Saturday, August 19, 2017

A man in a motorized shopping cart
Stopped me on my second pass by.
He thanked me, because he said
He was just sitting there feeling sorry for himself,
Watching the rest of the world go by him on two feet,
When he saw me go past
With my shorts up my crack,
And he thought to himself
That at least he would not be caught
Walking around walmart with a wedgie.

Glad to be of service, Sir.......


Wednesday, August 16, 2017

No is almost the opposite of one
If we can only
Considers the letters.
On is the opposite of no
And also that of under.
So if it is beneath you
To negate a few of life's possibilities,
Will it behest you to behold
None of your dreams coming true?

If good is the enemy of the best
And the opposite of bad,
How important will it be to be had
Yet never purchased?
And how lovely to bequeath
Some innocent blunder
As the inheritor of the request.

In other words,
Serendipity provides
Beautiful answers
To those who are open to see them.
Clear your schedule
And wait for me,
And I will see you later,
Yet sooner than you can imagine.


Wednesday, August 9, 2017

If you study anatomy,
You will know the amazing mechanical way
The tendons wrap.
You will see the foramen left
For vessels to pass through bone.
Or maybe they are screwholes
For some great invisible hinge
To hang us in our place at night
To open us to dreams.
And maybe the dreams download
Some great mysterious program
That lies there dormant in our brains
Until our spirit wakes
And reaches into the spirit world
With both hands to take
The beautiful living things
Promised there
And bring them
And plant them
Into the gardens of hope
That might still be.

And as we walk the rows of green,
Barefoot, and discerning
Between the peanuts and the careless weeds,
Hoeing out unwanted things
And making room for our dreams to grow,
We feel the pull on our mechanical tendons,
The whir of stress on ligaments.
Gears grind,
And we wonder if we robots
Can have a soul ?
Or if the downloads of these dreams
Are merely carrots out ahead of us
To get us up to hoe those peanuts
One more extra day ?


The sum of peeps and chirps and howls,
Quacks and honks and mews and moos,
Grunts and whinnies and snorts and chortles
And every other sound the animals make
Can be translated to just two things:
"Mother," and "straight."
One is a cry for food and protection,
The other, a prayer to know the fastest, safest way to their daily destiny.


Thursday, August 3, 2017

Locust are subject to plagues of their own.
Hordes of them lie dead in the street, or dying.
Instead of the sky, they've pressed their buzzing wings to the road,
Upside down, on their backs.

Maybe an invisible angel of death
Came and leafed through them.
Maybe it just picked out the first hatched.
Maybe it carefully took one of every ten,
Carefully moving the decimal point over each time
On the way to the tally of decimation.

It makes me wonder what unique trait
The firstborn have to make them
Such easy prey for premature pickins.
Is it that they are more pressured to be perfect,
Or that they see a world of adults
Before other children are born,
And the confusion of what to be--
Grown or childlike, makes them resort
To extreme measures, while earthly pressures
Make them quite willing to take the bait?
Or maybe it's something we just can't see,
Something pure and innocent and weak
Lying around in their junk DNA?


Wednesday, August 2, 2017

Meet me down by the mailbox.
Someone else has made the bed.
There's a mud puddle there
So you can wash your head and face,
Flutter your wings,
Get the sand and water in between
All the little places where your feathers connect.
Then maybe we can get a little sleep,
Get a good start, begin again
In the morning.
We'll bound up out of our mattresses twin,
Just like Ricky and Lucy Robin
Or Dick van Dyck and Mary Tyler Moore.


The burro lays down in the shade by the fence.
His narrow eyes evade expression.
Maybe his mind winds along a trail from another time.
No one can know.
No one can say what he would do
If that fence had never been built.

I cook breakfast on a faulty burner.
I have three others that work just fine,
But I think the bacon cooks better
Lunch can cook on a normal fast one.
Supper is stewing in the crock pot.
But my son and I are thankful for my faulty burner
And the delicious, "most important meals of the day" it cooks.

Is it bad that you judge me
When you don't know anything about me?
Is it worse that, after so long,
You don't know anything
About yourself?
Take a breath and return to your own heart.
See how it looks in there.
Then, see if you still have any words
To waste on me.

When the waves had churned me up
And away from the present company excluded,
When the big waves washed me up
On the shore with the other trash,
A lone beach comber came along
And saw something shiny,
Saw something worth collecting in me,
Brought me to a nice shelf in a nice home over the hearth.
The waves had polished me.


Saturday, July 29, 2017

The MorningStar makes me smile.
A mysterious guest in the morning sky.
It never looks like that's where it should be,
A wallflower watching
While the world begins its busy day.

But it knows it's own largeness.
Yet does not worry to scale.
She has her own dance partners
In a ballroom we can't see because of the clouds
And the atmosphere
Here in this incubator
We call earth.

She dances with worlds
That are on her level
And makes music with the other spheres,
And make no mistake,
Tho the Goddess seem disheveled to you
In the morning,
By evening, as her other name implies,
You will be able to tell that
She will forever be where she is supposed to be.

In fact, she is always dancing,
Night and day,
And she is named by many names.
And when dusk comes and you see
That one star shining in the sun set,
You perceive, awkwardly.
That will be her just the same,
The evening star,
The one all the children wish for
And on.

I feel about five,
Chasing a kitten,
Tears in my eyes,
Someone has said something mean.
Tell me, why did I come here, again?
If I don't seem to matter to them,
Am I making a difference?
They already have their lives.
They don't need a baby,
Or a three year old boy, or me,
A five year old little girl
To ignore,
Or to project their own insecurities toward.
They have each other for that.
And I have this wild, untamed baby cat
To chase.


Thursday, July 27, 2017

In a dead person's day,
Busily, they push up daisies.
They get a few breaks
Per the crew boss's hankerin'
Or the dead persons current union sanctions.
Everyone smokes,
Because what does it matter?
But there's not a lot of chatter
Because in the twinkling of an eye,
Everyone came to know everything.
So nothing is really up for discussion.

But when a dead person lies down to sleep,
And begins to dream,
This is where the seams between life and death get hazy.
This is where the hauntings take place,
For, it's then, the dead person can go,
And be in the land of the living.

And if a living person and a dead person dream  the same thing,
They can meet on a street of gold,
Or just an old street in someone's memory,
And if they find a mattress lying on a curb in town,
They can lie down on it together,
And sleep and dream a dream within a dream.
And if they never wake up they can dream forever,
In an endless looping equation that physicists call infinity.

And this is why you find so many of these mattresses
Lying around outside,
Some thrown out by the living,
Some thrown out by the dead,
And if you take a snapshot of these,
Sometimes you can see
The graphs of certain equations,
Parabolas and rays, extending out
In both directions, for all eternity.

And this is why I take pictures of mattresses.
(Well, it's as good a reason as any.)


You can see lots of squirrels in the neighborhood,
But you rarely see them breed.
They prefer the privacy of an out-of-the-way place
To spread the seed of their DNA
Into the next squirrel generation.
They prefer to die privately, too.
But sometimes some seemingly unavoidable event,
Whether it's fate, or an accident,
They pick a no-win battle with an automobile.
They lie there in their own form of state in the street.

Maybe they give themselves for us to see
A prophetic warning.
It's best to steer clear of humanity
And humanity's progress.
It's best to do all the things that really matter to us
And never even let the right-hand know what the left hand does.


Wednesday, July 26, 2017

I create a masterpiece each day
Using different shades of grey and pale blue,
Silver, woodland caribou, burnt sienna and dusk rosee.
And everyday, it fades, until
Not a smear is visible to the naked eye.
But this does not deter,
Nor would I ever shy away
From applying make up to my face.
Ephemeral pieces by the thousands
Vanish through sweat and tears, and love,
And various states of arousal.

- jenn

"Who would wear sun dials on their feet?
As telltale a sign as a cloven hoof!
That old devil reminding us
How short our own time is,
And every time we check our footing,
There the shadow would foretell
Some destiny, some strange heaven,
Or hell, awaiting!"

"No, Grand-ma-maa, you asked what kind of shoes those are,
And I told you, 'sandals.'"


Do I talk in my sleep anymore?
No one seems to know.
I sleep alone
Deep beneath the sands of time.
Do I moan and toss the night away?
No one can say,
For I lie deep, deep beneath the clay.

In my somber neglige,
The frilly stillness of my tomb,
I am finally alone in my room,
And someone else has fixed my hair.
I finally have something to wear,
But alas, nowhere to go.

But do I still talk in my sleep anymore?
No one can say.
No one can know.


Tuesday, July 25, 2017

Defy me, great odds!
You, who tell me how to ride my elevator up!
You, who tell me that when I arrive at the top,
It's not the door, but the floor that will open up
And drop me out to certain doom,
To begin again in my quest
From formula.
I have other elevators that you don't know about,
And all of them take me somewhere that I want to be.
So, whether it is the great spirit,
Or the great spirit of wisdom,
Or the great living god,
I also have odds,
Great odds in my favor,
Pulling for me.


Saturday, July 22, 2017

An older brother died today
Was it yours
Did you know him
Did you say
That he was in a better place
Was it yours?

How do you know anything about death

Oh I had a cat that got out once
I put him back in
And he often stared solemnly
Out the front door
But he never wanted out there anymore

So I'm not sure
What to think about that

Friday, July 21, 2017

Just when religion was starting to play out,
We got TV.
Now we can have the opiate of the people
On opiates.

