TX. 12/19/16

In the graveyard
of little Ms. Carries
lie

A trillion tiny mounds
of life-soaked tampons
buried in meticulous rows
of legislated regret

just another cemetery,
but this one belonging to
life’s potential deaths
mourned not by moms

but by nationalists
who pray to keep them down
beneath  constitutional ground
hoping…

their wormy white strings
will germinate into iron bracelets.

 

 

Hello, it’s me!

img_2933Hi Friends! This is me standing in the middle of a small river in mid Autumn. I’m standing on stepping stone, of course – a great place to think about change.

Today I decided to defocus this blog from a poetry blog to something much more expansive. Mostly because I have a lot of untrained thoughts galloping around my brain that need to be lassoed and corralled. Better to keep them here safe and sound after some taming and affection than to let them loose in a Facebook post, bucking wild, and vulnerable to the lasso of any cowboy who just happens to stride by.  I have a feeling that very few people will just happen to stride by here.

Another reason for branching out with my content is-  I am not writing much poetry these days. I am desperately trying to finish a novel and writing poetry just gives me an extra reason to procrastinate. It also distracts me from other obligations. I tend to obsess over poems. I will probably still share poetry  from time to time, just not regularly.

Crunchy?

Also, I love to cook. Lately, I have been cooking healthy vegan food. At this point, I do not claim to be a vegan, but I do cook 100% vegan food 99% of the time. I have been doing this for maybe 6 months or so and I am learning so much. I think of vegan food as another kind of cuisine, not a kind of diet. I have gotten into the habit of posting my food pics on Instagram and several people have requested recipes, so I thought this blog would be a good place to post them, much  better than posting them as an Instagram response.

As I mentioned above, I am not fully a vegan, but I am working on it. I am simply not going to throw away all my leather before it wears out. Who does that? So if you see me walking down the street in cowboy boots and wearing a leather cross body bag, you will know why. Also, I am not that concerned with personal branding. I am someone who tends to cook and eat vegan foods, but I am not a vegan. Also, I do eat the occasional fish and will be roasting a free-range Turkey this year for Thanksgiving; otherwise, my family would never forgive me. I already step all over tradition enough.  It has never been my intention to impose my ways on other people; although, they might think that is. I truly just want to share the good news. I’m not 100% healthy either. I do drink wine  excessively everyday and love my morning cups of coffee.

Anarchy?

Well, you might figure that out after a while.

 

 

In addition to food blogging, I will continue to blog about writerly stuff, as well as the following: my natural silver hair and the grow-out process, DYI skincare and grooming products, natural product reviews, silver hair product reviews, the novel writing process, introversion, books, art, wine, absurdism, nature, dogs, happiness, middle age, love, and womanity.

Basically, anything that blows my mind and anything that keeps it sane.

So stay tuned!

Anathema

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Anathema can stalk
anyone, anywhere
like rhetoric, or marketing

it will find them

and use them

like a paycheck

~~~

For three days and nights
it’s been raining humans:

humans falling from heaven,
humans drowning in their own
human-made puddles,
humans choking
on unshared wishbones.

(Humans with frightened, bulged
out eyes, silently screaming
sclerosis, sclerosis)

Anathema catches these humans
by the tongue, one by one,
as they fall like tears from heaven.

Anathema spits these humans into a bag
– a messenger bag made of Chinese linen,
so, the humans can breathe in this hot fall weather –
throws the bag upon a broad shoulder
and walks across the bridge to Anathema’s tower
where Anathema takes each of them out,
one by one, holds each
in the palm of Anathema’s hand
and studies their movable limbs;
very doll like, very simple.

Anathema lingers in the moment because
Daddy never let Anathema play with dolls.
(Daddy never let Anathema play with dolls.)
(Daddy never let Anathema play with dolls.) but
daddy’s gone now,

Anathema can play with them all.

Anathema gets a magnifying glass
out of a detective kit purchased from Boys R Us
and thinks about taking the dolls to the rooftop,
you know, the old victim under the magnifying glass trick?
That was always fun to do on hot days like this

But then something happens
when Anathema hovers the glass over them,
and notices their great big eyes of fear:

(Humans with frightened, bulged
out eyes, silently screaming
sclerosis, sclerosis)

and notices the bloodshot complexity
of their eyes
and how the vascular pathways
spread throughout the whites
like a network of routes
on a human map
and Anathema begins to believe

that Anathema has found the map
to his hidden treasure

The Burning Boy

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The burning boy
knows no time
like the present

and so
he stands before his crowd
arms raised like Mussolini

or like a small orphan
reaching
for something he cannot see

A boy with misguided innocence
(Or is it ignorance?)
protected by a Great Wall
of sufferance

A petulant sick prince
sort of boy
with great hubris
of gasoline soaked straw
packed in gilded chicken wire

a master boy
of blame
callowness
arrogance and whatever
else he can add
to the American
stain

and so
he stands before his crowd
arms raised like Mussolini

Appropriating hope
and dreams of the indignant
far too many

promising to be their
Great White Houdini

who will project
their unified voice
of treason

But everybody knows
these wicker boy types
are false kindergods
and full of hyper-hype
intended to be knocked or
burned down

and so
he stands before his crowd
arms raised like Mussolini

and sets the World on Fire

Guilt Trip — Eunoia Review

In every phone call with my mother there comes a point when dialogue narrows to monologue, and she insists that she’d be better off dead than at the assisted living. Usually, I change the subject to some cheerful antic of a grandchild. Lately, she’s begun reminding me that she never sees her grandchildren, that they […]

via Guilt Trip — Eunoia Review

The Big Silence

 

 

I don’t like to listen
to the heart beating my lover
as he sleeps       or the tympanic drone
of the jet engine as my plane creeps
through a

cloud
levitated  on  silence

or the hum of life
as it burns calories
into fossil fuels,
fossil fuels
into calories or the buzz of a god-zillion
different smart phones and feet,
percussing
the
sidewalk
along
a regatta of combustion

There is a always a signature;
a pattern,
a cadence,
a sequence
to everything that has decadence
and is trying
to pass as life

And there is this infinite noise
within the body of the divine
out of which
musicians pull their infant notes

But, all I can see is the doom

that awaits…
that impending,
impalpable silence

that is my violence.

And it is where I am
the most.

Condemned, but not Damned – This poem appeared in the 21st issue of Pink Panther Magazine

Crunchy Anarchy

I wanted to cross the barrier
perched on fog’s slippery mount
as it rolled out
God’s floor

This made me a condemned woman

for having practiced my style of grace
as I walked out on a bed
of sharpened steeples

Praying with my tongue stuck out
Daring to taste
a drop of
Heaven’s forbidden rain

It is not like I didn’t try…
for I had practiced enlightenment
til my head swelled and herniated the sky

But my heart wandered in place
finding only veins

and now, I take my nourishment
in air and silence,
carry this burden, with pride,
of these God forsaken chains

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