Thursday, November 29, 2007

Single Life

Have another sip. Would you like an appetizer with that?
I really enjoyed the movie. Wanna do this again Thursday?
Due cappuccino decaf, por favore. Care to dance?

No I would NOT care to dance.

This is complements of the guy in the blue cable sweater.
Here's his card, m'am.
"Hi, pretty lady. May I join you?"

Free country. I should give a rat's ass where you sit?

You're a very powerful reader, lot of stage presence.
Will you be back next week?
BTW, my name is DaveSteveJohnRobertJosephAndrew

You're interchangeable.

Can I buy you dinner take you to Vegas Bahamas Heaven?
I'll take care of you, do whatever you want me to do, just to be with you.
Can I have your phone number?

Asshole. No. I have your number. Oh yes I do.

Bevy of men, with one ambition. How unoriginal.
What do I have to do to get her horizontal in a hotel?
Hell, she's HOTT! She's worth two or three hotels even.

Get Lost Creep.

I will be alone, I will be happy. Until I am not.
I am never alone in my head.
So many stories wanting out, wanting the moonlight.

Pass me my pen, paper, keyboard.

I am fine.
I am okay.
I am just peachy keen.

Now go away.

M'am, here. I think you need these.

Thanks, barkeep.
Kleenex with aloe?
I only cry in the best bars.

Monday, November 26, 2007

Limericks-I can SO write trash if i want to!

Each word lying pond scum uses
produces uglier bruises
They fly round the room.
How can he presume
I'd believe his excuses?

I tell him: the world's full of spin.
Go on. Take out your violin.
Just play me a song!
And string me along!
I'm waiting. Time to begin.

Are you sad? Do you feel my pain?
Just give it up. Don't yank my chain.
Never felt better.
Freed from the fetter.
Pass me a glass of champagne.

Sunday, November 25, 2007

Regrets Are All We Have-left.

Subjunctive tense kills.
Could have, should have, would have. NOT!
Regrets are empty.

Wipe my bleeding eyes.
Don't let him see me like this.
Regrets are wistful.

You'll remember me.
I am burned into your flesh.
Regrets are cold scars.

I was in your world.
You never came into mine.
Regrets are worthless.

Please, I cried. Love me!
Faking it, not good enough.
Regrets are timeless.

You hardly know me.
And you don't care. I'm a fool.
Regrets are stupid.

You are so so close.
Sss. Can you feel me tremble?
Regrets are all ours.

Kiss me, kiss me now.
Broken, overload, more tears.
Regrets are useless.

So much yet undone.
I thought we had forever.
Regrets are hollow.

My dreams are of you.
Liar. Thoughtless. Mais...j'taime.
Regrets are dead loves.

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

Thanksgiving Eve...

in preparation for the big hoopla tomorrow,
and to reassure my readers that i am NOT in swimming in a sea of despair,
below the thing that the queen has done today to amuse herself:
grocery shopping: heavy cream, vegetables, fresh ground cornmeal...
did 8 miles on the bike
food prep time: YAY! i get to cook BIG! with an oven!
with my youngest acting as a very enthusiastic sous chef
cornbread to be cubed for stuffing
apple cake with caramel glaze drizzled on top
(butter, sugar, heavy cream, vanilla-HIGH HEAT!
corn muffins with corn kernels and finely diced sundried tomatoes
deep dish espresso chocolate pecan pie
(espresso, kahlua, chopped pecans, semisweet chocolate)
pumpkin sponge roll with pumpkin mousse filling
whole cranberry chutney: fresh grated ginger, mandarin orange, orange zest
rest of tomorrow's menu:
small turkey breast (my girls are vegetarians)
cornbread stuffing
bread stuffing with cubed apples and celery
string bean casserole a la david
baked sweet potatoes and sweet potato hash
fresh whipped cream (i have VERY strong arms!)

and tonight, i'm going out to an open mic night with my younger daughter,
the genius. i look at her work and i am awed, stunned at her talent.
she's planning to read (OMG!) and then, perhaps, perhaps perhaps i'll go on.
after i catch my breath. because i always have something to say.
perhaps the complete unexpurged "conditional clause and 1st corinthians".
perhaps something twisted and humorous.
gird your loins, mes amis, the winged unicorn flies!

Me vs You

Because I have to
But you, because you want to
Not the same at all

I kept IM on
all the time, waiting for you
Empty box. No ‘BING'

My phone is silent.
You'll read this. And know. Or not.
Go on, you can gloat.

I saw it, felt it.
You said, ‘no'. Sed sentio
et excrucior.

So now its my turn.
Pass the tissues bottle pills.
I'll sleep when I'm dead.

Monday, November 19, 2007

Pink Rain

Is it hot enough?
Rubbing the soap over me
Too easy.
Take the sponge, the liquid soap
vanilla creme fills the room
Heat rises, expands.
Walls sweat.
Removing my skin, cell by cell.
Bye cells.
Removing all traces
a loofah? A pumice stone goes deeper.
Make it hotter.

