Me & my dead mother

My mother is dead inside. And I’ve been in mourning ever since.

I sat at her feet in the bathroom, while she passed a brother or sister of mine in blood through her legs into the toilet.

I’m sorry. She says it was the kindest thing she ever heard.

But ever since, I felt a cold, hard, and an unfeeling kernel in my heart. And so, as she still lives, I daily kill the memory of this puncture wound.

There is this hole. I’m sorry. She and I sit on the edge of bathtubs. Silently, I destroy all life, until all I’m capable of receiving is this dull, psychic pain. Hatred is as impossible as love.

The absence of all meaningful reference points cannot be too strongly emphasized.

This is why I am only too fascinated with mortuaries in the prime of my life. It’s an untenable situation. I’m sorry. For you. Or anyone else, in love with their mothers.

A hot castration complex is what I have to hold. Somehow, all because of my dead, depressed mother who becomes me.


roasting garlic in a pan of butter tends to make me think everything will be okay. you strip the green vegies. i drink the white wine. we are marinating. or tenderizing. i’m somewhat confused about this recipe.

i concede about two ovens though. sometimes you want what you want.

i apologize for ever saying you were a food snob. i can be acerbic, but i can also choose to be unsalty. too much salt was always your concern in the kitchen. too much can’t be taken back.

NaPoWriMo 8

a life


an empty field. dry skies. aloneness.

would you rather a be stream, a yurt,

a trapeze, or together?

about closets with bubblegum.

a tower of blankets. a hideaway.

about brevity in camp latrines.

about doing it differently?

plastic bowls in microwaves.

up and down. around the block.

magic carpet rides. open casket.

NaPoWriMo 5

Sort of a Ladybug Prompt

  1. Pocket the cliche that it’s the journey, and not the destination.
  2. Go on a journey.
  3. Pay attention to the things that get your attention.
  4. Start out jogging persistently uphill.
  5. Forget that it’s a Monday.
  6. Note the hair color of the school yard duty supervisor.
  7. Count 1-2-3, and watch girls cartwheel simultaneously.
  8. Say, Una Mas, because that’s what you want to say.
  9. Ponder her baritone words in the street, “It’s good to be alive.”
  10. Walk home & write a poem about the ladybug landing on your page.

NaPoWriMo 4

Per Chance

This week you consider new terms for ‘what’s that color?’

Look at fingers. In particular, nails scented with sea foam.

Such a small dream; I invent it more than several times.

I lure sleep. I bait sleep in with my white throat.

Beside the bay water, I inhale lavendar bath sounds.

Am I awake, or so at ease I am gone with the gulls?

I accidentally, intentionally close my eyes in the spray.

I pretend to be asleep. Then everything happens at once.

I can leave this woman for a time to open blooms.

Per chance there comes a time. Or a pulling tide too.

‘Undertoe’ is a swaddle word for ebb and flow.

Sleep wraps me round in his dim coat;

I am grateful and thankful for his shadow highlighting

periwinkle as a phenomenon, casting pinks and ceruleans

against a sky-blue tincture so full, I begin to billow.

I weep; you leap from your corner and dance.

NaPoWriMo 3


Word of the day on my Sterling college dorm room door:

Gaggle, guffaw. In the land of geese. In the land of nothing

nearby this land, but silos to climb, and church potlucks to crash,

and used clothing rooms to rifle through. Jiffy muffin mix boxes

sold downtown for 69 cents. I must have mussitated, you know.

Spoken softly to the boys I hid in my closet, after cramming the

end of the 80’s down my guzzle for lack of not knowing any better.

“No common sense,” like my father always said. I didn’t realize I was

from the land of Oz. Where the horizon is the most magnificent

goddamned thing to see around such barren parts. Apart from

my roommate’s hairy tarantula legs showcased through a glass box.

NaPoWriMo 2