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Dry January For Catherine O’Hara It is better to leave Early, your audience still wanting more of you - soft touch, bad joke, homemade family recipe enchiladas. Why would one stick around for a bit - after the show, post curtain call, and politely clapping for the tech crew? There won’t be as many memes then. Shuffling off modestly or slipping away under high thread-count, quiet sheets. Heart declaring it has been boring here without beer or sex or all the reasons I hung arou

Catwoman as Leonine You were the only villain I longed to be. Tight, black leather, Whip. And, oh, those ears! So Soft to the rub. Little girls Are supposed to dream of being The heroine - or even that damsel - Distressed and waiting for rescue. No one confesses the power of In the anti-hero. That, sure, although The audience may despise you On the foamy surface, that under It all they cheer for your demons. Batman Is in love. Bruce Wayne sleeps next To those damsels he has c

I haven't practiced macramé since the early 80's. Someday, this may be a Christmas tree. This took many hours. #familycraftingday

Back Pages Collect words like knick- Knacks, shivering on the last Pages of a notebook. Waiting To come down off the shelf, Out of the storage bin, rise From the cellar - where Each had been deposited. Could I sell you at a White elephant  sale? To                     Young Poets desperate For meaning — clutching At the old clichés  — or Not grasping                      The one of them. Isolated in sleek boxes — Where glaring nothing Rots each hour, Like the crabapples     

Mental Load Invisible torture that rules Each day. Mother must Make things move. Missed Appointments and the other Unacceptables. Who can sleep In all this chaos? Need air Supply space cowboy Junkie cookie snacks and Carbon monoxide. Vacuum Up cat fur and dog — Walk. Wake. Shop. Fill stockings and run them. Who can breath or sit down To read a book or look. Remember breakfast nook Puzzles and how your Nana fed you there.

Death Date 'Cause I didn't think this would happen again No matter what I could do or say Just that I didn't think this would happen again With or without my best intentions   ~Liz Phair WPCR after-hours crooned from the countertop radio. Friends locked in a sound booth transmitting lyrics Straight to us at your fratless party        where he Stood over us so concerned about our Souls. Melting into the sofa or flowing Over and off of it. You kissed me, friend, And I kisse

Wasps How quickly we adjust, For the survival of us. Bought a few more days, Thanks to Climate Change. Terrify her students. Land Upon her wrist. None of us, not even one,             Asked for any of this. How quickly we adapt, As men redraw the maps. Buzz against the bulb,             It is dead and will not burn. Glide graceless onto hands With pens and sharpened tools. Die upon the rug, Still scaring little ghouls.

How Oddly One Falls One morning, we will wake up       Elated at the passing. So little harm at the loss        Of one who has done                 So much of it. There is no Scrooge-like       Intervention for someone Who lacks wisdom to be         Sorry. Narcissism Is a cruddy business        And will leave one     Alone and despised; Dancers in the street          At your demise. But, isn’t that what     He had hoped for             The whole time?

ART = AI he says art controls us — moves through us and out — has a “life of its own” — grows like artificial intelligence — but real. emotional intelligence —and fake. ( Read the lines on my face not the memes on my page .) make a move. call your friends. Franz Ferdinand. ( Friends Ferdinand ) the start of a new revolution — the computer generates vacant eyes and false words spoken — but you finger a grasp so painful arthritic pen needle paint brush      came

Java Script Let’s do coffee - early, Morn. Discuss politics And romance novels. Let’s drink a cup o’ Joe At the cafe on Main Street Of the pulsing Saturday city. Fresh sweat and the promise Of the market. Add honey, Heavy cream, and sugar. Pour it on me. Forget The woe of the previous Week. A world Melting down. Blowing Up. Slithering along a Mocha Styx. Filtering Grounds for a divorce.