Or we can show the world the beef stroganoff
We're having for supper on social media,
And be defriended because we eat meat,
Or because we made it with tofu.

We can write people off very easily these days.
One synapse doesn't agree,
One touch on a touchscreen,
And our lives are lauda-numbed again.

Go ahead, Fly.
Flirt with personal disaster.
Fly just outside the fringes of acceptability.
The air is cool between the inside of the refrigerator
And the open refrigerator door.
But open doors always shut on refrigerators.
They're designed that way.

You'll think you've died and gone to heaven
When you find yourself shut in--
A fox locked up with all the hens.
You, a kid, stuck in the candy store.
But the very thing you seek
Will be the unleavening of you,
When you find that you have died,
And, is there a heaven for a lowly fly?


Tuesday, July 18, 2017

One afternoon while playing doubles,
The moon came into my square,
And, naturally, out of pure reflex,
I batted it away.
But then I saw what I had done,
And wondered, as we continued to play,
What sort of catastrophe
My act had brought on,
And just what day the world would end?

Out of the corner of my eye
I watched the moon backspin off,
And with 80 percent of my attention
Still on the game at hand,
Suddenly I heard a distant 'pong,'
And looked and saw
The moon was coming back again.

And so for now, let's just say
I'm involved in a very long distance volley,
But meanwhile, here on earth,
It's advantage out.


Sunday, July 16, 2017

Jerry McGower could talk for an hour
And never take a breath.
He wrote what he called poetry
And bored us all to death with his wit,
Which was almost witty but not quite,
And his deep thoughts which he summed into slogans
Which were almost trite,
Yet not quite up to the level of trite,
If there's something just a little bit lower than that,
Then that's what Jerry McGower's poetry could be called.
The old hot air blower could go on and on.
And so if there's one thing that could be said
It's that he was continuous.
And that might be good if you were in bed or needed CPR,
But no one could bring themselves
To tell him that all the true poetry stars are dead,
And that "living poet" is a term
The literary world speaks of as oxymoron.
And maybe he wouldn't hear that first part,
And then he would know
What he truly was--
A northbound end of a southbound pushcart.

A fossil's sad beauty often belies
And disaffirms the calamity of a cataclysm.
The miracle and the upshot--
Preserving something that otherwise
Would not be around today,
A misadventure, a pure mischance,
A quick and thorough deluge,
And, by happenstance, some lowly
Organism, a stem, a bit of bone,
Was covered quickly, and unbeknownst to everyone
And everything, the inundation
And the flux reduced it all
Until the great production.
The curtains go up and there it is--
Petrified viability,
And yet more interesting to me
And more valuable
Than a diamond.

It made you happy that I left.
I don't like making you happy that way,
Because it means there's less of me.
It means I don't get to dance all the way 'til the stroke of midnight.
You think I should go home early
And be sad like you,
Be glum.
It makes you happy when I'm glum.
 You gloat.

But you don't know,
I'm not going home.
I'm going to a grove of trees deep in the woods,
A perfect clearing,
A round, ring ballroom.
I will shed all my clothes and petticoats and stockings
And hang them on limbs
All the way there,
And when I get to the vaulted ballroom
With stars shining directly over my head and into my eyes,
I will be naked and happy,
And I will dance all night
And right into tomorrow,
Right into the very sunrise itself!


Who will come and go with me?
Who will volunteer
To let me do the things I want to do?
Who will stop with me if I need to stop?
Who will go if I want to go?

Only my shadow.

I have always been the one
Who tagged along.
I helped others do the things they wanted to.
A few small things I did for me
In between
Things that seemed to mean a lot to them.

But now it's my turn to go,
To do, to be,
To show the world the me I know.
And now who will go
And be there for me?

Only my shadow,
And all my enemies,
Waiting for me to fall,
But I will show them all.

For it's my turn,
And I have earned the right
To do the things that I have in my heart,
Things that only I can know.
I'll share them with my shadow,
If no one else cares.



You don't want to know,
And if you do,
Then I don't want you to.
Because you might want to know just a little too much.
My loss may be your gain,
And if I have to explain it to you,
So that you can smirk inside,
Then I might have to slap you.
Because right now,
I don't feel like putting up with it.

Hey I am one of those cars
Some rich old guy bought 50 years ago,
Put it in one of his garages,
And forgot it ever existed--
A 57 Chevy,
Mint condition,
Cherry red with white interior.
There are only 11 original miles on the motor,
Four on the floor and three on the tree!
Well OK maybe not all that's true,
But,did I say mint?
I meant, meant.
Meant condition.
I'm going to make somebody's grandkid real happy someday,
(Probably my own)
If he or she can only learn to appreciate 260 air conditioning.
Roll down two windows and drive 60 mph.


Saturday, July 15, 2017

If raincrows had gills,
They would be the whippoorwills
Of the sea.
They'd fly on fins
To places where the deep ocean
Mingles with the air,
And clouds are born.
The raincrows would coo
And sing,
For that is the thing that raincrows
Were born to do.

But here on the plains
There are places the rains forgot,
And even we sprays
Of low flung daisies don't
Seem to be able to spark
A thought to remind the rains to come.

And so the raincrows abandon us, too.
They have to find some rich oilmen
Who can afford an irrigation ditch.
They wish us wild flowers well
And go and swell their throaty chirps
To foreign fuchsia, and dahlia lush
And men who have nothing better to do
Than stand in their porches and belch
And ignore their green golf lawns,
Their yawns and burps so loud the people
In Japan can hear them.

And maybe it is never rude to go
And be where you can sing your song.
Maybe the twitch and rhythmic clicks
Of the sprinkler system are just the thing
The bossa nova raincrows need
To keep regular this time of year,
And not get constipated and constrained
And confused by all the natural lack of rain
And all the pseudo rainbows.

And who am I in this living dream?
I am all.
The wild wall flowers that hide in the brush,
The foreign fuchsia, the dahlia lush,
I am the rich oil man, the throaty thrush,
The raincrow, the cloud, the ocean deep.
I am you,
And you keep me
From going extinct.

Crepe myrtle hues are never wrong.
You can tell a year
From any other
By the way a pale pink is sometimes not
And just how hot a hot pink bud might bloom.
But when the myrtles crimson tall
In June,
Grooms best look for a place to fall out
And flop in august and understand,
Brides will girdle and bridle
And band together
And molt,
And revolt is at hand.
They might decide to burn their bras again.
And yes,
It's going to be that kind of year.


Thursday, July 6, 2017

My bush has gone wild and untamed,
But its flowers by any other names
Are roses, and the scent of them
Is pure as heaven spun moss and bud,
For all they've ever tasted is sun
And rain from sheets that fall
Across the sheer blue sky.

And when the blooms get old,
They fold themselves into cocoons
And sleep and fall into a deeper gloom
Than you can fathom.
But imagine, if you will,
Their joy in waking, swaddled and new,
More pink baby buds, more blue skies,
In the arms of some young mother
Who's still in love with their father.


Wednesday, July 5, 2017

I stood in line at the health food grocer
Behind a man named J W B*****.
I knew his name because it was written
On the back of his old fatigues
In big black faded letters
A good deal above my eye level.

He was buying one ear of corn,
And believe you me,
No one asked him a damn thing about it.

He had always practiced basketball in the street as a kid growing up.
There was a slight curve in the road by his house
And an ever so shallow dip in slope
As he approached the goal.

And tonight, as he headed in for the game winning layup,
He could swear he felt all that, under his feet again,
The same curve of the road, the bend up the hill, the dip!
Two points! He was home alone! A kid again!
Playing like no one was watching!

And as the crowds roared and champagne poured,
He thought how ironic it was
That as a kid in the street
He'd always played as if a giant crowd were watching him,
And now that they were, he played as if they weren't.


Tuesday, July 4, 2017

We crashed the wedding for cake
And mockingly said "I do,"
At the proper times.
We toasted ourselves
With glasses held high,
Drank the punch
And whisked ourselves off for a heckuva honeymoon.
It wasn't our wedding,
But are we married now?

Eating can be such a hassle these days.
I'm going to start a page on Pinterest
To display my beautiful creations for
Breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
A tidy collection of drab food pellets,
Fractal and akimbo, gluten/soy/dairy/ nut free,
Lying in the palm of my hand.
Yum yummmmmm.
The future is flavorless.

Some people need a good religion,
One that will reward them for all their sacrifice,
If not some great seat in heaven,
At least now, the whispers of the ladies' auxiliary,
Saying, "See how she stands by him,"
"See how she cares."

Some others may not have a need for external rewards.
They may do what they feel is right, too,
For just the right reasons,
While the ladies' auxiliary whispers,
And vanishes, and she says,
"See how they run."


Sunday, July 2, 2017

He had that look on his face that said
He was embarrassed to be stuck with her
As they waddled out of the Cracker Barrel
Together, single file.

But truth be told,
We're all stuck with each other,
And the quicker we accept that,
The better off humanity will be.


Saturday, July 1, 2017

My ball of twine unravels each day,
And at different intervals,
The string produces different sounds
And different melodies.
And sometimes I want to do something else,
To sing an alternate harmony
From an alternate reality.
And sometimes I do, and sometimes it comes out all wrong.
But sometimes when the clouds
Hold their mouths just right,
I can be perfectly in tune,
And I can sing you a true love song
That has never been heard before.

