Archive for the ‘Musings’ Category


I bow for myriad reasons,

Always my own.


Supplication, protest, personal, or otherwise—

To that over which I may

Or may not

Have control.


Genuflecting at the altar—

To worship the wheat-wafer body of Christ,

Among choking incense and magenta stained glass.


The black-clad faithful, they nod in approval—

I, the stolid girl of duty.


Then oh, she rebels.

The trap door awaits me, for the trip to hell.


I kneel at your feet—

My head on your thighs

You stroke my hair,

Following passion my mother will never understand.


I contemplate the world.

My white privilege, my cultural damage

Does not absorb

The sacred, the sacrosanct.

I am not a time bomb, awaiting implosion.

I walk the streets freely, unquestioned.


When we kneel,

It insults the John Deere hat wearing masses—

Chewing tobacco and proclaiming

They will make America great again.


What does that mean?

The collective fear curls into a boil that sings

Oh say can you see

By the dawn’s early light—


Oh America.

Oh flag, oh anthem

This is not my America.


And I bow to my knee

Not from disrespect

But to pay tribute to those betrayed

By my America.





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dolls house2

-after Henrik Ibsen


You are a child, Nora.


Did it amuse you to see me dancing about,

Dressing up, acting?

I passed from mother’s hand to yours.

I lived by performing tricks.


Little lark frisking about, nibbling macaroons—

Gambler, spendthrift,

The capricious little Capri girl.


A song bird must sing clear and true, with no false notes.


Earning my keep copying the words of others,

Well into the night.

It is wonderful to work—

I almost feel like a man.


Play the tarantella, dance with your tambourine,

Good little songbird—

Just . . . not so violently.


If your little squirrel were to beg you for something—

Would you do it?

I would skip about and play all sorts of tricks,

If you would only be nice, and kind,

I would twitter from morning till night.


One can retrieve her character,

If she owns the crime and takes the punishment.


I should so love to say

Damn it all.

Wait, I just did.


I drink wine for breakfast.

I shave my legs clean.

I drink in my smell and stop worrying about hell.


Tomorrow night, when the dance is over I shall be free.

There’s something glorious in waiting for the miracle.


I thank you for your forgiveness.

I will think of you,

Our child, this doll house.


But I have other duties, equally sacred.

I no longer believe in miracles—

Other than those I deserve.

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American Poem.jpg

A nuclear pompadour


Buried collective anger.


Integrity and humanity cease.

The world becomes much stranger.


Incandescent lies,

Breach of the fragile peace,

Fear the money changer.


What his billions buy,

The mouthpiece,

Of the clear and present danger.

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I don’t buy this business
About 50 being the new 40.

It’s an excuse,
When the AARP stuff shows up.

Oh cool,
I got the discount card.

I’m not old;
I am a smart shopper now.
I can get 20% off at Best Western.

But who the hell wants to see
Brad Pitt on their magazine cover?

And tell me,
Why the Cialus couple never shares a tub?

I mean, why do they bathe side by side?
In separate tubs?

Wasn’t that the purpose of Cialus,
To get rid of the separate tubs and bedrooms.

Where does all that water drain?
Where is the towel rack?
Where are their robes?

Oh my children, there’s no going gentle
Into the dermatologist’s office
For that Botox shot

It hurts.
A lot.

And when that perfect Pilates instructor
In her $100 Lululemon pants
Puts you on the rack
To get rid of your menopause midsection spread
I can assure you

That hurts too.

I will not go gladly
Into the days of elastic waist pants.
I will rage, rage against the dying of

In fact. . . .

When I am 85
I will slam a hole in the podiatrist’s wall
With my tennis ball walker.

And scream at the top of my lungs

Keith Richards rules!

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Meat Market

– a college anxiety story

Bless me Father, for I have sinned. I got an F in American history for first quarter. Holy crap! If you average it the best I can hope for is a C. What the hell can I do with a C? Damn you, I just had to cross 5 schools off my list. My teacher is a dick, and geez, I am a 16 year old boy. What do I know?

Damn it, I am a 16 year old boy and I don’t have time management skills and that adult stuff. I am a kid, and I am stressed out.

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I was full of pulchritude and lacked punctuality.

It was all staged, of course.

They sewed me in my naked dress,
Trotted me out,
The trollop offering.

My cotton-candy hair,
Even the white ermine was fake.

Peter Lawford had a few before we took the stage.
I had a few too.
He asked for a blowjob.

That limey skank.

I knew what was up.

I went through the motions and gestures,
Sang my silly words off key—

Ignored the crowd.
Don’t judge me.

For all the things you’ve done,
To me,
I thank you so much.

Happy Birthday, Mr. President.

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Wild Thing

-a 100 word story
(for Crap, and Cindy Jeanne)

My friend Cindy was adopted. She had the best bedroom of all, and I loved sleepovers at her house. It was a big bright room, with pink walls and white wainscotting. And in the center of the room was a white canopy bed. I always wanted a canopy bed! But my attic room was small, with sloped ceilings.
Cindy hung her fancy straw hats and scarves on the bedposts.
We sat at the foot of the bed and shared a joint, singing along to Black Sabbath.
She hung the feathery roach clip on the headboard.
Cindy was a wild thing.

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