Spaghetti Dinner ~ Inspired by Renoir’s Onions (18181)  at The Clark Onions, 1881. Oil on Canvas. Pierre-Auguste Renoir They cut away secrets of the family, peeled each apart and everyone in that kitchen cried. The sauce, so bubbling and ready on that ancient stove. Who would want such meat? Red and over spaghetti, a dinner fit for the undercroft. Each bite charged with juicy garlic bread and the hours spent. Cook your dreams into steam clouds, and the bulbs will strike us

Radio Raheem explains "love & hate" in Lee's Do the Right Thing (1989) Deadly Force Radio Raheem a warning - unheeded. 30 years later, repeated on screens, smaller film, bigger business. Two steps forward, and you know what is next. Same story. Different street. how many cameras how many necks how much suffocation will we watch?

Gut Punch in the Grocery Lane ~ a Golden Shovel after Margaret Atwood Cannot get my hand to my heart in time to be useful every time the surge that I have lost you punches my gut. It is the way now, and only sleep connects us in a world full of failure. An old woman with a cart of strange vegetables and this memory. “To be lost in only a failure of memory.”

Stones in Pocket ~for MM Always the possibility lurks large when you have had enough of              this earth this       nightmare & magic tragic       days to luminous nights fight to keep the inspo baby TikTok promises and AI     therapy jump off the     tallest building a rooftop bar with a pool over       sidewalks and urine hot pink morning sky offers       some sort of promise and you take the granite        chunk out to save for another        

Vocabulary Lesson Her poems unlocked words, Hidden in a vault, yet perfect to name the now. A World blanketed in conflagration  - in all ways of the word. So to speak. So to write. Encourage all to prevaricate. Keep the bitterest words in the windpipe. Warm, moist, safe, and festering. Ballooning in the larynx. One does not want to be fired - burned like whole villages in California. Enflamed like the rash on my heart, itching more with every thrust.

Cages Slither in no place To be your glass tank Prison. Coiled corner, A false heat stone - victims Dropped from god hands above - Also trapped and doomed. Put a jail in every corner. Add unnatural death. Jail-keeper imprisons To feel powerful. Tombs Of mice left to cannibalism. A gecko that scales walls In a tiny moonlit lodge, Hoping for a patch of leftover Lettuce sky. Raptors Field day. Benson’s Auction. Monsters escape; Clear the room.

Who Needs These Stories There is a reason teachers are Some of the first to go; Vilified in the Propagandist’s artistry. Power is so good at lying. And Poets, well, deny a visa or Cut off a hand. Forget Poetry is an oral art. Songs, Silence them. Buy up the media Conglomerates and fire The comedians or disappear Them. Fascism hates Art for all the Right reasons. It Is the anti-propaganda. Logic to undo the emotional Wreckage and pull Feeble minds from the fire.

A section of Jarvis Rockwell's Us installation at Mass MoCA 2023 Rebel Scum Inspired by Us  by Jarvis Rockwell We, a parade of two, the day I escorted you to A New Hope , and The usher gifted you with Luke Skywalker. We could navigate Tatooine Just fine - your tiny hand In mine. You grew to amuse Yourself for hours;  as I wrote you Lined up Legolas and Leia; orchestrated Battles between Orcs and Elves, Sith Lords and Rebel Scum. Toys lined up on your bedroom Carpet. Solitar

Untitled Inspired by Kelli Ray Adam’s Forever in Your Debt We all pay for tenderness; Listen over morning bowls Of Rice Krispies popping And the AM radio static. Your coffee pot a spectator Brewing all day long as You dodge upstairs to write A sermon or to read A poem. I am forever in your debt. Those Saturday nights marking the Clickety-clack pace of your typewriter As it quickened and slowed.  Scent Of purple ink whirling from your Mimeograph machine. Remember how you’d rea

Murder History So much of what makes it Into living history is death. Battles fought to keep Patriarchy secure. Men And their toxic selves - Seething. Burning houses. Raping girls, Boys sometimes, too, I Suppose. Red runs in the       Stolen rivers and They congratulate themselves - In their importance; Draw lines on maps to     Distinguish our     Worthiness. Make Plans and decide what     The future will know.