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Saturday, June 24, 2017

Spud Piece





You enter the room

there are two chairs

one has a potato

you sit next to that one



you don’t happen to know,

what it’s for, how it’s this

Phenomenon (but just before

you said that; I stopped you).



The potato is alive.

no boo - not in the realm

of the Possessed, you just know

the vibe a living thing has.



But the truth is, the potato,

it’s me. I wish I was only

aloo-ding to a piece of fried me.

But i’m just a spotty spud.

Tuesday, June 20, 2017

Roundabout Truths




If we can – freely –
admit to ourselves that the
Underprivileged automatically
lead more virtuous lives
and the righteous follow in file:

then we might suspend this
acting out we do in difficult ways;
misdirected (almost) always
on unsuspecting souls & elbows
[it’s a privilege to be unlovable]

Then we might even find ways
to answer the oldest question ever posed
How to pass the time? This time, with fewer scars;
who knows? We might even make ourselves
useful.

There’s virtue in being useful; mostly
it’s honest and has constructive results -
- usually. When I sit with my grandma a while
I feel I have been of some use.
And I pat my own deserving back for it.

Thursday, January 19, 2017

Witchful, Watchful

There she sits, always across
The room from me, distant
Enough that I can’t really tell
If she’s looking at me and smiling

Or if that wily smiling fetching
flirt is someone else’s to tackle,
for the moment. I gather, only
to disperse, my thoughts and fears.

Just so, her legs aren’t impossibly
Long; hair tousled in a fashionable way.
Smidge of ennui flickers on her face
I sigh; I rise to take her hand.

A dubious idea rather dismissed
ere I destroy her charmerie.
In my mind I blow her a kiss
her eyelashes acknowledge me softly.

Saturday, January 14, 2017

Tote

Sometime this season
You'll stop the spiralling
Out of control. The
bristling'll cease.

You'll bless your breath
As it leaves your body,
and you heave 'self to
and fro quietly.

The colours are the
 kind that seep through
The folds they fall,
becoming you.

Drive about town;
a deserted look
Eyebrows that have
been abandoned.

Persisting sulk
Burl won't go away
Acquainting with
a gaggle of freaks.

Last and final call
Grab some empathy
Stuff it down your bra
Proceed to boarding.

Tuesday, May 24, 2016

Arbeit Macht Frei



There's many a metaphor straddling
The continuum of work and death
A slave knows one leads to the other 
And the other is deliverance from hell

We hope we go, when we do, with grace
Die as we live, hard at work, always
That there won't be much room for regret
At the end of a life of constant effort

Still others have made death their work
Diggers of graves, burners of bodies
Butchers, fishermen, farmers and priests
Nurses and caregivers at the hospice


If like me, you're learning-averse 
through work we can know ourselves
While in sickness, the first thing to suffer
Workaholics bring illness to the desk.

When work seems never-ending I play
a trick upon myself and think of death
But when the toiling is itself the reward 
It's a celebration and coping, in the best way


Tuesday, December 15, 2015

A Not Unraveling

Let me get to the heart
Of the matter at once;
My deepest darkest secret fear
Is that I will let myself down
And crush those that I love,
Through actions that betray
a pathetic lack of courage.

Not uncommon, I know.
Not even unfounded, it’s true.
But the hole in my stomach -
-the dryness of my mouth -
the derailment of thought;
Confer a unique experience
Each time the penny drops

I realized this some time ago,
And that more out of curiosity
About my own internal process
A wonder at my surrender
At my acceptance of paralysis
Will it always be so easy, so familiar
these patterns of failure

I search for my inner Ivanhoe
propelled by a greater fear, of course;
Of time unaccounted; sunken costs –
Standing still – and yet getting lost.
Will I survive not being constantly gratified?
If I split into two, I might see this through

But I can inhabit the future only when it’s now.

Friday, October 16, 2015

Do Not Deny The Wretchedness

When I was a little girl – a tween?

And it rained on lazy evenings

I would run outside in my petticoat

And invite my mom along to play

In the puddles with me – 1, 2, 3.



Somehow she rarely ever joined in these

Trying harder instead to entice me

Into returning inside, to promises,

Of food or some such sundry

Entertainment – a bribe essentially.



I hearken back to this old memory

Because suddenly I feel the itch to be

Standing barefoot, soaking the vitality

Of that moment. The mud, the breeze

The unrelenting patter was, to me, almost therapy.



***



Ma. I may need some therapy.

Just come feel the earth loosen under your feet.

Do not deny the wretchedness,

Which we blame upon the drought in our hearts;

We all long to be loved, but we need to be free.