TheSwanSong of K.MildredDeuloc Let me go then, by myself, where my life meets my dreams, where they meet what life hath dealt,To find where the sky separates to a halt, holy oil and pool water-it's not my fault-to walk to the edge of the grinding sea, to immerse in the waves-not coming back, free.And will it have been worth it after all, the leg lifts at the gym, faux finishing my bedroom wall? Will it have been worth the smiles and the screams, or frosting each night in anti-age creams? To say, "I am Lazarus, coming to tell you truth: it's only tap water in the Fountain of Youth."In the bars, men come and go, joshing about the perfect breasts of th
Stuck With Me I say that you're stuck with me-Bubble gum on the sole of my soul, Handprint on my heart, lump in my throat, Coat of many colors in your smile (my favorite jacket),Thick accent pinching pink my tongue, Abdominal hollow with your name, Scar bisecting my clavicle (a triple bypass to you),Displacement shadow in my lips, Song careening through my psyche, Broken record playing on heart cords,Angel at my back, demon in my ear.Vacuum where my life was, Waking nightmare in my dreams.
Fighting Neverland Push her down, drown her all you want.You'll not escape what you are:The child in the photograph still knows Who she is, what she wants to be.She is still pug-faced and persistent, Haughty plastic crown propped On top of disheveled yellow hair. Aspirations still writhe In her bugged pupils, A dream (to grow up to be you) Ever present in her coloring book diary.Will you try to erase her memory Through excuses and a new haircut? Does a BFA make you (or anyone)An expert on the world she has always known?Burn all the pictures you want, Get witness protection involved, if you dare. She'll need no warrant when she
My Father to Charles Bukowski have you got a minute?you say. my head swivels. you know for the next sixty seconds we have more time than God. never feel sorry for a self-inflicted gunshot wound, you say. I have never been shooting, but I know how a gun is loaded. I have never been in love, but I know the ache of broken heart.I'm sorry, though the boy knew the 70x7 were mine to make. I'm different, though he re-loaded and took aim.I will always have a minute.I will never own a gun.
Like Matches I was very board one day and had nothing to do,So I opened up a giant tube of super sticky glue.It oozed between my fingers and squirted in my hair,And then, it got beneath my shirt and in my underwear.The dog’s now glued to my right leg, and I’m stuck against the wallAnd next time when I’m bored, I won’t do anything at all!
Future Employer Little Robby Tamper always yelled the answer,While Mary Alice Anne always raised her hand.Robby yelled to Mary, “Come in the mud and play!”Mary smiled and simply said “That’s why I’ll be your boss one day.”
For My Pancake With Love Steaming pancake on my plate,Number twelve or forty-eight?My stomach cannot take much more As I roll across the floor.I’d better make way to the door.I can’t remember what I ate,But could you for the syrup’s sakePut another pancake on my plate.
Bunny Slipper Karma When I re-emergeRe-incarnated from the wheelOf karma or dogma,I want to return as bunny slippers— Hopping off the Wal-Mart shelfAnd home to be worn down to thread,Retiring when old and gray To the nursing home under the bed
Depressed Post-Partum depression,Pain, Tears, and AggressionAre too much to bearSo a mask I wear
Suicide Note of a Squirrel I never knew my mother,My twenty-six siblings or father.Nuts, I eat for I am a squirrel.I eat another— I will hurl.The least of rodents, the least of squirrels—Good-bye, adieu, you cruel world!For of you I’m extremely sick.My fate now lies under the wheels of a Buick!
Spoon Collection Clinking silver spoonsCollecting in my backpackLeft-over from each morning’s yogurt cup.Plastic ware is too expensive.
Hair Affair Forty-five minute hair permOne long convertible rideHair now in pony tail
Waking Nightmare so, maybe I’ll wake upafter all has rushed past me in a blinding whirl of color, pain, tears, laughter, notes on birthdays, and silver shoes.maybe, I’ll wake up…maybe
Recycled Social security numbers, post-mortemBall gowns, when socialites return themDoor knobs, when their house is deemed ‘condemned’Ground, after Mother Nature’s done digestingCardboard, when the cereal box holds nothingNewspaper, before tomorrow’s dawningIdeas, when Father Time regurgitatesDreams, after the hopeless salivatesDesires, when the inspired mandatesI guess the shortest distance Between two things isA cycle
Confession 17 I ran away from open skies and Blowing wild sea oatsTo stake my claim In urban junglesWith asphalt flowers.I watched my 401K growRound and plumpWhile men in three-piece suits with yellow eyesTallied numbers on Palm PilotsAt Power Lunches,Until— My pen ran out of ink. Then, I remembered How the water never stopped flowingUnder the open skiesNear blowing wild sea oats
Opening My Strawberry Eyes I just opened my strawberry eyes, soDon’t stare at me from Across the air conditioned roomWith your kiwi colored eyes The size of mangoes.It’s like you can stareDeep down into the very Corners of my pink esophagus and blue liver.You are the unblinking eyesOf my glow-in-the-dark Superman wrist-watch.I want to quiver,But I stare back with my strawberry eyes,Hoping that I canMake you disappear forever in a sandbox.My eyes bleed red tears of V-8As I despise you withAll the brussel sprout hate within meYet, I love you withAll of the pina colada indulgenceIn my tropical plastic glass.Everyday,I
Nutcracker I am sick of nuts.My work is monotonous,And my jaw hurts.
Confession 288 When I finally decide to get old,I suppose I will dye my hair The same blue hue as the clouds after they rain;I will carry a cotton-fluffy dog Dressed in outfits to match my daily apparel Under my sweatered arm.
Why I Write Maybe it’s because of the vent it is—The only vent in an overcrowded closet Without windows where the air is purple withAsphyxiationOr maybe it’s because it is my playground—(Pardon me while I skip happi-lazily Over the magenta dinosaur directing a traffic Of jelly bean cars.)But perhaps it’s because it is a personWho knows me as well as God, Brow furrowed, hands steady and slow,At his blueprint table,Who says what I seek to hide from the gusty world And myself.
Confession 131 When I decide to grow up, I want to be one of Charlie’s Angels—Barrel-rolling over barbed wire fences and Diving out of fire-plumed helicopters.Sitting in an air-conditioned cubicle, Sipping an over-brewed cup of coffee from a Styrofoam cup Is not for me.A typical mission for me would be To save money from falling into the hands Of neurotic ninjas or Barbara Streisand—Not to save money on my car insurance.
Confession 69 the moon was a triplet tonight, refracting through my double-paned widow as I lay here on the floor,causing me to wonder why my heart couldn’t do likewise so there would be more of it to give to you.
Confession 33 There’s a certain glow inthe uni-light fixed in my ceiling after I’ve switched it offthat makes me wonder how old I would be if I lived on Jupiter.My glow-in-the-dark plastic starslook down at me and shake their mellow green heads.
Hope lights out. smile melts. eyes rain in thick darkness,rusty spring mattress becoming a salty, savage sea.drowning.drowning.drowning.lights still out.deeper—is there a bottom?pink lungs pop like a child’s balloon.I don’t see a way out, but I think I see a mermaid’s tail shimmering away in the darkness.
Confession 487 If I were a marshmallow,I would want to die as a s’mores, Suffocating forever in the warm embrace ofMy chocolate lover.
Sta.sh
