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    Some Poems by Me

    The poetry here ranges back to 1995 or so (Bridge at the Canal, On Canada Hill). I don't write many any more. When I was married I wrote alot as a way to reconcile myself to reality or out of reality. I wasn't happy in my marriage and tried to see it another way that could help me survive, because I loved my children so much, and I really did want to love my husband. We were burdened by alcoholism, but I worried that my unhappiness was actually due to craziness, and that I needed my craziness to make art, two myths to drink by and drive myself crazy with.

    The marriage ended and released some of the very angry poems you will encounter here. My best stuff I think was near the end of the marriage. I could create a suspended palace in the air with the ideas of my poems and keep it afloat with great effort and this let me escape the mess! Like in "Sunday Study" I was in love with my creations both children and art, but ultimately would "hollow out" my art for the sake of my children. 

    I haven't written so much of late. "Genesis" being the very latest, followed by "Meamerican" and "Ode to a Shopping Cart" and a bunch of dog poems. I do love "meamerican" and there is a sculpture to go with it that I call "BTU SLUT".

    My writing recently has been all on this website as I document Nina's Nook and my other little obsessions. I have been fortunate to create the palace of effort in a three dimensional way as it manifests in the ode to joy called Nina's Nook. Nothing angry about it at all, and finally i celebrate my madness without worries! (but, still, some welbutrin...).


    Genesis: TFMA


    It was a town of gravel and greed

    Of rape-cut logs weeping sap into the river

    Of Unholy rollers and whiskey drinkers and rollicking money men

    Of law breakers and lone wolves and loan sharks

    Poking their great sticks into the gyre

    Spewing their spunk against the shore.


    It was a town of machines

    fighting sleep until dawn with a hungry hohum

    churning time into dollars,

    chumming dollars into time.

    It was a town of  paychecks and strangers and honky tonk patrons

    Of paper and cotton and metal,

     Bright pennies, sore losers, and children

    Of Buckles and shit smears and liquor,

    Of lovers and shovels and death.


    It was a town of

    suckers and sinners greedily milked

    By those who were assholes by name and date and nature,

    It was a town of the faithful and fickle, fighting and

    clawing at their blood brimming eyes

     far from eden and hard of hearing,


    silently, blindly, anonymously

    sliding through the sluice gate of the 20th century.


    It was a town that was randy and  red cheeked,

    Burnished with drinking and dancing

    its skirts hitched up with splinters

    heels kicking dandelions and dirt

    in the alleyways.

    It was a town that was female and horny with the carress of trowels

     in brick crotches

    And hungry and female under the gliding mouths of fish.

    snacking on moss and stone and

    female with its cascade of slick hope and sweet tricks.


    The town was a big prick

    turgid at the head waters,  ballsy with investors

     Jerked off  by trains and trolleys and

    Time pieces, laughing, smashed,

    And coming hard under the hammering

    of 16 hour work days.







    I’m taking little purple pills. I keep

    them in a sky blue glass box by the sink


    Sometimes I push and push

    (good mother, food mother)

    but I can’t get out

    of this house.

    I am scraping these walls,

    shaving them, smoothing them

    blank as a page and ripe as stone

    looking for a stinging cut,

    a word, the force behind some hand

    that strikes finalities.



    I am not a good housekeeper.

    flour moths

    fly out of the cupboards.

    I throw away the oyster crackers:

    larvae are squirming in each hexagon

    hollowed out by tiny mouths

    to hold their young.

    I’ve thrown away a lot of food

    but I‘ve never gotten rid of them.


    I  scrunch scrunch

    inside the box.

    The wall is sky cold

    my thinking crinkles

    as this blue slides in and

    makes a static white of it.


    I don’t miss a thing.

    I’m taking little purple pills. I keep

    them in a sky blue glass box by the sink






    The Cure

               When you are nuzzle-hupfing my neck

    I try not to think about the wild

    and forbidden things that you have tasted:

    the blood memory behind your dark eyes;

    the deep secrets of the soil

    translated huff by huff into the moist

    slits of your nose.

    I surrender to your rasp as it

    tastes the grooves of my face,

    imagining the oils of my industrial,

    combustive day lapped

    up metallic on your tongue.

    Your eyes glaze with the rhythm

    and intensity of your  effort

    to tame and detoxify me, and

    I obediently fall into your dumb darkness

    of dust and dog pee and wind-borne gossip.

    You take me to the entrance of innocent sleep

    and teach me the beast language

    in which suffering is cured by more suffering,

    while civilization whines and howls,

    indecipherable and distant

    between the bellies of the hills.






    In the sungold, dusty,

    Demoted afternoon

    I let you roam

    Nosing each leaf,

    Curiously dappled

    Like you

    Light and dark

    Your bouncing run--

    Wonderful you!

    Brings you no closer

    To rustles and rainbows

    Than I

    In my wish to fasten

    Your sinuous dash

    In my mind.

    O weinerdog!

    You give me free smiles.