Archive for November, 2012

The Honest Ears Are Wiser

Beauty? It’s a quaint little notion for love

The calling card of ‘movie’ love for many

Or a possible forlorn conclusion

Visual aesthetics minus quality speech

Pompous, pretentious, learned soliloquies

Uttered to please the speaker alone

Just as wrong as a simpleton’s rants

To display real, in all her many forms

From childlike frivolity to the honest failures of one

This is real. This is an excellent start to love.




Of course, I drink til my face is red

I always must drink this way

I must also be tortured and raving mad

How else are my brilliant drunk words to resonate

In bars, stale libraries and arrogant professors’ throats

If I’m not found severely dead, clutching a half eaten rat

You are the standard, logical start and yet, a cursed foe

Pondering past, present and future with mounting madness

Something must be exalted, modified or sacrificed cleverly

Loathing laced with undying gratitude for my current bit of life

To artfully deliver souls, lies and vile monstrosities requires  a faithful accomplice

My beloved nemesis, perfectly suited though merely a blank page



New Country

Obsessive lovers’ ivy crawls upon my meager hovel

I can hear the roof giving way to a wicked stubborn day

Furnished with odd whittled crafts and thousand year-old hearth

I loathe this polluted place, this forced upon shelter

Not for its current state, because it witnessed who I am!

Housing for ignorance, cowardice and complacency

Forgive yourself, I say to me. Today is my last day.

With willing tinder and happy heart this place will be no more

Beneath my boots are murdered embers and the ghost of a questionable me

Armed with a new cryptic name, plausible story and a desire for new country, I depart


Perfectly formed in scale and shape

Colored in pure delights

Cloaked with cotton, silk or wool

Curved while in dormant or rested state

Lovers dream of various caresses

As you divine them in fashionable attire

Still, unashamed naked feet is truly stellar

I can smell the old oak, treated lovingly with Murphy’s Oil

As if I still stood in the main chapel room

The musty old bibles and hymnals at each appointed pew

Every pious door squeaked with old and new sinners

Every floorboard creaked as deliberate children ran and sneaked about

To lovingly gaze upon the stained glass heavenly portals

Instead of tending to my eyes shut, silent prayer

Fervently trying to worship The Holy Father was a trial

For love of His blessed bell house seemed to compete with Him

My 100 year-old church was never corrupt or wicked, but loyally stood for God

Clearly, the building was a better Christian than I

At the height of the drought, I did fear

Will my end be a parched one

At the gravest hour of the storm, I cried out

Am I to drown willingly

At the final moments of our love, I asked

What do you need me to say

You stoically replied, nothing

You always survived without me


My frozen right hand knuckles

May shatter if I punch the wall

My throat might spew out curses

If he smells like her again

My credit card might be used

For vacation, divorce or gun

Truth is I set his truck on fire

I may apologize this time


This road is in fact alive

Since it’s alive, it must be old

It was here before I was born

Before you were born

Even before … way before

The birth of this lifeless town

I escaped on this very unloved road

Far too selfish and crazy

To be a mother

I like kids way too much

To be a mom

I have a PhD in aunt-ology

Kids are great and I’m awesome

As long as they go home