Monday, June 30, 2014

Love Angry


and damn the weakness
that keeps me slinking back to the stick
like a cowed dog
waiting for the driest bone,
the faintest word of praise,
the touch of a salt lick hand.
Damn as weakness
all my fine fetching,
my seven howls,
my traitorous belly
and quivering
for your fingers.

I love angry,
but you murmur soft nonsense
into my sore silence, and

I heel,

and seethe
behind my blunted teeth.

For Open Link Monday at Real Toads

Sunday, June 29, 2014


Another bowl of cold cereal.
Coffee burnt to the pot.
Monday's shirt on Tuesday, Wednesday
pit-stained and wrinkled.

Buying diapers
for the woman who diapered me.
the woman who diapered me.

Sleeping in snatches
of conversations
between medications
and limp, dead weight.

Prying at fear's thick fingered grip
with words, words
I'm good with words,
but I can't.

For Kerry's prompt at Real Toads

Friday, June 27, 2014

Goodbye Mandolin

Goodbye, mandolin.
I wish for you
soft white hands
and a seer's soul.
For fingers pressed
against your frets
as close as my ghost.
For chords
ringing rich
ever binding
and finding

For Marian's prompt at Real Toads

Tuesday, June 24, 2014

Night Owl

I want to be someone else.
No, something else.
A bird.
An owl.
A big-eyed owl with wet silver wings
and talons that can pluck out an eye.

I want to nest up in the rafters
of that Deep Deuce jazz club,
the one that opens late and closes early.
I want to hoot when the horns move me,
and screech when I'm feeling the swing.

And, when I'm flying low with a contact high
and spy the Monday morning mouse,
I want to whisper,

"You've slept a dozen deaths.
Welcome to the resurrection."

Monday, June 23, 2014

I Didn't Know I Was Brave

I didn't know I was brave until you were dying.
Until I bathed you and brushed your hair.
Until I measured your morphine, measured myself, and chose

to put my hands to the fever,
be present,
and hurt.

For Open Link Monday at Real Toads

Sunday, June 22, 2014

Judge Me

When you write my history, judge me
like I'm Jefferson or Joan of Arc.
Weigh the truths I declared against the mistress I didn't.
Balance sanity on the edge of a blade.
Am I found wanting?
Less a saint?
Put it in the footnotes.
No one reads them anyway.

Getting Famous for Play it Again at Real Toads.  Also submitted to Poetry Pantry.

Friday, June 20, 2014

Made In China

Keep the tea set your mother gave us.
I'm not lady enough
to use it.
Keep those statues from the thrift store -
those terra cotta muses
of our division

ugly as the past.

I'm taking the panda
I won at the state fair
when you just handed me the money
and I filled the air
with balls that broke the bottles
made in China -

not made to last.

For Hannah's prompt at Real Toads

Thursday, June 19, 2014

Slingshot Song

I'm a bird
feathered wrong.
I won't fly long.
I won't fly long.

I sing
a slingshot song.
Soon, I'll be gone.
I won't fly long.

Wednesday, June 18, 2014

Third Dream Of The Fox

The fox at the fence
is impossibly gray,
impossibly large,
and, impossibly, wisping
through the wire
and coming.

I am all sheep and no Jesus;
with no stones for the slingshot loose in my hand,
and he is coming.

A scream blooms teeth
in the mud of my throat
and slow shreds the softwood of sleep
too late to wake me -

he is coming.

For Words Count at Real Toads

Monday, June 16, 2014


After the rain caught us,
your hair smelled sweet as sonnets,
and the wet cotton cling to your everything
drove me mindless mad.
It's too bad

there was sun
behind the clouds.

For Open Link Monday at Real Toads

Friday, June 13, 2014


There is night and there is day.
There is here and there is there.
There is I and there is Other.

These are truths so self-evident
that we left them undeclared,
but what if

we finally let the world be round?
I sleep; you sow.
You dream; I dare

another day in my little corner
of everywhere.  Our everywhere.
Here and there is meaningless

when I inhale the dust of both
our ancestors with every breath.
And, breathing you, what can be left

of I, but a lie that profits
the tellers and sellers
of difference?

We all cradle a child like a miracle.
We all eat, fuck, die,
and "why" leaves its taste on every tongue.