Come my children and I will explain
How the millions of grains of sand
Came to be on the beach.
In the olden days of yore,
The olden giants ate more and more
Til they were giant-er,
And the other gods were startled at
How fat the giants had become,
And so, as the gods before them did,
They came up with a food pyramid
To instruct the giants in ways to lose their girth,
Recommended for all but those who were preggers,
Or at the moment giving birth.

Now the food pyramid in those days
Had a big layer on the bottom, of spinach dip,
With the next tier being nuts,
And no ifs or ands, but the next layer
Was a healthy portion of smoked meats,
With potatoes, tomatoes and eggplant next,
Followed by berries and cherries
And chocolate on top.

Now I could stop here, but let me state, that these foods, while slimming,
Are high in oxalates, and that, dear friends, was the problem,
Because giant is as giant does,
And the giants developed giant kidney stones,
And in a desperate attempt to solve them,
Or dissolve as the case may be,
They drank too much kombucha tea
And shattered into a zillion pieces
And washed up and down along all the beaches,
And that, my dear children, is where allllllll that sand came from.

- jenn

Thursday, June 22, 2017

We're already in love.
All we've got to do is fall.
I'm fallen and I can't get up.
Oops! I can't say that,
It's copyrighted.

Maybe I should say, "I'm white
And I can't get down."

No, that's all been said, too.

Maybe I could suggest,
"Let's do it,"
But that's suggestive
Unless I add,
"Let's fall in love,"
But like I said,
We're already in love,
So maybe I'll go back and quote myself,
"All we've got to do is fall."


Wednesday, June 21, 2017

If I don't pray in ways you think are right,
Yet I hold hopes of love and perfect light within my heart
For you and others that I love,
If I have eyes to see what lies above
And wish for that to be down here below,
Then how is it for you to know that I'm so wrong?
And what if something as simple
As dipping yourself into my song seven times would heal you?
Well, what if the spirit moves me to come and reveal to you
Some inner truth that might availeth much?
Then would you let me come and touch you?
Lay my hands upon your heart
And impart this great burden of life and love til you were sated
With health and wealth and wisdom?
Could you accept it from this soul
That you feel to be so contaminated?


Tuesday, June 20, 2017

Tonight the birds chirp adamantly,
But it doesn't bother me
Because I don't know what they're saying.
They may be telling all their woes,
The pain of death,
The throes of egg laying,
But I don't understand the language that they speak.

All I hear is their rhythm in the night,
A tonic overlay, that runs counter melody
To an easy track the crickets laid down.
A big bass drums along.
I'm not sure, but that might be
My own heart beating.

I can only see five stars tonight,
But I know there are seven sisters,
And the Pleiades wonder
Where the others have gone,
While the night birds chirp on and on
About nothing.


Monday, June 19, 2017

The coasts are cloudy.
Makes me pout.
Hisssss! boooooo!

They'll clear again.
They always do.


Sunday, June 18, 2017

I have my quaaludes and my drink,
Waiting for some poor sap
To think I'm here to listen to all his problems and dreams.
Slip him a mickey.
But then what will I do?
He'll be too big for me
To lug him through the lobby
Or up the stairs.
And, these days,there are too many cameras in elevators.
But even if I could get him up to my room,
What fun would it be
To take advantage of a sleeping pipi?

And this my friends is just one of the differences
That ensures a definite inequality
Of the sexes,
And a continuation of the violation
Of anyone who finds him or herself
In a vulnerable situation.


I carry a razor in my shoe.
It's not to cut you up.
But in case I find a patch of dark, unruly hair,
I can shave it there and then.
What is happening to my skin?

This is growing in a place where hair
Used to be pale and wan, and blonde,
And tamable.

And now I also have the urge
To drink my water from a ditch.

I don't eat,
Yet I'm solid and can swing
From limb to limb and tree to tree.

What will become of me
When it has taken hold,
And I can't fight the urges or the air
Or the hair any longer?


Something outside
Narrows its eyes
To peek through my blinds.
It's not quite a sneer,
But, from here, I would say
It's a frown.
Lightning flashes,
Eyebrows are knit,
And lashes are dark.
Disdain would take me
For a walk to the woodshed,
But it's about to rain.
There's not enough time
To explain myself tonight,
Not enough words or definitions,
And the man in the moon can't hear, anyway.
The only part the galaxy chose not to give him is ears,
But he sure has a pitiful, upside down mouth.

My eyes are pretty much ornamental,
But I have a heightened sense of hearing
And sense of smell,
And I can pretty much tell all about a person
By touching them.

Let me touch you.
Let me see
How much of you is full of you,
How much room for me
You have in your heart,
Your soul,
Your body.

I want to know,
Pretty much.


Saturday, June 17, 2017

I dreamed I ran on the beach again,
On wet sand and soft sea weeds,
Stretching it out on the balls of my feet,
Fast, as wind on air,
Like a steed that runs into war unafraid.

That's all I've ever wanted--
To run fast,
And, like Secretariat,
To have a place to show the world
That my heart is twice the size
A heart should be,

And that someone might come
And run with me,
And see, for all my whinnying,
The only thing I ever kick up
Is a deep love
For my brothers
And sisters.


I wouldn't have hat hair
If I didn't wear a hat,
And if I weren't bow-legged
My horses would all run free.
And if I hadn't tied a knot in the devil's tail,
Well, he'd slip right through his prison cell bars
And come after me,
Again and again and again.

But I'm a cowgirl, pardner,
And I know how to shut a gate
When I've gone through.
And I know how to open one, too,
And walk right in and be at home
On the range, or on the phone,
Or at the charity ball,
Because there's no one quite like me,
And not too many who've ever known
Quite what to do with the likes
Of this long, tall Texan.
Git along, little dogies!

I'd let you go ahead of me,
But I see you're already ahead of me.
Maybe you should let me
Go ahead of you?

I see you now in the Great Dance
In the parking lot.
The shopping cart wants to go one way and you the other.
I always let the shopping cart lead,
But that's just me.
I've just seen that eventually,
It wears me down,
And I realize it has a better handle
On the Tao,
As well as the Dow of life.


Friday, June 16, 2017

I can tell I've come to the end of the dream
By the way the cymbals crash
And the lights go down
And the corners of a big curtain somewhere start to squeak.
Or, at least, the pulleys
That have been groaning,
Holding up the gravid threads
Through all those acts
Begin to squeak and squeal in glee.
Five o'clock has come for them.
They can punch their clock, go home,
And let go of all that heavy material
That separates the dreams
From the realities,
That separates all the world
From the stage it plays out in.

But what time is it now for me ?
Is the dreamer of the dream
Now half asleep?
Or have I been half way awake for all this time?


I was in that fat you ate
Before there were any stips to late you,
Long before hate could amp your tastes
To cause you to eliminate parts of me
You might not like.
You'd already swallowed me.

Now, as you start to sorb your ab,
I can feel the mac er ate
Of all your gastric acid
Solving all the dis,
And soon all we'll remember is this:
It's too late to em you,
But not to embody,
To be a part,
Not second rate,


I waited in line for the women's restroom
And finally heard a flush.
A MAN came out looking sheepish
And in a bit of a rush.
And I walked in to see the commode
Slowly overflow.
Right behind me came the janitor,
Who glared a hole in my soul,
And I said,"There was a man in here
Before me, and he did this!"
I am a fair maiden
And my poo doesn't stink,
Much less stop up toilets.


Thursday, June 15, 2017

Art isn't beauty.
It's duress,
And what comes out
Sometimes it's an exhaled breath,
A drop of sweat,
A tear,
A splinter, that finally got squeezed
And tweeezed,
And made its way
Into the light of day.

Ancient beauty,
Were cheat notes
And hacks to pass
History exams and physics class.
And if you translate obelisks right,
Each cartouche that finds the light
Will explain
That wind or snow or rain
Won't fade the ancient truth.
But only life and love will make
This honest world go round.


I like a white shirt.
It goes with white teeth and tan skin,
With blonde hair that hangs down across blue eyes.
It's blue skies and white clouds.
It looks very French to me,
And I should know,
For I am French,
And you like me?


Tuesday, June 13, 2017

Skinny girls get chocolate
Which makes them fat.
Fat girls don't get any,
Which makes them skinny,
And the yin and yang
Goes round and round
Again and again.
Imagine that.


Monday, June 5, 2017

Anger is a beautiful angel in armor that shines and gleams.
She comes to do battle for us
And take our pains and all the stings
Of devaluing statements made to come our way.

But if we turn her away,
There is nothing she can do.
She must allow the venom of the hurt to go into me and into you.
Then our anger angel must come deep inside,
Where she will burn night and day
Until she has burned the poison from our clay.

But inside us, she appears to us to be as ugly as sin,
Until we acknowledge her,
And make her beautiful,
And powerful again.


The Sun is watching youtube videos
These days to learn to highlight
The girls hair better.
He's got to compete with snobby stylists everywhere,
Who say they know The Way.

And with so many afraid of Him,
For he's been labeled a carcinogen,
He shakes his mighty head until
Even his sunspots quake.
"Have they never read the ingredients
In those awful sunscreens they slather on their skin?"
He booms incredulously.

