“Mind over matter? If you don’t mind, it don’t matter,”Mikey says as he eats fire-roastedshish-kebobbed mouse on, “Alone.”He’s doing it to win half a millionto buy services for his non-verbalautistic young son.I have to ask myself, what do I get out of watching him do it.
Category: poetry
POPO2024 Day 41
First day’s a fluke, but the fluke’sbeen here 3 days, which meansit’s a new way. Eighties left in dust.Hello sixties, my friend.Real air washes through windows,across my skin, into my lungs.I can breathe soft and easy again.
POPO2024 Day 40
slaying the beastI needed to know my weight.Why doesn’t matter.The digital scale’s 9v was dead,which shows how long it’s beensince I faced the horror of the beast.When oooo marched across screenagain, I clenched my jaw, imaginedmyself as a cloud – and stepped on.Twenty-seven pounds … less.Body dysmorphia is a bitch, but today this bitch put…
TankaTuesday Poetry Challenge — Paradise (tanka puente)
Paradisegold light envelopspulses flesh in its rightnesspatience rewardedoblivious beyond heatinevitable ashes~Because nothing is as perfect as you can imagine it.~ reality riselike bile from a sucker punchcurled in a sick bedtear-soaked pillow, remembersonly the shiny apple top image: “APPLES OF EDEN” by Aurika Piliponiene. Bridge quote is from Chuck Palahniuk, from his novel, “Choke.”…
POPO2024 Day 39
The rooftop garden has paved pathways, sculptures, ground covers, grasses,water beds for lotus and lily,and bog beds for pitcher plants.The scent of dead, tricked bugsdraws big, black robber waspswho brace their back legs atthe curve of pitcher plant mouthsand try to pluck out dissolvingcorpses without falling in.https://www.meijergardens.org
POPO2024 Day 38
I bought a painting of a bridge.Attached to it are many silky,synchronous threads.Not knowing where to hang itat first, the entryway presentedas perfect; as a portal betweenworlds, to be traversed again and again.
dVerse — Prosery Monday — Woolly Winter
There you can see a very small patch Of dark blue, framed by a little branch, Pinned up by a naughty star. — Arthur Rimbaud, from Novel Woolly Winter Months-long winter drains, where no snow brightens, no gusts whistle, and dis-ease suffocates. Today, Martha rides away in the creaky carriage after explaining she needs color…