Night and day.
Here and there.
I and Other.


Inspired by Maternita by Guido Vedovato, and written for Shay's prompt at Real Toads.

Thursday, June 12, 2014

Star Spite

I wished for more time,
and I got a desert.

For Emily's muse,
I got Capital Letters.

For a date with a rock star -
geology professor!

I don't think my stars
like me.

Wednesday, June 11, 2014

All You Need To Know About Your Woman - A Found Poem

easy to breed.
A wonderful pet!
The many varieties
can be a source of never-ending pleasure

if you
use the

Note: I've edited this since my first few comments.  To me, this photo looks like a woman in a glass box.

For Suzie's prompt at Real Toads

Tuesday, June 10, 2014

Factory Fumes

Unfolded wings, feathers
tattered and gold tipped

The factory fumes shrivel
my still breathing lungs

That bloody machine whos
crank I have pulled so many
times, only my last shreds of sanity
holding me back.

It's the device that takes the
colors from the youth of our
misinformed society

My once white hooves stained by
the blood and tears
of the taken who I have
captured and hurt by the
wish of my superiors

I heard the tones of
the writhing, dying souls and
the broken spirits

and when I try to sleep,
I can still hear it

So I sing my song like
the Pied Piper, I lure the
children like mice

Now I sing my sorrowful

of the Pegasus Device.

A poem by ten year old Baby Puppy.

Monday, June 9, 2014


Comanche, I have come
with credit cards
and calm, blue substance.
A confederate flag flutters in the wind.
Rebel rust creeps deep in the crooks of the cottonwood trees.
Red dust rimes the mouths of catfish, quick hooked and dumb.
Comanche, I have come

murmuring Springsteen under my breath
to shoulder my fair portion
of your slow, closed refinery death.
Once, twice, three times I have left,
but I can never stay away.
Comanche, I have come -

thorn and flower of your ghost town grave.

This one has absolutely given me fits, so I am anxious to know what you think and welcome suggestions.  For Open Link Monday at Real Toads.

Friday, June 6, 2014

Letter Home

It's hard to exist in a place
that isn't.  It's hard to be
where nothing's been.  But, no one is
unkind; just insistent.
is war effort.

I am a Rosie
Reproducer; a
pin-up girl for patriotic
No one is unkind; just insistent.
Labor is love.

So far, I've had two girls.
Both were healthy, so I'm making
difference. No one is ever unkind
just insistent.  Delivery is destiny.

A letter for Corey's prompt at Real Toads

Thursday, June 5, 2014

The Bookstore

When the old bookstore
on 4th Street burned,
the smoke smelled
like sandalwood and roses,
and I wept

for the high, jumbled, hide and seek shelves
and the off-key brass bell on the door
and the margins full of love notes left
and lost.

Wednesday, June 4, 2014

Cage Wide Open

When I've unraveled every yarn
and stunned the voices silent;
when I can take my place
in the kitchen or as queen;
When I own all my deeds
and every word that I have spoken,

I'll be birdsong
with the cage
wide open.

When I can choose direction
or crush the compass in my fist.
When I can vandalize the garden
in honor of my sister Eves
and finally hold an apple
with its skin unbroken,

I'll be birdsong
with the cage
wide open.

A bit of a nod to Miss Maya for Shay's word list prompt at Real Toads

Tuesday, June 3, 2014


Yesterday was nothing to write about.
I didn't see the moving of God's hand.
There were no hoarse whispers
at the edge of my hearing.
There was no crepitis crack
beneath my hands.
The smell of morphine still hints at my hair,
but my coffee tastes like back to normal.

Monday, June 2, 2014

Life Is

Life is a lot like
a government fuck
ponderous and taxing
as unbroken blank verse
swallowing the page
and eating your eyes
blind to the random
rhyme of miracles.

For Open Link Monday at Real Toads

Sunday, June 1, 2014

Show And Tell

I tell because I cannot show the
crisscross cracks in this stained glass soul; the
flower felled by hobnail boots; the
depth and thrust
of moons.

I show because I cannot tell the
truth of us half so well as the
bloom of us scents my hands
and stands as all the

I need
of God.

55 words for Hedge at Real Toads.  Also submitted to Poetry Pantry.