But how can He compete with tanning beds,
Manicured feet, and stylists,
The snobby ones, indeed,
Who take up a brush and smelly oils
And the most alchemical of chemicals
That change lead hair to gold?

But He sticks to His catechism,
His articles of faith of His religion require
That he give the people what they clamor for,
And there is no clause "as long as."
He will even give you Barabbas
If what you want is that much beneath
The Truth that you deserve.

For he's a live and let live kind of guy
And watches quietly from the sky
And sees all of the people everywhere
Doing just exactly what they want to do
As far as they know.


Sunday, June 4, 2017

Snakes are like bees,
In that, if we don't have them,
Life, as we know it on this planet
Will not be anymore.
First, a collective sigh from the colonies,
One of societies' top fears is extinct!
Then while we debate on how to end public speaking,
Mother earth will unlatch her high sandals,
Take off her girdle and walk barefoot through the garden again.

But eventually it will dawn upon her
That she has no more goosebumps
Because there are no more slithering things to terrify her,
Nor to tickle her places that no one else is willing to touch.
And in her sadness, the world will go gray.
Flowers will purse their primitive lips
In a great tsk tsk toward the other vegetation,
And then the bees will be the very next to go.

I come in and put the sacks down,
And he lies right down on the floor and cuddles up to the groceries.
He puts his face an inch away from a can
And stares longingly.

I grunt and roll my eyes
And mutter under my breath,
"I studied the Bolshevik Revolution for this?!"


Saturday, June 3, 2017

The equation for orbits is surprisingly the same
As those for objects going down a drain.
The great swirling majesty of the Milky Way
May be the galaxy's mode to throw its trash away.
It fascinates us from a distance
And confounds us while we're in it,
Much like the forest we can't see
For the trees.

But before you say, "Well, there's no hope,"
Take yourself a bar of organic soap and enjoy the bath.
Who's to say that the mysterious flow
Of the cryptic dark matter that makes us go around
May be as holy as the holiest universal solvent?
We can pray that it is a drain that takes us to the wetlands,
And that the sewer is a sanitary one.


Friday, June 2, 2017

Little orphan cats don't groom themselves
As well those who grow up with a mother.
They grow accustomed to matted fur,
And so, also, when they are grown,
They don't mind a ruffled look
Or being rubbed the wrong way.
They will take whatever petting they can get.

Little humans that aren't comforted when they cry
Produce a lot of cortisol
In an attempt to relieve themselves of stress.
This hardens the brain,
And other results aren't known.
But they may mind very much
Being rubbed the wrong way.


Thursday, June 1, 2017

He knew he was born to be an archaeologist,
For his face already looked like
It was carved from stone,
And judging by the weathering there,
A thousand years or more ago.

His best friends were pillars of salt,
And he knew he shared their fate,
For, just as Lot's nostalgic wife had done,
He also had a propensity to look back.

His greatest fear was that he might turn
Just after some amazing discovery
And he would stand, a smallish obelisk,
And silently be misread and misinterpreted
For another thousand years.


My dream is a house
That hovers mysteriously
And hums while a magic carpet flies by.
My door opens from the east
And I can stand and look outside
And watch the world,
So busy and creepy.
It hustles and bustles for this and that,
Runs to and fro and traverses land masses
For things that really don't matter that much.

And as the world hurries,
I stand in my dream,
Perfectly still and slowly blink
And breathe and am
And continue to hover
As a few monks are left
To conjure me.
They chant their song,
A beautiful ommmmmmmmm,
And my heart dances,
But never my feet.

Even the morning lasts without you.
Even the day, like a midnight sun,
Has stopped and paused
Like a picture taken,
Captured forever,
But you are gone.

But you're still here!
Aren't you? Smiling?
Standing on a cliff at the Grand Canyon's wall?
You're still here!
On my refrigerator!
I see you, posing, after dinner,
Ten feet tall.

Who will come and start the record
Over, who will put a quarter on the needle
So it won't skip, or get stuck in
An endless loop forever?
Who will jar me loose
From this nightmare?
Wake me, tell me, "It's alright,"
That you're not with me, anymore?


Tuesday, May 30, 2017

I had a bird for just a day.
It lighted upon my finger.
It flitted up and lit back down
And chirped and sang
And delighted me like a dream
That comes unbidden
And stays as long as it can
In the mystic light of deep sleep.
For one can never keep a bird,
And dreams will never tarry long,
Nor bring surprise or joy
If you try and capture them,
Or turn them in the ways
That you would have them go.

But bright the eye and true the smile
Of the gentle learners
Who allow the multicolored wings of truth
To come their way,
Who let the dreams unfold uninterrupted,
And laugh like unfettered children
At the free ideas that churn and drop
Into their minds
Like sweet confections that melt in the wet mouths of happy eaters.
These are the memories and loves and moments and precepts
One never forgets.


Monday, May 29, 2017

He wasn't a Hindu chef,
But he liked to curry favor
And subject himself to the scrutiny
Of those who really were beneath him.
I often watched him from my dream and shook my head
And ached for him to shed
His invisible caste.

What was the bitter, pungeant flavor
That made his native tongue seek out
Such auto-deprecating terms?
Some old world herb his mother overused, no doubt.


I read your horoscope today.
It says you like to meet new people.
I do, too, but I don't like to run off and screw every one of them that I meet.
So, I think you should go out and meet new people.
So, I think that I should, too.
My horoscope says I like to travel,
And I think I should,
And I think I will.

He always dreamed of a Cadillac.
That would show their asses.
He'd drive it real slow on his way out of town,
Like a long cool drink of water

After he'd gotten the kids through school,
He had a little extra jingle.
He saw an ad in the paper for a nice used one.
It was used, but not nice, at all.
So he passed, but always kept on looking, dreaming.

He's got plenty of money now.
Hell, he could really afford a new one.
But they don't make 'em the way they used to,
So he bought himself a nice Toyota Tundra, instead.


Sunday, May 28, 2017

I took up the white man's burden.
I didn't understand the creed.
I didn't know I wasn't white,
And, until I began to breastfeed,
I didn't realize I was not a man, either.

Giving birth had not convinced me
The way that nursing a baby did,
And slowly, slowly, scales fell off of me
And my eyes.

The history of our words themselves
Is the only history we can trust.
The grunts and onomatopoetics
That evolved into our verbs and nouns,
The deep meaning of nodding yes,
The religious vow of chewing together
And swallowing food that we have found
Together, and feeling the holiness
Of the words "milk," and  "mama," and "baby," and "dad."

And if we care to know the truth,
There are no white women
And no white men,
And there is no burden,
Except the weight of our own soul,
And sometimes that is heavier than others,
And sometimes we get just a glimpse that lightens it:
There is no religion more politically correct
Than breastfeeding.


Saturday, May 27, 2017

I look at the sky.
The forecast says rain.
Should I water my plants again?
I think I better,
For there is no predicting the weather,
And my plants look thirsty now.
If I have the ability and the wherewithal
To give them a drink,
Then they may thank me later,
And I, them.


Thursday, May 25, 2017

I will sing my love to you
In silent notes
Until you wake,
And then I will listen to you sing them back to me
The way you heard them in your dream.
For your voice is strong,
And you sing in key,
And, as for me, I'm a warbler.

But I think it's cute
How you take the flute and play
The song I've given you
As if you made it up.
Lucky you,
You have a muse that you don't know,
One who never shows jealousy
Or ownership,
One who's madly in love with you,
And can't help but sing
A song of joy over you,
And exult in unseen places
Just over your head.

If today I knew
That I was through,
That my work was done,
For you had seen how much you are loved
By the words of one of my poems,
Then I would put down my pen
And never write again.

But I know
How deep the hole in your heart goes.
And even though you may catch a glimpse,
And be convinced by the hints of love you see,
You will always be ready for
Just a little bit more.
So here it is,
You are dearly loved by me.
I love you.

No matter if you're rich or poor
Or better or worse,
Your teef are always in jeopardy
Of cavity-izing,
Or just plain fallin' out of your head.
In sickness and in health,
They don't care.
They never took a vow
To stay with you.
They never said " I do,"
And they never will, Honey,
Cause teef ain't natural,
And I know it's true,
Cause a football coach told me that
In health class way back
In 1981.


Tuesday, May 23, 2017

His daughter had sex with a black man,
And he got several dark-eyed grand babies out of it.
And when I say he got em,
I mean he got em,
Because the state was about to take em away.

It seems the daughter turned to drugs
When her hubby physically abused her,
Just as she had turned to sex as a teen
To soothe her emotionally neglected soul,
So as much as he hated to admit it,
He knew she'd found someone just like her daddy
To be her baby daddy.

But one of his friends at the coffee shop
Told him that by 2025,
There would be no such thing as "race,"
And that he should take comfort in that.


I'm a walmart-itarian.
I believe walmart exists.
I ask and it is given to me.
Well, it is, after I've paid.
I go to my sanctuary anytime.
I buy my big girl panties there
And put them on later
When and if I need to.
My congregation, much like me,
Follows the trends and fads
Prescribed by walmart kosherness, and availabity.
Everything is clean at walmart,
All the good and blessed food
Approved by the walmartical diet.
Nothing unclean except the gum
On the walmart floor,
And even that must actually be
Acceptable in the sight of the
Great General Manager,
For he sees all,
And it is still there,
Maybe for all eternity.


