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


what’s the matter with you?

he’s one in a billion
counted bulbs with no choice
but to be reduced to a 60 watt love
buried in your big blanket sky
so, go ahead and sit there
trying to capture love’s free
faith escaping through the heights
to another night
let it strike you as odd
like a remembered math problem
you tried to solve in high school
by multiplying, by dividing
by doing anything you could do
to work it out

what did the watermelon say to the cantaloupe?
it depends — is this watermelon
odd or even?


Some Sally angst for Real Toads

this is all for you

the sky
is yellow
the fields
are blue
a meek sparrow
overlooks the swine

is this what i’ve become?
you’re sleeping on un-
cased pillows
i’m living with
crazy unbattened buttocks
a heart no longer
beating on my sleeve
it’s closer to center

time, you’re doing it right
– you are a friend


for Real Toads

if you look real close

holy is the white frost on grass
drowsily melting into yellow
winter tatter, – bit by tragic bit
playing a phantom “we were here” 
game. a monumental dew.
— is it me? is it you?


get listed for RT
submitted to Daily Post

Dear God, It’s January

Therefore, it’s Saturday & I’m home.
My fingers are electrically quipped,
but I’ve not much to say about the wall
clock & its battery constantly running low.
Rain funnels steady through the back awning
gutter. No one else hear its pent-up expression.
I respectfully remain quiet as can be, robed
and sitting cross-legged on the floral dining
chair I will name Lydia. My feelings deepen
about why I’m here. What gives with all this typing?
Why this derangement? And if I’m being perfectly honest,
what’s the real reason I pull my feet up off the floor?
O, – I’m cocooned in a refrigerator hum and a metronome
{tick, tick} as I peck out a life in unexplainable, unimaginable,
and more often than not … unintelligible clicks.
Dear God, you know how much I’m ardent for visionary composition,
per chance, per chance. Sacred words saved for another time or day.

(day 7 “time” for Quickly)

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}

Walking in Flip-Flops at the Cove

Walking along the beach,
My eyes obsessed with sand,
It’s easy to ignore all that’s sea.
Lord, forgive me,
I’m searching,
Watching my step, or looking for something.
Walking bodies talk minimally,
Making intercourse hard to believe.
Hands are finding things:
Purple shells, white shells,
Driftwood, round rocks to skip,
Two cones phallically attached to a pine branch.
It’s pretty obvious, we’re all stupid.

day 11
with NaPoWriMo

An Olympic Resolution


Fat don’t fly.

My husband and I both looked sideways at each other when we heard the Olympic Trial announcer state the obvious of flight and mechanics as it related to ski jumping. Hmmm. What hit me like a ton of bricks, however, was asking myself the question: What’s the fat in my life that’s holding me down?  Indeed! Here’s to a new year, with wings.  Remember…fat don’t fly, my friends.

Prompt provided by Trifectra. Michael Hess inspired us with his three word New Year’s resolution – just be nice.  We’re asking for your own resolutions in just three words.  Make it count; we’ll be checking back in come 2014.
– See more at: http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/#sthash.XRa47YOi.dpuf