are not the husk, we are the dreamer in the dark, waiting for some incomprehensible hand to open the jar and let us fly out.

__________________________________