I don't like this song.
It's grumbly and low,
But maybe by being so it has the power
To reach down to me where I am today,
And say, "Hey!  Up here."
Maybe it can give me a hand,
Or maybe it will save its applause till the end.
Maybe by listening to some guy
Who committed suicide
I can hear more clearly.
He says, "Don't sell your songs.
Just carry on, my lovely, wayward daughter.
Wayward's where it's at."
And then he adds, "I'm sorry."


Monday, May 22, 2017

Oh-ld, aka, Agism

The etymology of the word old is this:
As people age they begin to groan when they stand
And when they sit,
Or, as for me, when I've fallen
And I can't get up.

But way back then, some of the juveniles began
To take notice of the sound
That the elders made.
"They're 'oh-ing' again," they'd say,
Or "growing oh," for those
Who spoke dylexically.

But "oh" wasn't much of a word
And wasn't often heard outside
And seemed to confuse
Glad tidings of some other "oh's"
That were in fashion,
Until this particular "oh" was labeled LD.
And that my children is how the word
"Old" came to be in the English language.

You are a fantastic compound
That ends in a-s-e,
An enigmatic enzyme
That catalyzes me.
And as you seep into my soul,
You condition my chagrin.
I feel victory rising
In my hope, my thoughts, my chin.

Bandage me in your silken weave,
A tapestry of delight.
Wrap me in the love you speak so well.
Like a mummy I will lay
And bask in the other silence
Until the time of resurrection comes.
Then I'll emerge from my cocoon
And everyone can see
The colors and the triumph of flight
That you have brushed on me.


Cat ladies come to be,
Not by genetic ancestry
Or any other inheritance,
But if, by chance,
When she is young,
She gets a cat hair on her tongue
And swallows it.

Cat hair is not digestible,
And so it follows
That this foreign bit
Will stay in her system
The rest of her days
And grow into being,
Like a pregnancy,
Until she becomes
Her own baby,
And is born again
As a cat lover
And as a true cat lady.

Now, please don't complain
That I didn't explain
And connect every dot
In the middle there.
Just please, be careful
What kind of hairs you swallow.


My toes curl out and in beneath the sheet.
My foot wiggles around my other foot,
And as my cat settles in beside my back,
I realize that this is how I purr,
How I hypnotize myself and sleep
Through all the racial slurs that we perpetuate,
When we could simply love one another
And keep one another safe and content.

What keeps you from going to
That thing you refuse to attend?
Was it the color of their skin
That put you off, or was it their religious thoughts so wrong?
You didn't like the song they played
Or the way they said it.

Love would make you a pioneer in the field
Of human progress.
Love would make you sing,
Make you a Martin Luther King,
Or a real boy,
Or a real girl.
Love would make your world go round,
If you'd let it.

As for me, I've loved all day
I've been polite, and more,
And I'll do this foot thing into the night
So I can sleep,
And dream of a place where lovers soar,
And where everyone is a lover.


Come take a seat beside me in the spray of the silvery moon.
I know there are things we like to eat,
And I'll make sure we get each one,
But come, before the sun does to delude.
The metallic moonlight reveals the tin
In our skin so nude, and we can see
That we are machines that will never die,
Just unwind in the moonlight.

The sunlight dissuades us of the truth. Each ray
Tells white lies so we will work all day.
Like rustic serfs, we seldom pause
To try to understand why we sharecrop
Someone else's land for free,
But we do.

But not the moon, it's gamma milk bath x-rays us,
Reveals the cogs and gears within.
We see the truth unzip like a strand of DNA.
A ligand gate opens, sure as day,
And our cows go out, and our muscles move,
And we must continue on or we will sputter to our graves,
And other slaves will come and take our place.

So you see, we need not, and should not stop,
Lest our gearwheels rust while unemployed,
But we might put our parts to better use.
Let the pistons find some hidden joy.
Trick them into staying new
By telling them that this is work,
And that we should never be derelict,
Or shirk these precious, obligatory duties.

Wink, wink.
Nudge, nudge.


Sunday, May 21, 2017

Things I've learned:

My hair looks better when I don't comb it.
One can take too many baths.
I smell.......( goooood.)
Cookies are good for me.
Riding bikes is fun.
Cartoons are educational.
It's ok to be myself.

I have been to lots of schools and classes,
But the most important things I've ever learned,
I learned from my children.

By loving them completely,
I've learned to love myself,
And I've learned to love you.


I leaked your fluid all night
And contained your iridescent seeds
Like a scientific beaker,
And, like the lab assistant who decides
Which of the samples should remain
And which should not,
My ancient womb tried its hand
At ejaculation,
Sputtered like an Edsel,
And coughed you out.

This earth feels like someone else's house to me,
Like living in a goddamn parsonage,
Or staying in friend's house, who's away,
To take care of her turtle and her cat.

I pray that nothing breaks while she is gone,
Like the flapper on the toilet,
Or that squeaky hinge the backdoor hangs on.

I tiptoe around while I am here,
And the earth talks back to me
In an irritated whisper,
"Don't waste any ice,
Or toilet paper."


Saturday, May 20, 2017

Look at all the weirdos here.
They all wear their sunglasses
And drive around like they know where they're going.
They stop at red lights
And go at green.

I've managed to make it to the bathroom
And giggle at the urge I have
To paw the toilet paper roll until
All the paper falls off onto the floor.
Then it hits me,
Maybe I'm the weirdo.


Wednesday, May 17, 2017

It's quite white--
The fences around the houses
In the town where I grew up.
Bricks are banned,
For they're too tan.
Churches made of wood
That's painted not stained,
Or stone that comes from a quarry
Where the dig pit shines, even at night
Because the rock is so white.

The school is one room,
One mind, one sight.
It serves as a church on Sunday night,
And so, it has a steeple that rises high,
And it's ever so quietly,
Self righteously,


Monday, May 15, 2017

To sparkle or not to sparkle,
That is the question.
For whether 'tis better
To hide your lamp
Under a shade or an old grey sweater,
Or by opposing, burn them until next winter,
And take up your bikini,
And put on your thong,
And carry on.

What would Lady Lovvvverleee do?
After all?


(But sometimes when I carry on
The buzzards think I'm carrion
I've experimented in a row
Of peanuts I was s'posed to hoe
Laid in the sand and played dead
But the only thing that came close to my head
Was a big Texas sized red ant
Guess I didn't smell bad enough yet
For the old sopilotes.)

Geometry was discerned
By a maid folding a round
Red and white checkered tablecloth.
She took it out of a warm dryer
And realized the tangential ways
That static electricity radiates
Along several diameters at once.
And as her hair stood on end,
And she saw Pi to a thousand places
In her mind's eye,
She suddenly learned
That all of her amorous tendencies
Were okay,
And never ending.


When the day lacks and wants more
And can't have it all,
It pouts in ways that are destructive.
The sky broods. It's brows knit
And thicken til the sun can't shine.
And then from somewhere unimaginable
To the heart of man,
Barely perceptible specks of dust,
Much like a grain of sand stuck
In an oysters craw,
Form giant pearls of hail,
And the maelstrom hits.

When the night lacks
And wants,
The stars stream hot tears
Down a dark face
That distill into chilled diamonds
Slung on the morning grass
Like dew.

I just eat cookies.


Friday, May 12, 2017

I can tell my DNA has been south
For a long time now.
I barely notice when someone I love
Says, "Masstoooooshetts," anymore.

But somewhere deeper than cognition
Is a me that craves lobster roll
And cracker dressing
And mincemeat pie.
Yes, my Massachusetts side is
Bigger than Dallas,
But my Texas side is bigger than Pakistan,  (Y'all)...

As I go, I am amazed,
And glad this car
Can drive itself.
I'm baffled by
The way it knows
To turn so gradually
And to accelerate
Up this ramp,
Then merge onto the turnpike.
I am vaguely aware of its prowess
As I enter a song that plays
On the car stereo,
Just as one would enter a ballroom
For the first time.
The lights, the glitter, the cologne,
Of all the men and women who came to dance before
Lingers in the heightened atmosphere.
I twirl in the strobing patterns on the floor
And wait for you.
You appear suddenly
And in a tux,
And we dance.

And now the song is over,
And I'm home,
And I don't remember ever touching the steering wheel.


Wednesday, May 10, 2017

I studied a perfect, ancient relief
From Sumeria,
Of the divine ones who from heaven came down.
One clasped an ankh before there was Egypt,
Another, a giant rod and staff.
A giant muscular demigod type
Offered a deer that he held out with his hands
To one even giant-er than he,
And it all looked mythical
And hard to believe
Until I noticed off to one side of the carving,
Sculpted in stone forever,
An angel type messenger regaled in wings
And picking his butt.


I was just one block away from the school.
I'd walked to the 7-Eleven.
I bought big gulps for some of the girls
And carried them back by myself.
It started to rain.
I knew that I shouldn't
Have ever gotten in
With the weirdos who stopped
To offer me a lift,
But I did, but I did, but I did.

They took me all the way to California
And forced me to be a star, a star.
They brought me all the way to California
And taught me how to play guitar.

People told me not to stoop and bow,
Not to try to win
A place in the hearts of all those cool kids,
But I did, but I did, but I did.
And if I hadn't have tried to buy
My way into their stone cold hearts,
I guess I wouldn't be where I am now
Ridin in this long shiny car.

But I did, but I did, but I did.

