22 December 1993 – To a Squirrel Dying…Flat?

To a Squirrel Dying. . . Flat?

The time you ran through town last fall
We chased you through the shopping mall;
As girl and boy stood screaming by,
Displays we brought down shoulder high.

Today, the road all shoppers come,
Shovel full we bring you home,
And take you to our hiding place,
Runner of a slower race.

Dumb squirrel, to run away so slow
From fields where Thunderbirds don’t go,
And though you thought you had it made
I bet ’bout now you wish you’d stayed.

Eyes you didn’t have time to shut
Cannot see your spilling guts,
And silence sounds much better than cheers
As well-aimed tires blow out your ears.

Now you cannot “swell the rout”
Of kids you in the mall wore out,
And though back then you did outrun
Look who now is having fun!

So we, before it’s time to eat,
Tie this old string round your feet,
And running, feeling oh so proud
Drag you through a shopping crowd.

And round your grossly flattened head
They flock to gaze at whatever’s dead,
And find it’s such a deformed squirrel
They cannot help but turn and hurl.

22 December 1993 – A Decrepit Cat

A DECREPIT CAT

Folds of fat flaky skin rub
across the rug as she waddles
to her dish.

A great gurglish purr like
heavy phlegm says “Good Food”
I clear my throat.

Greasy grey hair wears away
leaving a white ring where
her collar used to be.

Unclipped claws snag with each
step as she sneaks to her hideout
under a cluttered bed.

“They named me Makewell” she
mumbles under her purr
“Give me actions, not words.”

22 December 1993 – Untitled

I lie in bed
my toes huddled together
clammy cold
My palm
presses the flesh against
my cheekbone
My underarm hairs
with their
overused Fresh Scent deodorant
rub against my pillow
I drool
My clammy back
pricks
as he lifts the covers
and slides in
I roll over
smiling, exposing
my palmblushed cheek
with the
sweaty freshscent flakes stuck to it
I snuggle happily
my toes curling round
his warm legs.

4 June 1993 Writing

Aren’t you hot?

Excuse me?

Aren’t you hot? You look like you’re roasting. You keep pulling at your bra like it’s smothering your breasts.

It IS a hundred degrees outside.

So take off your shirt if you’re so hot.

Yeah right. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?

What does it matter if I’d like it? The point is you’d like it.

I’m not going to take off my shirt just so you can get your jollies ogling my breasts.

Do you think that’s why I took off my shirt so you could get your jollies?

That’s different; you’re used to having women stare at your bare chest.

Ah ha! So you admit staring at my chest.

I didn’t say that! I simply meant that men are used to being barechested.

The only reason men (in general) are more used to being barechested than women (in general) is that we do it more often. But we don’t do it because we’re used to it, anyway; we do it because we’re hot. And you’re hot, aren’t you?

I can’t anyway, it’s against the law.

What law?

What?

What law?

I don’t know; THE law.

Exposing your chest isn’t any more against the law than exposing my chest; unless of course it disturbs the peace, which I doubt it will.

2 June 1993 – Dear Dad

Dear Dad

I once had a father who loved me
He never would hit, slap, or shove me.
But he loved more the smoke
That caused him to choke
And now his dear soul floats above me.

2 May 1993 8 A

Getting out of bed is like walking in water. I feel as though several quilts were thrown on top of me and I walk across the room with the quilts pulling on my arms shoulders head. My toes drag through the carpet. I get dirt rocks under my big toe nail. My eye lids are stapled shut and my cheeks melt to my jaw.

The trees have turned grey with old age. The sky has died and its greyness is seeping down and decomposing in the earth. I can feel its cold nothingness. Where did all the color go? It has faded with exposure to the sun like old jeans on a clothesline.

I’m almost there. I need to wake up. I’m so exhausted. The children won’t even rouse me. I dream of 4 when I can crawl to my bed and sink into its warmth, relief.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I was so tired when I got there, and he was an attractive sight. Lying on his back with his arm over his head. His eyes closed his jaw lax. Chest hairs push out from under the covers.

April 1993 Writings

Moist lips awake my shoulder blade.
Slow tongue traces my ear.
Warm fingers slide over my
hip.
Gentle palm guides me to
a hot hairy chest and I
swell and pound and perk.
I grab his shoulders for
support and
my face tenses into his neck.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A little girl cries before dead leaves in Autumn, and poets snatch her away to prophesy and theorize. She is made an orphan and a spoiled princess. She laughs, she howls, she falls dead on the spot. And many starving artists are fed. Why did she really cry? She probably can’t remember herself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One dying day I wept.
I sat below the willow
in my flowing dress with
my flowing hair.
My face was powdered white,
with rouge pinking my
nose and eyes.
I gathered fallen leaves in
my lap and gathered them
to my bosom and glanced
woefully to the heavens and
tears glistened on my lashes.

