“What should we do with the stars?” she says

boil them, fry them. How about saute ’em?
She’s just a girl who wants a good time.
Are you hearing this Michelle? Or are you typing
the words? stone. cold. stars. Kansas. felt. sky.

Flawless is a far-flung notion. That I could take
down a man, I mean. Possible? If I gain control
of just one shoulder, then I could get away with it.
Call me if you want to use my strong thigh muscles.

I very much enjoyed ramming my quad over and over
and over, and upward in blows to his head, his chest,
his groin. But she’d like to get back to sautéed stars,
wouldn’t she? Look here, sister. I’ll give you five.

[A weird thinking-out-loud poem based on my day
yesterday writing a poem, going to self-defense class,
and fielding questions on said poem for Poetic Asides]

Cyclical Residency

Nobody knows I’m sitting on the hood of my car

beneath this flawless felt of Kansas sky, my purpose

for doing so is unknown; tumultuous. The v-6 engine warms

the backs of my thighs for awhile through my faded jeans.

I am abominable, audacious, evolving into a purpose?

This anonymous road has no marker that I stopped to read.

Later in life I’ll name it crossroads. Later in life I just might

contemplate this girl, sorrowful in night, vehement in starlight

as I sit on the rock I lugged into my backyard from a place;

from I don’t know where, – but there are stars.

{micropoetry for Real Toads}

Play Dumb With Me

play dead with me tonight

  like some play footsie

     cavort & do things in the woods

play nice with me tonight

   like some porcelain pleaser

      taking & thanking & thanking

play dumb with me tonight

   like some who don’t know how

    to open their mouths, lift their tongues

play like you mean it tonight

like someone groping blindly

  madly fondling for the dazzling void


[for Poetic Asides & submitted to Real Toads]


This eve, the leaves

above me turned

 into feathers

on the sidewalks,

and I stepped

lightly — right darkly

into November.

[ for PAD ]

The World in the Evening

There is a

time, seconds between

the last light and the dark

stretch ahead, when color

is lost — the girl on her swing

becomes a swift

apparition, black and white

flowing suddenly into night.

  • bits of Rachel Sherwood for RT Pond

Ask Your Hostess

To toss or not to toss?
Yes, Sirree, it’s a
full blown salad
so let us go with our
happy illusions
and bragging bits.
Let us -go-lightly with
copping a feel
forcing a six Pence hand
,because of vagina
,because of hombre
,because of a cockamamie
fence. What’s this sloppy
stuff doing on my plate?
I can’t stomach it, –
mor(t)al oppositions.
Dear fellow rednecks,
for(ce)give me. Nasty
women, what more can I say?
I’m starving in these
salad days. Too afraid
to order the meat.

[how this election makes me feel
for Michael at Real Toads]

If Only I’d Learned in Kindergarten

Some bunnies are humble
and not every hare
needs to look like mine
…even if the boy’s face is
starting to cry now
…even if the boy’s fingers are
pulling at his own ears now
…throwing himself down now
on the Lego-littered carpet now

Not every bunny needs
to look like my mine
…with one ear up
one laughing ear down
…with a smooth round belly
a fluffy puffy tail.
Not every bunny is created
equal, so do your own work
the teacher voice says
…as I softly sketch him a bunny

for Poetic Asides

you can almost believe this is writing

even though I’m
it differently
with hairpins
and cleft palates

you can almost
what i’m saying
as i roll out
my rouge stick

in my purse
a peanut
butter cup
will never
get stale

you can almost
know me
if you question
my heavy

Toad’s Tuesday platform

Half-Thoughts On Time Rushing By While I’m Not Wearing a Sweater

I’m in and out of seasons; a half-wit about most things.
Still unable to dress myself presentably, because I’m just
not into layers, or scarves. They make me feel like I’m trying
too hard. Don’t drink wine for the very same reason.
But I confess when I was contrary in Elks Lodge #1675, –
I turned to the projected light. I sucked in my cheeks
slightly. To be, – startling or statuesque. You can guess.
Half hoping I was half-seen, you called me out on it, –
The December issue of Seventeen. My feathered hair,
bedroom eyes. Where is the record of those years?
For a while, I admit I was a lush. Half-spoken, broken.
You can guess. Truth be told, – there was a time
I was desperately into coffee. Purely for the stimulant.
Not for the company. In truck stops, in casinos, I was
a most social butterfly. The loneliest of them all, –
drifting long and far.
I’m not wearing a sweater and time is zooming.
I know it’s too late to start for home.
I can’t pretend, and suck in my cheeks anymore.

for Real Toads

Stirred Sky by Angie Walker

Fragile, Gradual Things

October stubs her toe. She keeps darkness in her hoodie.
And just when you want to ask how many faded sunsets
she’s hiding in her pocket, October blurts out, “How many
other dogs do you see out here? Aren’t you the lucky one?”
Sometimes she comes out of nowhere, -brilliant &magnanimous.
Other days she limps over the horizon, – pale &unannounced.
And just when you think you’ve got October pinned as a long
lost friend, there’s a dead mouse lying in her hay-hacked field.
But there was an instant, just last night, when the black birds
she’d been harboring returned to the air in free spirit.
October’s a wizard &stirs the sky into afternoon rain.

for Real Toads