23 April 2017

18th poem or so on the 22nd: The Good Husband


The Good Husband

After he walks dog, he starts coffee, rinses berries, puts five eggs on to boil, slices berries, pours half-and-half into two cups, slices an avocado, sits down to front page headlines, rises to pull one egg from stove, the soft boiled, and prepares it for wife, puts bread on to toast, pours dog food, pulls out the second egg to slice on top of dog bowl, pulls out last three eggs for himself, salts, peppers and butters what must be salted, peppered and buttered, pours coffee, sits again to paper, follows a story across several pages, greets wife, settles into sports section while reporting on dog’s bowels, small-talking the news and affirming great disturbance, reviews plans for evening, goes to bathroom, makes noise, lays out socks, undergarments, pants and shirt light starch on the bed, showers, uses deodorant stone, shaves, pats on aftershave, pats on undereye cream, returns to kitchen for pills, the heart and mood, the vitamins, the fish oils, returns to bedroom to dress, gathers keys and wallet, bends to shake dog’s paw, gives dog treat, kisses wife, and shuts door. In the hall, as he waits for the elevator, she hears a sigh.

18 April 2017

One of last year's NaPoWriMo pieces published.

Did you know there were many nudist resorts in Palm Springs? Now you do.

If I could, I would change the second two lines of this poem pretty specifically.

But since it's on the fabulous Juked, I must have done something right. Here is "Palm Springs." 

16 April 2017

Dear Barbie (14? 15?)

Dear Barbie

How long and deeply I dreamed
of being a white lady. How distinctly I wanted
to be tall and blonde like a pageant winner
thin and rich and shiny at all my points.
And fathered, fathered by a father who wouldn't
let anyone mess with me. A father like a corporation
(they’re people too). And if I couldn't be fathered,
(and it was not to be) I needed to look like I was.

Enough jewelry to announce my pussy was valuable.

This was before you were even a twinkle in your father’s eye.

Kidding. His eyes are dead.

So. Wanted to be a white lady before you were born
and though I look white in pictures, I still wanted it
ached for it with all the energy that you invest
in being you. You probably don't even think it's energy,
but that’s between you and the women’s studies course
you didn’t take. (I took it, and it made me stop working
to be a beautiful doll.) (I mean a white woman.) (Not
right away.) (Such a rich tapestry of a dream.)
I don’t have energy to explain now.

Speaking of energy, how's mom?

No--didn't mean to scare you! I was referring to Mother Earth!

We’re all losers when compared to Mother Earth.

How's mom?  

Guess I did mean it.

Dear Barbie, We want you to remember your mom.
A whole country needs you to recall her now.
Just a wee whisper of a memory –
barely here, hissing the old lyric—
don't worry, pop can't hear.
We need you to remember what she knows.

Because we know it, too, Barbie. And so do you.


Know what you know, Barbie.