sum times

Sometimes, he whispers his secrets to me.

I tell him back, “I don’t think you abused alcohol; I think alcohol abused you.”

The logical recognition of your own irrationality.


Knowing something cannot change the contradictory feeling.

When subjective empiricism of the senses defies sterile, abstracted, objectivity.

Life occurs in the Void; but, Life does not happen in a vaccum.

And, she knew she is a hedge witch only well after she became one.

Marking the universes in which she found herself, by the subtlest changes in her body.

Her shape.

The curves of her cheeks.

The way the words came amid the colors in which she feels.

Mind your step

Looking up at the sky, he tripped and fell.

Plummeting down the dried up well.

Twelve feet down.

Dark, dank, stinking.

Now, twice a day he looks up

To see

The noonday sun

And the midnight moon.

And, when it’s lit down there it’s bright.

Otherwise, very dark.









A strangely swapping of places of an I and E,

at the maddened haberdasher’s tea party.

Shadows moan

Those things that once impressed me, now seem trite and arbitrary.

A clever but unbelievable costume, a poor actor whose innocent eyes are meant to disguise an acting ability one would despise.

Watching a faux barkeep improperly wipe the wooden countertop.

Comedy needs grounding but here is none.

Blowjobs and startling gun shots.

Weak laughs and forced jump starts.

Someone is certainly going to burn while someone else most definitely will drown.

I see you

Strange what you hear when truly listening.

The young man who complains the most and says he does not care,

he works the hardest.

The gossipy ladies have perfected lazing.

His water was cut off today. A long complicated story explicating.

The people most deserving of a hug often would be the first to refuse one.

The kind of kid for whom you cook a tasty yet healthy home~cooked meal.

Even though you know he wilt likely throw it out without eating;

but, it is the thought and effort worth counting.

should the devil

The barricades to heaven remain taller than the wall situated at this country’s southern border.

People fleeing hell unknown and giving up everything.

Just for a shot

At a better life.

The barricades are even higher if you inquire about them to the followers of an orthodoxy.

I am just trying to hear my soul. I do not need your sermon.

Sick of self importance and formal liturgy.

I am what I wilt to be.


They art trying too hard because they have vision yet refuse to truly see.

And, should the devil may care

And try to confound, I shalt say,

“Bring it on.”


I observe him when he does not know I æm there.

Who he is when know~one is seemingly æround.

An ænimal in his natural state.


His eyes go soft and unfocused.

His voice rises in pitch, ælmost imperceptibly.

Beauty without æwareness.

A repeated, unconcious nod recurring.

Like præying.

Stalking like æ big cat,

Æ Espy with mine brown eyes.

southern gothic

Shining teeth and blooms of the moon.

The watering can found overturned this morn; spilt was last night’s prepared water.

I tried to tell you, “let it age,” yet, what you heard was, “it is not a game.”

What was actually said only Know~One knows,

because having a steno pad is not the same as having a stenographer.

Shorthand and chicken scratch scrawlings.

Pecking and clucking.

A woman once asked my paternal grandfather,

“What do you do with an mean rooster?”

He replied, “take your hands and hold him beneath the water until he falls a bit still.”

So, she did.

Upon coming too, the bird nearly tore her eyes out.

“You did not hold him under long enough,” he dead-panned,

when she presented her grievance to him.

Careful whose advice you follow,

particularly if they keep one hand in their pants’ pocket.

Might just be a touch of sardonic, Louisiana Southern gothic.

full moons

I always watch the cycles of the moon.

They pull the tides of my feminine theatre.

Waking at six in the morn to watch the Worm moon squiggle to its setting.

Eagerly awaiting the egg moon aka the pink moon.

I put the snake’s oil over my face.

I slick back my long hair because, you know, the devil’s in there.

A Good Friday.

A potato casserole with green onions and sour cream.


A lamb wilt

Be grilled.

A key.


And, what frightens is often the deepest kindness.

A casted shadow is dark, but only because it derives from the sunlight’s strike.


choice choosen

Æ am a real kunst of a hard luck lady.

Slicing your meat whilst always

Cutting my teeth,

Making ends meet as Æ please,

Because Æ played squirrel and not grasshopper.

Enabling me to play in the spring.

Struggling is part and parcel to most artists.

A choice choosen.

Not an old work horse called a salaried slave but a prime cut slice of an hourly wage.

You wilt pay me overtime after forty hours.

And, I shall not work sixty for a base salary.

My economy demands.

A bull versus a bear.

Your need is inelastic whilst mine is elastic.

Long ago did Æ graduate from walking on eggshells and begin walking on broken glass.


I ain’t happy; but better yet, I’m feeling glad.

A right proper char, charge, charger.

in suspense

The tiniest of spiders, spins her web six inches away from me.

Battling heavy wind, and frequently resting.

I must appear to be a monolith, nothing to fret or fear.

I look away for two seconds and it takes me a minute to relocate her.

She moves quickly.

Quite quietly.

I locate her, suspended,

upside down to what we think of as the orientation of gravity.

Restful in suspension.

a’new cellar door

In the States, pop culture and modern literature teachers will say,

“The most beautiful phrase in American English is ‘Cellar Door’ “.

I disagree.

A most~loved family member just texted me this line in the casual context of our

family history:

I died in the wool romantic and an idiot.”

Sent to me with no pretense of impressing; sent in utter, spur of the moment honesty.

Howl could this ever be topped?

Impeccable and to be aspired toward.

I end the prior sentence improperly, purposefully.


Other of the between

At times, certain bits of shadows overwhelm and attempt to call you back.

Home to the Pitt of Settes.

Because shadows fear the light.

At times, certain rays of sunlight overwhelm and attempt to call you back.

Home to the Haven of Heavens.

Because sunshine fears night’s shade.

Their conspiracy is to whisper, “I am better than the other.”

Begging you to pronounce an opinion.

But, you are neither one more so than another.

Just the knot bisecting the lifespan of a life’stime.

So laugh.


Simply Be.

coal burning

Suddenly, it stinks of coal burning.

They still burn it in homes here.

What derives from the atmosphere of an old coke town to our nostrils’ mounds.

The previous day spent, cutting meat and choking cheese.

Over eight hours, not a single slicing/chipping machine cleaned,

except by me, with a wet rag. Only later shown where the sanitizer station resides.

Dirty, but pure.

The roast beef rack, must be opened over a sink.

To let the blood drain.

For some, too red.

For others? Not enough.

Longhorn cheese and the ground up goat body of a head cheese.

Dirty, but desired. Harsh.

Everything, but the bones and put into a gelatinous mold.

A restauranteur calls me three weeks late.

I ask, “Do you make your pasta fresh?”

Crown fitted.

Gums cauterized and still bleeding.

Blind fury.

And, I keep waiting for the blind man running through the light of the night

With an answer in his hands.

I keep looking for that river of sight, so I can understand