you said that dragonflies only live a day.

that’s bullshit.

they just can’t remember

who they were yesterday

or what they had for breakfast.

when you’ve got legs that long

life is an hour by hour thing–

when you’ve got wings that wide

here comes everybody, with nets and pins.

you said that dragonflies only live a day.

that’s bullshit.

it’s just

they can’t for the life of them remember how they got here,

how to act,

who they can trust,

or what the fuck to do now.

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for quickly. dumpster dive.

______

she listens to the dead men sing

under the dryer

in the salon

reading cosmo.

(if those articles really worked, oh the

glaze-eyed goofy-grinned guys there’d be,

wandering in droves down university street.)

she’s listening to dead men sing

in her head

when i lower my face slowly in front of hers and

fake smile a hi, with a finger twirl.

look up from the huddle, helmet girl.

here comes trouble.

i have come to dig up jeremy

out of your stupid little cemetery of luv.

hang on j, imma comin’.

i bet those cops had never been in judy’s salon before.

they really do put their hands on your head

when they toss you in the cruiser.

lookit, evidence, stupid blond hair in my hot little hand.

jeremy, i have avenged thee,

and taken scalps.

see?

(man that’s a lot of damage. one word–conditioner.)

 

“oooh, have another hit….of sweet air”–quicksilver messenger service

have another hit
of me,
you said.
tilt back your head
and breathe deep.

there are
different kinds of
flashing lights.
both make your heart
beat faster.

now I know
that you were just
neighborhood stuff,
and that the buzz
was me.

if the cops stop you,
breathe deep and chill, baby powder girl.
they’ll catch on that they’re just
chasing tail
and wasting daylight on an empty dress.

i’m sweet tea and hemlock,

a little bit of three in the afternoon in my house full of

dust bunnies and dylan cranked to crack the china,

or

i might take a book out to my queenly throne

in the suicide rose garden,

with its au-gust reception line of neighborhood cats

mer-rowing views your type can never quite work out.

i’m an emerald isle

shanty irish

corned beef and semtex kind of girl,

sun dappled, dozing, day late and dollar short diva

too cool for school,

too old for bullshit,

an old molly you’ll never notice enough to describe later to those nice young men

with their notepads and a 5-minute o.k. from the intern who saved your life.

_____

for this one’s for you.

mama say, god’s gon gitcha,

gitcha for that–

little smart-mouth big-britches

alley cat.

yeah god’s gon get me

a fine girlfriend–

tongue gotcher cat

til the damn world end.

mama slap me hard

then she get real still–

say if god don’t gitcha

i sure as hell will.

_______

waving my rainbow flag for Quickly “do you believe?”

hollyhocks

Posted: 07/01/2016 in house of memory, house of women

last house on the dead end,

no house across the steet

cos the one that used to be there burned down before i was born.

in the field there were old bedsprings,

allergy grass,

and tall big-leafed hollyhocks with pink blooms.

i decided they were the ghosts of old church ladies,

bent-backed from slicing pie at receptions.

every morning in summer, i waved to them,

wished them a blessed day,

and waited til i was out of sight to, as mama called it, start up with my bullshit.

ampersands

Posted: 05/13/2016 in house of blues, house of crazy

a cardinal and a rat at my feeder

dead porcelain doll in my hands.

people no one can see on the wraparound porch

like a row of ampersands.