They took me all the way to California
And forced me to be a star, a star.
They brought me all the way to California
And taught me how to play guitar.


It is a double helix wrapped
Up tightly into a ball
That came from two strands,
One old, one new,
And some messenger RNA.
And I am climbing Jacob's ladder
Higher into the sky
To see where angels tread
And where they fear to,
On the brinks of Love,
And in the precipice of Death.
And somewhere in between
I stand,
I wonder,
And I stay,
Madly in love with you.

Hurry myLove,
Let's steal away into the day.
I'm crawling up your ivy twined wall
Into your attic now.
Come and find me there.
Come and comb my auburn hair
With your hand like paws,
And we can tumble around,
Bumbling up and down
Over that old chair,
The sofa bed, the ancient trunk,
The quaint chest of drawers
With old clothes hanging out,
Like two raccoons, buffoons who don't care,
Just playing all day
And chasing each other into night's lull.
Lucky for you,
My moon is always full.


Sunday, May 7, 2017

I just barely make it all the time.
Sometimes I think I'm not makin it at all.
And sometimes I want to come see you
And tell you it's all right.
I know what you're goin through.
You're barely makin it too.

But if I call you,
You'll tell me you're fine.
You just don't want me to see
Your cryin eyes,
Your dirty house,
Your houseplants dyin on the vine.

So I'll stay here in my
Own dirty house
And think of you
And just not call,
But if you call me
I'll tell you true
I'm barely makin it at all.

(I'm gonna go water my houseplants now.)


Come dream with me.
It's good to dream.
It's shows us the disparity
Between the way things are
And the way we want them to be.

Come dream with me.
The line between reality
And fantasy can blur,
And sometimes you're not even sure
Which world you are for,
Which case may be the better?
Which may be the worse?
Come dream with me.


Come dream with me.
It's good to dream.
It's shows us the disparity
Between the way things are
And the way we want them to be.

Come dream with me.
The line between reality
And fantasy can blur,
And sometimes you're not even sure
Which world you are for,
Which case may be the better?
Which may be the worse?
Come dream with me.


I don't know why ninjas are coming after me,
But they are.
They're letting themselves down on ropes from the ceiling in my closet.
Three of them dressed all in black clothing
That covers them from head to toe and shimmers
Like satin spun from mythical silkworms.
Even the ropes are black.
Black sheaths hang from belts around their waists,
And I don't know how I know this, but I do,
The swords inside the sheaths are dark, shiny, double-edged metal blades.

And of course I can't move.
But I don't know if I am paralyzed from fear
Or because, although my mind is awake,
My body is still sound asleep and unable to perform the commands that my mind sends to it.
I scream and wet the bed all at once.

But now, even in my terror,
I have swooped up and over,
Grabbing my trusty 7-iron on my way.
I stand at the ready,
And the ninjas know
They are no match for me.
I rock back and forth
On the balls of my feet
And wield my golf club sturdily.
They ascend,
Leaving my closet
The same way they came in,
Through an attic door
That doesn't exist,
And the only proof I have
That they were there at all
Is the yellow stain on my mattress pad
That bears an uncanny resemblance
To the shape of Bruce Lee's fighting stance
When he performs his one inch punch.


Friday, May 5, 2017

"You're ok."
"No I'm not.
I fell and scraped my knee quite badly."
"You're ok."
"No I'm not.
I'm crying 'cause my feelings are hurt"
"You're ok,"
They always say,
And yet the way they look at me
Says they don't think I'm ok at all.
"You take things wrong."
"You shouldn't feel that way."
"You're ok."

Am I?
Am I wrong to be?
Am I wrong to feel like me?
Am I ok?


Thursday, May 4, 2017

The edited version of my life is nice.
I ride ensconced in luxury.
I never get a ticket for blaring Mozart
Out the windows of my SUV
In the parking lot of Walmart,
And you're always with me.

But in real life I get to missing you,
Hear some sad song on the reddio,
Sneak down your street and up
To your window
And raise such a caterwauling
That the neighbors call the law.
They escorted me away,
But like I say, in the edited version
Of my life, you're always with me.

- jenn

I'm standing here in my frivolous lawsuit
All ruffles and diamonds and pearls,
Waiting for a real journalist
To tell me what I think of this
So I can spew ideology on down the line.
But if the voir dire goes my way,
I'll throw this pantsuit in the trash
And buy 365 bikinis
And live on the coast
All by myself
And read books
So I can know what's really going on,
And never say a mumbalin' word
About any if it ever again.


Tuesday, May 2, 2017

The Lord has taped and textured the sky.
Spackle splatters everywhere
And a fresh coat of flat eggshell taupe.
That's all the rage in heaven this year.
"What's for supper?" he asks his bride,
As he pops the top on a Miller Lite beer
And scratches his hairy belly.

"You've had the kitchen torn up all day,
And I can't eat with the smell of paint
So strong up in here," she whines.

"Alright, Love," he says, grabbing his wallet
And sticking it down deep in his back pocket
Of his cargo painters pants.

"But you better drive,
Or else go ahead and sit in the back seat
If you're wanting ta be a back seat driver."

"Haha," she scoffs,
"That was funny the first four hundred times you said it."

He just smiles and throws his arm around her
On their way out the door.

Mother Earth takes care of herself,
And The Lord takes care of everything else.


Has anyone ever dug under a fence to get in?
I have once, when the neighbors were away
Because I wanted to borrow their pool
To go skinny dipping.
Little did I know, people put cameras up
All around their property these days.
Oh, and they had that chemical in their pool
That turns red when someone goes pee pee.
(I bet you thought it didn't exist.
Yeah, I did too.)

Forgive me my trespass(es)?


Monday, May 1, 2017

Morning sweeet love bird
Singin at my window
A song so lively and true
Your message cuts thru everything else
I'm in love with you

There is already noise this morning
Assaulting the heart and my ear
But only you bring the melody
A love song sweet and clear

I hear you sweet love bird
Sing to me
Your love makes me smile
Your love heals my broken wings
And makes me dance inside
Sing sweet love bird
Sing to me
Your love sings sweet and true
Sing sweet love bird
Sing to me
And I will sing with you


Sunday, April 30, 2017

It takes three seconds
For a match to light
The wick of a candle.
It takes three flames
To rise into the night
To light the face of one's desire.
Three atoms, two hydrogen,
One of O,
May snuff the fire
And send the steamy smoke
Dancing away with your dreams.


It takes faith
To place that one, unmatched sock
Into the sock drawer by itself
And to wait
Sometimes years,
For all the laundry to cycle through.

But it takes a miracle
To remember,
When the mate suddenly appears,
Where, for certain, you safely socked away
Its long lost lover.

And it takes divinity
To put them together again.

I was thinking yesterday
For just a few minutes,
"What I would do
If I didn't have you?"
And I stared off into
A gray sky, swirled with dark gray
And hints of blue underneath.
And there was absolutely nothing there
To hold my interest
Or inspire me,
And I guess that's how
My life would be
If I didn't have you
To think about all day.

Rituals are for the rich,
Or anyone else
Who  can afford to waste their time
Doing extravagant, specific things
That no one understands anymore.

Practices are for the practical,
Ways handed down
So one can know
When it is ok to eat poke salad,
And how to clean a cast iron pan.

Sometimes a practice and a ritual meet at a crossroad,
The ritual being carried on a litter,
The practice stands and says, "After you,"
Then shakes its head, wondering
Why the ritual is off down a road
That has never been finished
And never will be,
Because it doesn't lead to anyplace
Where anybody really wants to go.

I need a new name.
This one is ruined.
I'm sitting under the clothesline crying.
The other laundry is clean
And flaps dry in the wind.
The sturdy sheets and towels and undergarments
Shine white in the sun and smell of bleach.
My poor name is threadbare and soiled.
I turn it in my hands,
Looking for a place that might hold a clothespin.
Someone has drug it through the mud
And worn it out,
While my ears burn.


Saturday, April 29, 2017

A swirl in the water
Will produce a three dimensional shadow
With a band of refracted light
Orbiting 'round the top.
It will glow on the mossy floor
Of a silver creek bed,
Or even the white bottom of one's own bathtub.

But if the allure for you is to go
And travel through such a worm hole,
You need to know
That the grass is not greener
On the other side of the dimension.


They're not happy together.
They both feel they could've done better.
"Where do you want to eat?" she asks.
"I don't care," says he.
"Wherever you want to eat, I guess."

She picks a place she thinks he'll like.
He hates it.
But he tries to be nice and pretends that it's just great.

They chew their food.
The mood is dull.
Their expressions lifeless.
Then he tries to pick a movie she'll like.
She hides behind the 3-D glasses
And rolls her eyes a lot.

But they're both trying so hard
To make the other's life colorful,
So maybe they couldn't have done
Any better, if they'd tried, after all.


I know all you beautiful people
Gad about with all those other beautiful people,
Jet setting and dining on fine caviar,
Driving your fancy non-descript cars.
But me, I'm a recluse 98.2 percent of the time,
Only venturing out to walmart occasionally,
And trying so hard not become
A worse fat-ass than I already am.

When trying to be like me,
Remember, I was tactful in my youth,
And you should be, too,
If you want to live to be a mentor yourself.