I sit on the floor in the corner
Water still scalds the shower stall.
Watch my raw skin sweat pink
Towels stained with blood
Floor covered with them.
I hear the elevator hum, so distant
and wonder when they replaced the flooring with pink tiles.

Head Lice

It will be okay one day soon.
I'll look back on this time
"Whatever was I thinking?
What pipedreams! Why?
Especially as I don't smoke a pipe,
let alone have anything at all to put in one."

So I will look back.
It is sort of like a bad case of head lice.
You cannot bear the bite, the itch, the burning.
Scratch til you bleed.
So satisfying. Scratching scratching scratching.
one day soon
you will shampoo with chrysanthemum extract
and pick the dead nits from your soul.

Thursday, November 15, 2007

I Rise...

The phoenix hope, can wing her way through the desert skies, and still defying fortune's spite; revive from ashes and rise.- Cervantes

"You have to heat it to over 2400 degrees to change it to glass, you know. The sand melts, then you shape or blow it. And the chemicals that give it color as varied as a new box of crayons-"
"-but not the smell-"
"No, nothing has that smell. It has its own smell, reminiscent of ozone or brimstone, I don't know what."
"The phoenix rises too."
"Enough digressions, please pay attention. You add the chemicals, the insets, the gold leaf. Every color from purest amber, see the pale translucence here to most opaque sable."
"Nice. Sable? Not obsidian? Not hematite? Not jet?"
"All those too, but see, this is sable. See the trace of brown and yellow, like animal fur. Sable. So. Then you have something, something which matches your vision."
"I like the Tiffany stained glass windows."
"All good and well, but no more interruptions, please! There are infinite variations, flat, round, hollow, solid. Look at the internal bubbles, the varying sizes. Mistakes? Maybe. Maybe not intent, but see how they add to the reflectiveness of the piece, how they accent it, trace the length of it, bubbles rising like mist."
"Length of it?"
"Mind out of the gutter. Look. Look at the texture. Smooth here, rough there. The shape, waves, rolling waves echoing the sea. So we have the heat of fire, cold of the deep sargasso sea, sand torched to glass and bubbles rising from the foaming waves."
"As the phoenix rises from its own ash, purified and reborn."
"You see all this in a glass sculpture."
"Oh, I see more, more than that. I see every moment of creation, every change that was or will be. Here. See where the color fades into another, the layering technique."
"I want you."
"Yes, sure, but don't change the subject. Look at this. You see the flecks, like bits of mica. Here, the curve and sharp edge in one. Round softness and brittle sharpness. A scimitar. It is shaped like a scimitar."
"When you get that look, I want to make love to you. I want that look for me."
She turns, surprised. "For you? You've not had it?"
"Not today."
She smiles. "Not yet today, you mean. Days not over yet. We have time." Eyes now shut, she kisses his cheek.
"Yes, you have it now." He kisses her still closed eyes.
"That look. It's all of you, the way you relax into yourself, when you're happy, when something gives you pleasure. That's your fascination, your glamour."
"Hmmm..." She kisses him again, this time on the mouth. "2400 degrees Fahrenheit. Changes everything. Takes less than that to change a person, to burn a person away."
"Takes one kiss."
"And two? And three? And maybe more than three? Sands of time. Heat shapes the sands of time, keeps them from running out."
"Nothing stops time."
"Pauses it. The pause between heartbeats. It's all we have."
"Yes. It's all we have."

Sunday, November 11, 2007

Feet of Clay

Staring at the table
knotty woodgrain
harsh blue stain.
Glare of sunlight on
reflected hurt.
Or perhaps it was the tears.

Another cup of tea?
Leaves, read the leaves
from the burst teabag.
Is there a future here?
A future where no one hears?

His reign was ended.
No longer an issue,
no worship at his altar.
He was washed up.
Golden calf shattered
Fatted calf slaughtered.
Sacrifice, one quick cut.

Photos shredded
they flutter
confetti from the 12th floor.

Saturday, November 10, 2007

i wonder what the queen has been doing this week

the past week, ten days i have been...distracted. yes, i've been writing, obviously i've been writing. to keep me from my pen and notebooks would be to starve me, i would shrivel up. but i've had to limit my typing time, ergo limiting my posting time. why you may ask have i limited my typing time? too many other real world obligations, avoiding truths i have to face, not wanting to revisit my own insides or the turmoil that knots my guts.

but this weekend i am spending at the Florida Writer Association Conference. and if that does not force me to sit down at my laptop and use both hands to compose what will?

so far, (this being early early sat am) the seminars have been...inspiring. and it is at one of my favorite hotels, disney's coronado springs, where i had the privelege of attending the IRS tax forum back in september. another three days of heaven! why is it that eyes glaze over when i riff on taxes or writing?

time to wash/dress/drive.

later, my friends!!!

Recipe for Success, Recipe for Disaster

They are perfect. Ripe, succulent, perfect. And I've never done this before, or at least never done it successfully.

