this is how it’s been lately, —

mostly   appropriate,
with electric  sole   shoes

may i be frank?

may i clap a  hallelujah    after
each spoonful of chicken pasta?

may i have wriggle moments
for how   cream   feels
traveling from mouth to belly?

why would i stop noticing
anything other than bliss?

::

for dVerse1 & 2 & Toads

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My love,

::

for Real Toads
[hocking my watch line
taken from Rod McKuen’s
“Listen to the Warm”
13th page, 7th sentence]

intuition

he smiled and said
he was glad
to make my acquaintance,
but i knew what he meant.
a male friend of mine
(if there ever was such
a thing), once confirmed
i have a pretty good idea
of what men are thinking,
and i know what they
mean when they compliment
my outfit, when they touch
my shoulder (if we’re standing),
or my thigh (if we’re sitting).
my mother was a beauty once.
she liked me in embroidered
things. she liked me in love.
but i’m mixing it up now like
the peas and carrots she had
me eating at the kitchen table.

::

for Real Toads
(1st sentence borrowed from
Carol Burnett’s biography)

i’ll walk out

this ain’t about a woman –
it’s about the size of me
between the 12’s of
noon &the stretched – out
hour of ghastly night –
this is about me vowing
i’ll walk out
of this world tomorrow –
between 6 and 7am –
recognizing the

quieting hour –
the soul’s meadow –

::

for Real Toads
after my dear Emily’s
“Before I got my eye put out – “

kiss

i know how
to float on the grass.
wanna try?

::

real simple like for RT

5 o’clock

hits us
like clockwork
— we’re hungry,
and happy, and
slightly amused
by the bra-lessness
of the five of us
(mother like daughters)
moving our shoulders
hips, and stockinged
feet across the kitchen floor
— the only man ever watching us
croons, “wow you’re beautiful,”
but i’m otherwise interested
in chopping onions and
letting Dean Martin’s voice coax
my body to sway in a dastard
display of playfulness
i often swim in and out of
like the perfumed fish that i am

::

how did Susie know I danced last night? 😀 for Toads

dislodged

babe
i’m holding out
to die at the right time

but nixing it badly
every day|on the hour
been wondering

how does magic
become a tragic
smile i dream?

been rehashing
poisoned|passion
cuz there’s something

precious about this
untwist
outside my door

::

Q44, dVerse & Real Toads

the first time

the first time i noticed
i wasn’t from here
was before heaven
ever hurt anyone,
and the sun’s
music didn’t
have to break
through dark land
just to get attention

i understood filtered
fingers plucked
our hearts up one
ray at a time
through native
free-range animal clouds
who liked to travel
with us on the way back
from Milford lake

i felt God,
or an angel,
or something I didn’t know
pulling my head
out of the Bronco window
in the heartland of it all
while Cheryl sprinkled
two drops of vanilla
into our Pepsi cans,

::

for Real Toads

A Hard Rain

I don’t have time for this
brand of living, for this
dedication of making things
harder than need be on myself.
Nietzsche is an octave higher
than my heart, yet nonetheless
his feet are my prayers shuffling
through psych ward halls impatiently
mumbling, “Who dares to say it?”
Prophets can be unbearable,
and because I’m in pain, I say
(apart from Friedrich)
let’s kill Nietzsche and his will
to nothingness in this hard rain,
— perhaps I do think of truth as holy;
so let this be my granite sentence.

::

for Real Toads

i give you pearls

say something, —

about the sickled moon
to distract the others

from what’s really going on
beneath my open
plummage

where i give you pearls
and doves and chandeliers
dripping

5 is so gracious, —
and i’m counting this
fan

with the bleeding heart,
one more design,
and another,

another one,

— before pressing pleased lips
to mute

:: 

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