Then the sun came out and
I ran to spy on the boys
Smug in knowing many poets
feast tonight.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

New pure sunlight glistens on new pure snow untouched and undisturbed my heart expands and my mind is nostalgic and my body is rejuvenated I jump and dance and fly around and around my arms outstretched and create snowbabies and Victorian houses and mountains of snow then I feel my knees cold and my legs itch and I go inside leaving the raped snow to pick the grass from its hair.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I am lying in bed my toes huddle together clammy cold but my breasts are warm my spine is curved as I press the flesh against my cheekbone for a natural blush in the shape of my palm my wrist is bent back so my underarm hairs with their overused fresh scent deodorant rub against the pillow so my pillow smells like fresh scent sweat in the morning as the deodorant flakes stick to my palm-blushed cheeks because I drooled in the night and made love to my pillow as I slept my eyes are half-closed and my mouth hangs slightly open as I try to stay awake just long enough to say my knees hurt as one crushes the other and my ankle itches no my right shoulder just behind and below the neck I want to lie on my back put my arms beside my head feel my breasts slide down my sides stretch my legs as far as they will go pull the covers to my nose so my breath warms my body my feet are still clammy and it’s really getting late and I must be up early I should shower before leaving rinse the grease from my scalp wash the sweat from my cheek scrub the clammy foot stench from my breath-heated body but I need to write more just until he is done with his game and brushes his teeth and takes off his clothes and turns out the light and steals the heat I’ve acquired so he can rest comfortably with a nipple in his ear but I don’t think I can wait for him after all for he has nothing to do tomorrow and I need to be up early and there’s that darn itch again only now it’s the left shoulder so I pause to scratch it and my stomach makes a noise and I release a little gas and I start on my lip again but I already got the good stuff this morning so I’ll have to wait ’til tomorrow or just bite it anyway ’til it bleeds I’m beginning to suspect I’ve got bugs in this bed for I’m itching all over and I focus on one itch to forget all the others and I try to control it but it controls me so eventually I give in and scratch a layer of dead cells from my arm you wouldn’t know it to look at me but I’ve got a big hole in my arm where the cells used to be and I can no longer see what I’m writing for my eyes just gave in but that doesn’t matter because my mind keeps on going thought after thought sometimes related but always without pause and my hand tries to speed up to accommodate these thoughts but already several have escaped but not too many because all these itches and that new crick in my neck take a lot of my immediate concentration and I’m feeling kinda gaseous and I think I’ll just roll over and turn these thoughts into dreams.

18 April 1993 – Dream Catcher

DREAM CATCHER

Shadows circle above me as I roll over, restless.

I stand topless in the men’s bathroom, waiting to use the sink.

Big bird chases the Flintstones and me down an empty highway.

I cry on Danny DeVito’s shoulder in a dark classroom.

A mouse on a leash is run over carelessly.

My foot explodes like an overused lightbulb.

My heart wakes me and I shake out the dream catcher with desperation.

28 March 1993 – The Boy with the Dream

THE BOY WITH THE DREAM

“Once there was a little boy,” my grandfather began as us children gathered round, “who wanted more than anything to be able to fly. Oh, the dreams he had! He would fly up, up, above the treetops, and look down on all the little children playing in little yards by little houses…”

“He didn’t really, did he, Grampa?”

“No, Janie, he’s dreaming. Where was I? Oh, yes. The little boy tried everything he could think of to fly. He tried flapping his arms, jumping up into the air, even whistling like the birds do! But still he couldn’t fly.

“As the boy got older, he studied the birds as they flew by. He looked at the shape of their wings, and the way they moved when they were going up and when they were going down. He found a big cardboard box and cut out two great big wings. He even took all the feathers from his pillow and glued them on, just in case it was the feathers that made the birds fly. Then he put on his wings and flapped and flapped.

“But still he couldn’t fly. When his parents saw what he had done to his pillow, he had to clean it all up and put his wings away. He forgot all about them until he was much older, when he began to think about cars. He thought about how cars need engines to move. He thought about how he wanted to fly as fast as a car through the sky. And he thought about how an engine could help him fly.

“So the boy took the engine from a lawn mower and attached it to his wings. He pulled the cord and Vvruumm! he started moving! But all he did was spin round and round in circles, until it ran out of gas. Well, of course the boy was very disappointed. He vowed never to have anything more to do with flying, and he threw his wings away.

“Soon the boy became a young man and had many other things on his mind. He began to think about college, and about what he wanted to be. He spent a lot of time with his friends, and not very much time daydreaming. But he couldn’t forget his dream forever. Sometimes he would stop and look up at the birds gliding in the air, and just for a moment imagine how tiny he must look to them.

“Then it was time for the young man to go to college and learn about a career. His mother said he should be a doctor. His father said he should be an engineer. His friends said he should be an astronaut. But the young man looked at the sky and watched an airplane chasing the birds and he said ‘I’m going to become a pilot.’ And he did.”

My grandfather stopped and looked at us closely. “There’s a lot to be learned from this story about the boy and his dream. I want you to think about it. Now go out and play.”

So we all ran outside to play. The boys started buzzing around the yard with their arms outstretched like wings, while the girls sat by the house and watched the boys. And my grandfather sat on the porch, smiling and nodding his head.

27 March 1993 – A Nursing Home Resident

A NURSING HOME RESIDENT

I was once a beautiful china doll. . .
I floated above the rest with the sun in my clothes. . .
And the swans flew by. . .
Handsome porcelain cream swans. . .
I fancied them and they fancied me. . .
And we looked grand together. . .

Then the white swan came. . .
He was so bright. . . so pure. . .
I wanted to touch him, to know he was real. . .
But he was of snow, and I was of sun. . .
And he floated away. . .

I don’t remember floating after that. . .
The sun left my clothes and I became a rag doll. . .
Where did all my porcelain swans go, you ask?
It doesn’t matter.
Take me to Bingo please.

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