So tonight was the night. Tonight I will do this, make this and it will resonate.

I place them in a plastic bag, walk to the register.

"$3.84," said the cashier.

Handing her a ten, I notice that the woman behind me has that new instant chocolate dip in her basket.

"It's a fondue kind of night, isn't it? Does that stuff work?"

"Yes, just cold enough. It's real easy, melts in the microwave."

"What are you going to dip? Pretzels, marshmallows...oh you're getting strawberries. Lovely. You are going to have such a fun night."

"Yes, we will," the woman replies, still making goo-goo eyes at her girlfriend. I envy them. They're together.

Buck up, girl. Only 8:45. He said he'd be over about 10, it takes that long to drive. Gives you time to make fondue also if you're so inclined. And then you will have all night together.

Placing the bag on the passenger seat, I drive home, eyes flicking from the road to the bag. Do I have everything?

Red wine, blush wine, sugar. Should be easy. I'm not even going to consult or epicurious on this one. They'd not helped me in prior attempts, so this was going to be a strictly seat of the pants attempt.

Cutting board sterilized, knife ready. Remove the labels, core and seeds. Thin slices. Before I can poach them, I have to prepare the poaching liquid. Two cups red Bitch wine, one cup Arbor Mist Tropical Fruit. I have only the finest of wines in my kitchen. One cup sugar. Stir over medium heat until the sugar dissolves. Layer the slices in the poaching liquid. Add one half cup water so the slices are covered completely by the liquid. Lower the heat to a simmer and place the lid on the pan.

And wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Remove the cover. Lovely pinkish color, perfect tenderness. I'll try one. Wow. I've succeeded. I have made perfectly poached pears.

Now to plate them. A spiral, using the asymmetry of the pears to best advantage. On a fine, white china plate. Let the poaching liquid reduce. Drizzle the intensely purple syrup over the pears. Set the platter on the table, atop a contrasting place mat.

Bzzz! Bzzz! My cellphone dances on the counter. I smile at his face in the tiny screen and flick it open. Twisting a lock of hair around my index finger, I try to keep the purr out of my voice. "Hey. You done yet? Getting late, mon ami."

"Um, look sweetie? Something came up. I'm going to be stuck here for a while, hon. Maybe I'll catch up with you on the weekend."

"Oh. Okay then. Bye." I look at the carefully constructed tableau. And throw it out.

Conditional Clause Pt 2

Honeyed sweetness drips from your tongue.
How sharper than a serpent's tongue
it is to have yours slither over me.
Trussed with words, tight, they wrap me,
my throat,
trail down my torso, my breasts,
my waist, my back, my pelvis,
and slide between my legs.
The lies we weave are so easy
so good.
They feel so good....
I want so much to believe.
The noose is a caress.
I lift my chin, exposing my throat.
Your thumbs stroke my windpipe,
our tongues dancing to the music of lies.
I press against the noose, revel in it
as you bite the nape of my neck.
Every kiss a lie.
Lies disguised as promises
slide down my arm to my ring finger,
size 5-1/4, I do. I do.
Does not take many.
One. Two. No more than three.
And I will believe.
Oh, I will clap hands because
I believe.
I believe in fairy tales and happy ever after.
I want so much to believe.
I want the lies.


Simplest form
altered by human hand
all altered.
Human hands change everything
cannot come in contact
without affecting a change.

Your hands have changed me
mine will shape you.
My hands, I cannot stop them
do not want to stop them
reach out
pull you to me.
My hands hold you
Press you to me.
I do not act.
I do not.
It is my hands that do this.

They never have enough of you
of your skin
of touching you
of being warm with you
I can lay here all night
touching you
My hands love you.
No matter what I feel say do
my hands love you.

42 Days Late and $32 Dollars Short

Staring into the mirror, I wonder. How long? How long before he notices? Already been three days and he hasn't commented, hasn't said a word. How could he not? He sees everything. How does he not see this?

Your pants are too long. Your pants are too tight. Your pockets are uneven. The part in your hair is crooked. The cereals aren't lined up. Saute pan is supposed to be a few inches to the left. You already have shampoo. Fold it in thirds, then in half, never half then thirds. Ever.

There is a hair on the floor.

Paste not gel. Detergent then softener. The pot is going to boil over. You let it get cold. If you play with yourself, you'll grow hair on your palm. Germs. Who's on the phone. It's 2 a.m. There is pollen on the car. Dot the t's and cross the eyes. Always always cross the ‘I'.

You are using the wrong pot.

Big whisk, not small. Spatula, not flipper. Measure twice, cut once. Vacuum across then down. You left the light on. Another nail polish? Don't run the water while you wash. You are five minutes early. You'll go when I say so.

It's all about the fucking crackers.

Forty-two days late and thirty-two dollars short.

You noticed everything. You prowled the house with a candle and a feather. And it still took you six weeks to notice I'd removed my wedding band.

You see everything but you don't see me.

You see nothing.