Friday, April 28, 2017

"How did you get to be
So pretty and sweet ?"
I asked my cat,
Who's never had a bath
Or brushed her fur.
She purred at my compliment,
Arched her back a little bit
And twitched her tail.
She'd rather be favored
And preferred than eat
And will only nibble a bit from her dish
If I pet her first.
So maybe lovin' makes her sweet,
And rubbin' makes her pretty.


Well I'm a long tall texan--
Five foot two.
I wear short shorts and cowboy boots,
A big white hat to match my teeth
And two six shooters underneath
My pearl snap shirt
All holstered up.
I shoot my
Pizza before I eat it.
I shoot my sushi too.
And I'll shoot yours for you,
If you'd like?
Cause we texans know what's right,
And sushi ain't right,
Until it's been good and shot
And cooked well done.
So think about that
Before you get you some
Of this texan.


You can get all the way to the end
And find that something's missing.
You can wonder if it's done,
And others wonder with you.
You can lie in bed and dream
And feel the thunder,
See the lightning, be the very powers that be,
And still your thoughts be dumb, unthought,
For lack of the punctuation mark.

Punctuation, come and rest upon me.
Commas dangle on my breast,
Semi-colons from my ears,
Backslashes strung around my wrist,
Asterisks on my fingertips
And periods, like pearls around my neck,
All at my disposal.
But I can't seem to part
With this one very special exclamation point.


It's too cold for my arms out in the real world.
They circle and come back under the blanket
Together, like synchronized swimmers,
Dipping back under the waters.
Their long pale pinkens until they dare
To come up and out again,
Just to my face this time
To rub the sand out of my eyes,
These twin cats of mine that dart this way and that
After the same goose feather.

And slowly I emerge from the down.
I evolve with each step toward indoor plumbing.
My arms dark with blood,
Prepared already to fend off the jealous.
My mind accepts the awareness
And the state of being,
I was taken first over all
In the NFL draft.


Thursday, April 27, 2017

I don't want anything from you.
I arrived centuries ago.
I've been a holy Roman Emperor
And a chief of a warring clan.
I thought to return as a woman
And live a life of peace
On a beach in southern France,
But like Tiresias I discovered
That although women do have more pleasure in love,
What life requires out of a woman is tiring and complex,
And much more so if she has been a destroyer of worlds in another life.
But I have learned much,
And all this just since I turned 40.


Wednesday, April 26, 2017

There is nothing more precious than sleep,
Nothing rarer, or more expensive,
And when you are poor and sleep deprived,
You stumble and grope for the way.

The day is long. The sun too bright.
The mouth is drawn, no appetite
Comes to urge you on to pursue
Most anything, least of all the things
You've really wanted.

Prayers undaunted, fly up as bees
To sting the gods, to hear the pleas
Of the weary.

That one might lie down in the night
And give up all else til the morning light comes
And sleep the deep sleep of a thousand glorious deaths
And lives to come.
Then take it all back in the morning sun
And run, forgetting all the pain
And the desperate bargains you made
With the great bread provider,
And taking back all your sorrows again
And labors, and wake to war with your neighbors all day long
And lie awake all night again
And worry.


You could be somebody's pet,
If you're willing to be spayed, and/or neutered.
You could sleep all day like a cat
And sprawl around.
You could plop down on a lap
And purr, and be taken care of,
No matter how fat you tend to get.
If you stay sweet,
You could be somebody's pet,
If you're willing to be spayed, and/or neutered.

One more day of hibernation,
Dreaming of spring,
And I know so well what spring looks like
That I see it as if my eyes were awake.

And it is spring,
And spring is there,
But as I live and breathe and sleep,
I dream of some ideal spring
Somewhere else,
On this, the last day of hibernation.

There's a time to make a difference.
There's a time to pull the difference down
And make a new one.

And there's a time to dream,
Today, on this last day of hibernation.


Tuesday, April 25, 2017

She hides behind motherhood
Like she hid behind her mother's apron as a child,
When someone tried to look at her
And tell her what pretty hair she had.
No one sees the brilliance
Behind the baby talk she chatters forth to her children,
And she shushes them kindly
If they innocently begin to say something
That might reveal the way she is at home.

Her children may be the only ones
Who have ever seen her intelligence,
Or her beauty, as they catch a glimpse
Of her bare skin
As her bathrobe falls onto the floor
And she steps into her closet
To find herself something to wear.

It will be something drab,
And bulky, with some non-descript patterns
Cheaply spooled, to camouflage her loveliness again.


Wednesday, April 19, 2017

I bought black pants for the recital.
They didn't fit right. They never do.
Everyone else was wearing dresses.
 Oh, and shoes.
Except the boy on the front row left
Who looked down all night at his iPhone.
So I sang to him and meant every word.
Especially when the chorus came along,
"Run away.
Run away with me."

I gave my love a redbud tree
That sprouted native.
I asked him to think of me
When he saw the heart-shaped leaves
So green in spring's new sun.
I asked him to make three wishes
And blow me kisses
When the pretty red buds bloomed.
I asked him to bury me
When the seeds came falling down
All over the ground,
The sidewalk, and the lawn,
And to yawn and sleep
Alongside me through winter's deep snows,
Then rise again to love's warm smiles and winks and glows
In some wistful meadow downstream.


He breaks into song as we walk,
For our life is a musical.
We help each other along up the hill,
But sometimes we pull so hard on one another,
We fall down together
Halfway up,
Halfway down.
But what the heck,
We break into song about that, too,
For our life is a musical.

My father and my
Lover died
The self same day
And flew away to
A woman who had just conceived.
They were born as twins,
And I believe
They'll love again someday.

But as for me,
I'll never be born again,
Or love anyone
The way I did them.

I will walk forever more
Through every shut and open door,
No matter.
As deaf to every idle chatter
As I am to the voices in my head
Of the living and the dead.

A rolling stone,
Cool, aloof, and so alone
That even grief won't try to clutter
My mind with it's salty, 80 proof lies.


As I move,
I see a groove of light
Cut in the air.
It's still there,
Doing what I've just done,
But another light leads,
Forges ahead,
To show me
What to do.

And when time goes slow,
I see the rainbow
Of action and inaction together,
And in the stillness of the beauty
Of all that living light,
I renounce everything
Except the music it produces
In my loving heart,
And you, my one TrueLove.


Tuesday, April 18, 2017

In the bell-tower, bells ring,
And even when they don't,
A lovely vibration of metal
Hangs suspended waiting to sing.

Birds perch high
And chirp and tweet.
They look at me.
I lean wistfully,
Prone slightly at the waist,
One elbow bent,
Hand on chin,
My other arm and hand
Hangs out the window of the bell tower,
Feeling the wind blow.

And everyone,
Including the birds,
Waits for the bell to ring again.


Monday, April 17, 2017

I sit beside you,
Slip my fingers up your sleeve.
I feel your forearm.

Fire and ice are there,
Power, and something hidden.
Dream, to fruition.

I'm there just below,
In the wings of the elbow.
What else is up here?

A trick, a Joker,
A Queen, a Knave, and there's you,
An ace in the hole.


Sunday, April 16, 2017

My personal Easter Island,
The Sun rises and sets
On your mysteries,
Monolithic memories
And dreams.

The green grass blows and swirls as if
The island itself is a clipper,
Cutting its way through the oceans of time and space.
Is it heading to that place
Where Time itself is a destination,
A portal of Love
Where even the Great Reef
Is no barrier?


Saturday, April 15, 2017

When my son wins an Emmy,
And he probably will.
I know he will not thank me
In his acceptance speech
Because he's already practiced it on me
As we walked around the neighborhood today.
He says he's going to wear his shorts,
No shirt, or shoes, and he won't be combing his hair,
And when he takes the mic,
He's going to say,
"It's about dang time I won an Emmy!"


I returned to my
Homeland to find
I didn't understand the language.
As a child,
I was not permitted
To use contractions
And slang
As the vulgate children did.

And so, I pull words up by the roots
And chop them up
And soak them in corn whiskey.
I'm making tinctures out of them.
An amber bottle,
A few drops in the ears
Of some stranger I wish to speak to,
And now, everyone seems to understand me just fine.


Friday, April 14, 2017

You have a mother,
So does she.
Her mother has a mother,
And we come from a long line
Of people who survived
Long enough to breed,
To intermarry and intertwine,
And you were born for such a time as this.

Remember you have ancestors,
The good, the bad,
The ugly, the beautiful,
The mums and the dads.
Dig deep into your unique DNA,
Look straight into the eyes of this very minute,
And see the beautiful place that you hold in it,
And say to yourself,
"I was born for such a time as this."


Thursday, April 13, 2017

If I open a door
With a key I have stolen,
What offense shall they charge to me?
And if I find property there that is mine,
And I steal it back,
Will two wrongs make it right?

And if I storm the gates
Of heaven and hell
And the great mead hall of Valkyrie,
Will I find one warrior
Brave enough
To turn the key in the lock for me?

Or will I have to turn it


Wednesday, April 12, 2017

Book Report for Junior English Class

This cat is verry cattish.
This cat not so much.
There are cats, and there are dogs,
And a sliding scale between.
Some cats are more doglike.
Some dogs can be catlike.
This is a cow.
Cows are very cowish,
And they want to be.
They want to be as cowish as cowishly possible.
Cows don't want to be skinny.
They want to be fat,
Because they want to be eaten,
And they want to be as meaty as cowishly possible, as well.

