Archive for the ‘house of crazy’ Category

“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.

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?”

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.

the dark bird is back

bigger than before, not as big as when she’s done

what made you think, little chick,

that you were anyone?

the dark bird is back

meaner than before, and hungrier by half

what made you think, little one,

you were getting out of that?

the dark bird

the dark bird

she’s back.

red

Posted: 01/01/2016 in house of crazy, house of women

gw3in a gray house

under triangle trees

with blue leaves

 

i had a red cradle.

 

santa, i want

a red revolver,

birth control,

a red hat

and a fuzzbuster.

 

off to my new life

in my red car

with the fish on the back bumper.

it means,

 

fuck ’em and feed ’em fish heads.

 

i got red hair

and a white dog

with pointy ears

and a red collar.

 

gtfo,

lady coming through,

too cool by half for you,

and red

as red

can do.

_____

 

art by Gerda Wegener. written for my challenge at Real Toads.

i got two dogs.

one’s nice, one ain’t.

them two’s my babies–

called skillet and shotgun.

come springtime,

if the road weren’t muddy, sometimes i wouldn’t know where i’d been.

there’s my tracks, and theirs, one to either side.

skillet got burrs,

shotgun caught a pellet,

and my dress was torn, but i can’t recall how.

best as i can guess,

it was the same old song–

should’ve left the mean one home,

but one gets lonesome without the other,

so i turn ’em both loose

when the moon is full,

and the usual cautions don’t catch hold.

bus stop

Posted: 11/30/2014 in house of crazy, house of strangers

i was at the edge-of-Detroit Northland bus stop, minding my own,

reading the novel i’ve crawled into lately.

figures he’d pick me out.

figures he’d hassle the one middle-aged white gal in the whole place.

It was a long ten minutes

with his ugly face in mine.

with his nasty lips talking shit in my ear.

i can still hear his dumb-assed air of non-existent authority:

“i asked you a question! are you stupid?”

i would have loved to fight him,

and younger me would have.

instead i had to sit there saying “leave me alone” and wishing the bus would come.

I’m glad two young men finally helped me out,

let me escape.

they looked like trayvon martin or michael brown.

nassy-man looked like cliff huxtable.

just goes to show, somethin somethin, but i’m too jangled to put it clear.

meanwhile, i’ll have this cut on my cheek and nick on my lip

for a week or ten days, i guess,

to remind me of my vulnerability.

_____

a poem in three tenses for Real Toads mini challenge.

 

 

oliver larch

Posted: 10/25/2014 in house of crazy

don’t bother looking for oliver larch.

he didn’t die.

he’s been here with me,

counting frogs that fell from the sky.

mama washed out my mouth with soap

for tellin a lie,

but oliver larch

calls and cries

from under the snow where no footprints go–

with a look of surprise

instead of eyes.

______

herotomost says write about something that was “your thing” when you were young. I used to scavenge the bookshelves at home, in hopes of finding paperback books about strange and creepy (but supposedly true) occurrences like the disappearance of oliver larch, or rains of frogs, or such like. i found three or four, over time, and would curl up with my new find and devour it. i never forgot those stories, and have never lost my fascination with the unexplainable.

aunt sticky

Posted: 07/27/2014 in house of crazy

aunt sticky poured froot loops on the griddle,

followed by the empty box.

she had, with tender care, put fruit sections in my juice glass,

and emptied the pencil jar into my cereal bowl.

 

mom and dad are in san antonio

trying to turn blue back into red,

and i am here, watching the cereal box go up behind aunt sticky.

 

factors to consider for my future:

1. it takes the fire department seventeen minutes to get here.

(at least, it did last time.)

2, aunt sticky always looks so crestfallen when she realizes that she’s made a mistake.

3. it’s good to live.

 

let’s go eat in the front yard, i tell her,

and she likes the idea. she smiles and grabs her art box.

when the firemen arrive, i am trying a dog biscuit (they aren’t very good)

and aunt sticky is trying to turn blue into red by adding yellow.

colorful, that is what people call my family

when they’re doing the lying called kind.

_______

for play it again toads #7 at real toads. i used some words from grapeling’s list.

life in the theater

Posted: 03/23/2014 in house of crazy

Cloudsbeing with you is like life in the theater–

who am i this time?

who am i fucking, that i didn’t know i was fucking?

life is complicated enough

without the whacked scripts you cook up in your head.

here’s an idea–

keep accusing me of crazy shit.

keep bricking yourself up with all those stupid self-help books

that never make any difference anyway.

i used to spend hours trying to understand,

trying to shore you up, to soothe your worries;

then i’d get up to get a coke, and when i came back,

you’d be back to square one and basic crazy.

what do the radio waves tell you today, sugar?

who am i fucking, that i didn’t know i was fucking?

myself, i think.

see you in the funny papers–

i’m sick of this circus,

and i’m writing my character out of this play.

don’t be sad,

don’t complain to the stage actor’s guild–

you’ll always have the made-up me inside your head,

and that’s the only one you ever really saw

anyway.

______

photo “clouds” by kenia cris.

for play it again toads 3