Saturday, April 13, 2013

#13 Cure


When the circus and ER came together
lives were lost and lives were found.
The numbers danced like pigs in silk dresses
that is - undulated
these numbers of the beast
that were heartbeats
and elephant feet
dancing over the heads of sleeping mice
held in arms of children
not dreaming of cancer.

When hope became the ringmaster
the show became the greatest on earth
Let us pray now to Disney
for without dreams
life and death are twins.
When you cry at the end of a movie,
you remember it always.

Put the tight ropes in the waiting room
because then we all look up
mentally drawing wings on strangers with our prayers
The cure you see was always, always
the clown car.
There's more.
There's always more.

Thursday, April 11, 2013

#12 Garden of Weeding

Today's prompt : the Tanka. "
The Japanese tanka is a thirty-one-syllable poem, traditionally written in a single unbroken line. A form of waka, Japanese song or verse, tanka translates as "short song," and is better known in its five-line, 5/7/5/7/7 syllable count form." --See more at:

The break came Not with
the red snake's death, But new life
she decided to
let the weeds flourish, just grow
Because the bunnies loved them.

Wednesday, April 10, 2013

#11 Noir Murder Death with Whiskey

It was't that she walked in on a cloud of silk,
It was more she tore a smoke red strip of it with each step
Ripping from my mind the case I was on flailing like a zombie.
Step. Heat. Step. Click. Step. Smolder.
She noired and smiled.
Toast with gin
Sweet sin
She wanted me.
To look for someone.

It was a smoky room, grey charcoal with fame and fog
Every paparazzi in town was following Big Daddy
Making this case as easy as taking whiskey from a baby,
But then. Smash. Then. My head. Then. Wake up in alley.
Son of a shot glass.
She naked lied.
She wanted me.
To die for her.

There comes a time, your gin leg empty and your whiskey full
Your mind on a beautiful woman with a terrible story
You rush in to save her without feeling her knife at your throat
He's dead. I know. He's dead. Why? He's dead. Lets go.
Running away in the night.
All dice rolled.
An all time loser.
She wanted me.
To disappear.

Tuesday, April 9, 2013

#9 NaPoWriMo - Giant

No, girl, this is not happening
It is not happening again.

He's behind us I know.
But doesn't want us dead,
he wants us hushed.

He wants us like baby dolls
panties showing,
lipstick overshooting the Venus dip
He's lunging for our words
He's tearing the air to stop that song
See him slow down.

If he caught us, it'd be over.
We're pretty to watch.
Fun to imagine.
If we'd just shut the hell up.

Comply. He wants to
sew up our mouths
around his forever cock
he thinks is something else.

I know. He doesn't like us laughing either.
Not writing. No being. Not living.
Not working. No thriving.
Not having a thing to do with him.

Let's build a clever trap.
Let's give the giant what he wants from us
Shut him up. Bind his feet.
Feed him the poison he throws.

Because now our mouths are closed
in prayer, in a hymn, in a spell,
in a mantra, in a chant
Feed him the hope he doesn't know.

Let's bring down this giant,
Let's run him into the ground.
Let's laugh so hard the earth gives way
under his soft bones.

This clever giant doesn't understand this forest is our hearts.

 ---  about a dream of a friend

Monday, April 8, 2013

Poem 8 Crazy

Poem 8. Crazy

In the driving me crazy
They hit the red zone
The pugs in red lipstick
With no explanation.

In pushing my buttons
They grind them down
The bunny bite is slow
More like a tease.

She's shaking her head
He's stealing grapes
By my feet
Like he's invisible.

She's running NASCAR
He's flipping me off
Driving me crazy
Keeping me sane.

No, not wild animals
But dueling tricksters
Fancy pants archetypes
Ying. Yang. Yo.

Sunday, April 7, 2013

#7 Bites

I'm stuck here, trying to find the great symbol
This frame is history
This frame IS history
Like the flipping breathing flapping kind
I want to frame a day fishing with dad
Those hard impossible Saturdays
Where only Mosquitos bit.

These days in the dirt, the muck
By pits they dump bodies in, maybe live
How do I frame
How do I contain
What I complained so bitterly about
Worm dirt under fingernails, sunburn
Those weekends of hunting for a bite
Mosquitos obliged.

Of honor jar worms at end of dirt roads
Places my dad sat sketching
He never had the option for art
Just work, hard work, cruel work
And fishing and not so much catching
And two daughters who hated
Waiting for fish bites
In veils of Mosquitos.