The End

- love,
So I made it as far as Supertarget,
But when I came out,
My car was dead,
To the tune of having to call for a tow.
A big truck came out,
And wenched my Pathfinder way up on top,
And just as I turned, embarrassed as I was,
A car came by with the with the windows down,
And I could hear the guffaws
From a mile away.
And just as they passed,
The kid leaned out and yelled at me,
"This is Edmond! Get a Lexus, Plebe!"

(It was my son and one of his friends.
They offered me a ride,
But I called for an Uber, instead.)


Sunday, April 9, 2017

Translations of Ancient Latin Graffiti

Someone should tell Hester
That if she wants to wear her yoga pants to town
And into the grocery store
She should either try and tame her bush
Or wear pannies.

Porcus, Porcus !
Why must you always eat the same things?

I arrived late to the cena.
Alas, someone had already eaten all the door mice.

No, I can't get out of the chariot,
I've only had teen martoonies,
But my toga is unzipped,
And it might fall off.

First he wrote poems to his wife,
Then his mistress,
Then his boyfriend.

They had taken a campaign
Into Swahili,
It was there he gave up
Following Apollo.

Many nights, here, on the banks of the Rhine,
Building one of the many roads
That lead to Rome,
Marcus heard a beautiful song
In a barbaric tongue
Called, "Fräulein."

"Apples, apples, grapes and wine,
Bread and formaggio and gnocchi.
Cheaper here, in Vesuvius, than anywhere else!"

Here sits Cnaedus,
Buns a Flexin
Givin birth
To another Texan

- do I dare sign it?
I wanted to go for a walk in the dark,
But I found I had nothing to wear
Except my belly, so I put that on,
And headed out into the starlit morning.

By the twinkling waters,
By the trees, with a chill wind blowing,
I walked, with only hunger
To guide me.

You are my delight.
You, the one whose hand I nuzzle,
Are the one who feeds my soul.

Come, rub my belly,
And love me,
While the Morning Star shimmers
And the Sun peeks over the far horizon.


There are flies,
And then, there are beautiful flies
That flutter just out of reach.
They cast their spells
Of timelessness,
And we follow,
Thinking we can catch them.

Like the mother killdeer,
Who feigns a broken wing
And leads us away from her precious cargo,
Yet unalike, for butterflies
Have been known to lead humans
Toward some jealous spirit
Waiting, hidden,
In the merry woods,
To blip us over the head with a Rowan stick,
And turn us into a pool of water.


Friday, April 7, 2017

I can wander off
Like a child
On a sunny day,
Into a green forest,
Following a butterfly,
And never think of my home.
I can stay,
And never be hungry,
And sit down at dusk
In the sand of a dry creek bed,
And wonder where you are.


Tuesday, April 4, 2017

Evah have
Ta radar at
A nut for a jar of tuna?
A Toyota's a Toyota!

Was it a cat I saw?
Was it a rat I saw!
Was it Elliotts toilet I saw?
Put Elliotts toilet up!

Did I? I did!
Dumb mud!
Drab as a fool, aloof as a bard.

We few.
We stew.
We panic in a pew.

Niagara, O roar again!
Niagara eh? I hear again!
No "X" in Nixon.

No sir! Away! a papaya war is on!
Norma is as selfless as I am, Ron.

Too bad I had a boot.
Too far, Edna we wander a foot.

Ma is a nun, as I am.
Senile felines.
Smart rams.

Llama mall.
Rats paraded a rap star.

Gnu dung.
(Palindrome emordnilap.)


Monday, April 3, 2017

I don't want you to build me a house,
But come and live in my yurt with me.
Play me a rhythm on a tambourine.
Make up a song, and sing it to me,
So that I can do what I want to, anyway--
Giggle, and make love to you.


A teacher told us how
General George Washington became president.
She didn't believe me when I told her
That my great great great great great great great great grandfather, Amadoya,
Was named emperor of the Cherokee people
Long before George Washington became president,
And how Amadoya's great grandson
Had negotiated a treaty with George Washington
On the trails of the Chickamauga.
She didn't believe me,
Even though it was true.

Maybe that's because earlier in the year,
When she was telling us how
Secretariat had won the big race called the "Triple Crown,"
I told her that he was my uncle.


When kisses come in twos,
One is for "I,"
One is for,  "do."

When kisses come along in threes,
It's, "I love you,"
And, "Love me, please."

Kisses sometimes come in fours,
And that is good!
It is code for,
"I love youuuuu morrrrrre!"

But lucky are you
When kisses come by five
For that one sings,
"Here comes the bride!"
(Plus one)~~~~~~~


Whatever this is,
Let there be no word
To describe or declare it.
Let all of its delicious zing
Be mystery and anathema!
Let the recipe burn
In an unwatched pot
That boils over too soon
On the hearthfire.
And let the magic nonsense reign!
And let the scoffers say it can't last!
And let the unspeakable goodness
Confute and attest,
Early and often,
And all day long.

I began the labyrinth mandala
At age five
In a kindergarten
With eight
(8x1) large  Crayola Crayons
And twenty four other children.

Winding through mazes
And dot to dots,
I solved small mysteries
With Encyclopedia Brown,
And helped a goose
Find her golden egg.

And somewhere along the clips and corners
I graduated to 64 Crayolas
And only twenty in the class.

And now I find myself back up,
Or down, at the top,
All alone,
With 4,096 colored pencils
At my disposal.
Lying askew and irately akimbo
That I can't use them all at once
On the strange pages of this adult coloring book,
In which I struggle to stay
Very outside the lines.


In that moment when you wish
That you had let your children sleep
In the bed with you
Against the doctors' advisements,
And that you had stayed in bed all day with them
And eaten peanut butter
And played go fish
Until they were forty-two,
Then a part of you realizes
That they would have missed some things
By means of your coddling,
But they will miss more
Swaddled in the grave.

And yet, another part of you may be secretly thankful and jealous
That they will miss certain heartbreaks.
They've overcome their biggest one,
And I have yet to.

They want to build more condos
On the other side of the duckpond,
But they'll stay just as vacant as the ones on cannery row.
Snowbirds come for the winter,
But they find that it's too cold here.
Ducks come for the summer
And can't wait to go
Escape the blistering heat
In Santa Fe or San Diego.
Spring brings allergies, rotten tornados,
Early blooms and frozen trees.

Tourists and company are gone by fall,
And we can have football
(The only thing we're really good at)
All to ourselves.
Okies 37, visitors, zero.


Does my cat know how selfishly I pet him,
Because it makes me smile to hear him purr?
And when I stop he noses me,
And nuzzles me for more,
And this, brings full giggles.

How my withered hand is healed
As I stretch it forth in faith!
How my love is warmed like wine and cinnamon.
To love,
To be loved,
To be wanted,
Includes me deep within the honest responsive purrs.


Sunday, April 2, 2017

I've started this recording over four times,
And it's gotten all the way through twice,
And halfway through a time or two,
And then I realize
That I don't have a clue what it's all about.

But now I've finally simmered down,
Like so many have tried to tell me to,
And I'm starting the program over again,
And now, I'll only write poems during the commercials.
I swear.

Younger women hate it
When they're in the midst of a head-tossing laugh,
With their white teeth showing big,
And their eyes lit up by the flames of some young man's fires,
And they happen to lock eyes
With an older woman across the room.
A cold knowing smirk
Can snuff the joy out of her sails
For just a second.
But then slowly, the younger woman
Allows herself to forget
Everything the knowing eyes
Of experience just told her.

Slowly her sails fill back up,
And she will laugh again,
But this time not so loudly.
And she will stop laughing entirely
And offer a moment of complete silence
When she sees the older woman
Get up to leave.


It's nice here.
There are hills,
And we get a little rain,
And things still grow.

The primordial soup
Where creation began
Did not occur in Bledsoe, Texas.

It might exist there in some powdered form.
I'm pretty sure the sand from there is an ingredient
In the Army's "Meals Ready to Eat,"
That they give to soldiers training to go to the deserts of Iraq.

You can acquire a taste for dust,
And you can eat a lot of it, if you're in a war.

But it's nice here.


Thursday, March 30, 2017

Some humans captured monkeys from the jungle,
Trained them to fetch beer and cigarettes,
Put them in silly, costume jewelry
And ill fitting coveralls.
Some, they put in frocks with stoles
And trained them to hold high sanctuary,
And then one day, the humans went away,
And never did they return.

And now the monkeys reign in the courts,
And sit in the seats at the city council,
And some recline in worn out La-Z-Boys.

And they all keep doing
The things they've always done,
And none of them ever bother to ask, "Why?"


She lacked a daisy,
And for the want of a flower the chain was lost.
Thus she had nothing to pin in her auburn hair.
Drony, she walked the field alone.
She didn't want to go
To the ball, to the fair
With only repetitious, uninteresting
Things to say, and wear.
Alas, alack, and a lad undone,
A field of green clover danced in the wind,
And her, sentimentally woebegone.

I saw a white horse and an eagle fly on my way home.
I saw redbud trees and baby green leaves,
But I still don't feel anything.
I mourn.

Are you dead, or are you gone?
Does it matter either way?
Is it night or is it day?
Or just the cold gray of another dawn?
I mourn.

I could rend my hair and roll in ashes,
But I'd rather shave your head and sackcloth you.
And there's no telling what I would do to you
If only I could find you.
Where have you gone?

And so I mourn.