I have Mr. Kolasny to thank for this confirmed love of self and dictionaries

Mr. Kolasny calls me
conceited, —
I’m a sixth grader

So I look it up
in the dictionary,
and imagine that’s how I’ll grow
into it,

While thinking
“Well, I never…”
Who do you think
you are?

Grown ass man
all uppity about
a singular skinny girl

**I distrust myself even more
what solipsism means


55 for Hedge


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

her condition improves

of course
she will
accept the charges
and the trouble
of who she is
why do you ask?

look at our heroine
happily burning
too close to dry brush
oblivious to the fire risk
arrow pointing somewhere
between moderate and God

her skin is fire she’ll tell you
and it’s why she can’t stop
romancing her stone
notorious for speaking
soul secrets out-of-turn
sometimes known, then not

and her pencil’s a yellow union
candle flickering in her blue closet
setting a blaze to her crappy notebook
&you can watch her wench that candle
between wrong fingers, long
–but she’ll never apologize

our lady’s chest
cavity brims with errors
a dangerous harmony,
a fierce compassion,
a divine spark

swirling, like the universe
she understands not everyone
will ask for a bedtime story
[parenthetically she scribbles
not everyone supernaturally bleeds
and doesn’t die either


for Real Toads

the sour truth

she’s straight up
loving him
kamikaze style

it’s vulgar
only because of
his half-heart


another round for dVerse


Mince Myself

to know m-y self
teeth all out
look at

and think
is there Something
she said
straight UP

get on with it,
off it,
-one pulling

the same–
it is

day 15 NaPoWriMo
for Real Toads

The Writer Doesn’t See It

Why examine anything at all
when the sky puts on her covers?
A person can walk aimlessly
week after week, year after year,
for a half century at least
before asking, What’s that there
scratched out with pointed stone?
Dyslexic letters I step around
for Auld Lang Syne…is all I know.
Imagine. I can’t believe myself
for not seeing it all along! Cad.
Who writes truth in the wake
of the road, in the middle of no-
where? That I should stumble on.

for Real Toads

The Kids Heard Us

I never took him for one
who liked to chat and drive.
Maybe it was a trick question.
Do you think we’re soul mates?
There was a bridge coming up
before hitting the town named
after paradise, &i paused…
&i let out a laugh. Truth is
we’re not even best friends.
No dropped bomb on this one.
We ended up agreeing there’s
no such thing as soul mates,
but if there was, that meant
you’d have to speak the same
language, like the same things.
The kids heard us confide &made
their own judgements on love
&marriage when I put my hand on
top of his, which he softly received.

Poetic Asides

How To Tell Secrets &Truths

i have my secrets
i am my secrets
i long to be known
i fear to be known
friends are strangers
we are each other
except by consent
{island calls to island}

i whistle in the dark
won’t someone listen
to my indecencies
won’t someone utter my name
hey poet, hey lunatic, hey lover

i don’t deserve to taste
raspberries and creme
but i do

in silence
in silence
&God &life
&life is beautiful
&terrible &not at all
this is a holy mystery
a secret truth
adding up to very little
or very much

for Poetic Asides

The Truth Is…Friendship Is Golden

IMG_2526We gathered ourselves together because we were falling apart–apart. I was in charge (oh why am I always the one in charge?) of making it happen last summer, so I rented a room for the four of us in a century old house (because I’m cheap vintage like that) and dubbed it the “old friends are better than gold” weekend.  I’m kitschy like that, and cling to a theme for direction. “Old school”, “old ladies”, ya, ya…we all concede nobody’s getting any younger.  I borrowed some vintage dresses/costumes from a collector and brought my camera that was able to shoot on a timer.  It was midnight when this picture (plus 58, minus 7) was taken.

I swear we had not been drinking. We didn’t need to. We were so giddy from the whole idea of gussying up for a secret photo shoot that one snicker inevitably led to another. Shhh! We don’t want to wake the bed & breakfast hostess in the back room…How did I get the camera to self-shoot yesterday?… Where are those instructions??…Pull your dress down; we’re not taking those kind of pictures!…What should we be looking at?… Should we be silly or serious?…Oh no, she’s coming!…Stop laughing!

We had been caught in the act of playing dress-up…at our age!  The house hostess shuffled in, wrapped up in her house coat. She raised an inquisitive eyebrow, stuck a fork in the pie she’d foraged out of the fridge and offered to take a few photos for us. Ralph Waldo Emerson said it well that “It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them.”  Sure, it was stupid how we tried to be flapper girls at midnight, but we needed a magical flight from reality.

We purposefully reminded ourselves to “let it go” and to change the subject when conversation got too heavy, as it did when we talked of our collective losses. The truth is, we had lost fathers to cancer, mothers to Alzheimer’s, energies to the wind, and body parts to gravity. But we could still laugh.

For one summer night, we were neither wives, caretakers, nurses, chauffeurs, cooks or maids. We were teenagers who giggled and rattled the old house screen doors and mom checked up on us in our room. Our laughter filled the foyer with an aroma more intoxicating than the sweetest potpourri. We squeaked like rusty gold hinges, hanging on to a shared fanciful and fleeting moment. Last summer’s memories of my “old friends” are beautifully golden and I think the time’s ripe for another one of our gatherings.

“I count myself in nothing else so happy as in a soul remembering my good friends.”-William Shakespeare

Weekly Writing Challenge: Truth Is Stranger Than Fiction
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