new prose in Cagibi

I’m beyond thrilled and honored to have my prose piece, Postcard from a DMV Parking Lot in New York, published in Cagibi Express! It is a marvelous journal.

We’ll Always Have the High Chair

honored to have my prose poem We’ll Always Have the High Chair
published in Free Lit Magazine
“Free Lit Magazine is free and published bi-monthly with a mandate to be committed
to the accessibility of literature for readers and the
enrichment of writing for writers.” – Free Lit Magazine

We’ll Always Have the High Chair

 

We laughed. Chuckled while swimming in the YMCA pool. In my kitchen or yours. During our walks. Shopping and smiling. Over coffee.

Dad often asked, “How can you always have so much to talk about? What the hell is so funny all the time?”

Constant conversations. Endless phone calls when we lived only a few miles from one another. And now, I can’t remember much. What did we talk about, mom? What was always so funny all the time?

I’d give anything to hear you laugh again.

I remember when Caroline was five months old. You and I decided to try my first born in her new high chair. She was a tiny baby, and had what we called a minnow-head. We placed her in the chair. She tilted sideways and that bitty head slid to the far corner. There she sat grinning with those sweet bow lips. From that moment, whenever either of us said, Remember the high chair, we’d laugh.

This morning, you keep spitting out your meds. Don’t seem to remember why you need to swallow them. With a despondent voice I ask, Remember the high chair?

Your eyes crinkle as drool dribbles down your chin.

I am vain

This piece inspired by my face, currently a disaster of stress rash. Apparently, holding back, in an attempt to be monstrously strong, isn’t good for you. I can now use my face like a 70’s mood ring. Never believed I was vain, but lately I’m hiding in the shadows along with my creatures.

magical words, miraculous changes

it has been said
passed down from yuletide lips
Charles Dickens saved Christmas
not the man, ’twas the book
his story, we all know
if you don’t (your library copy might have gotten jammed in an 1843 chimney)

Industrial Revolution spinning at warp-speed
factory holidays are ghost shadows
we are living in the fast-pacing present–more is better
our dull, simple past soiled with slumming traditions–less was less
one floor above sweating basement workers, the future appears bright and shiny
a young boy’s father gets locked up in debtors’ prison
the child Charles, now forced to labor in a “rat-infested boot-blackening factory”

these formidable memories haunt Dickens

I imagine Charles back then
beneath winter’s moonlight
childhood terrors like bony hands slamming rusted leonine door knockers
he summons these all-too-vivid specters to do battle with his benevolent muse
the war won
A Christmas Carol is born

“…in 1867 Dickens reads A Christmas Carol. One of the audience members,
Mr. Fairbanks (a scale manufacturer) was so moved that he decided to break custom
and give his workers Christmas Day off and not only did he close the factory,
he gave turkeys to all his employees.”

magical words can inspire hearts to make miraculous changes

Little Tree

Little Tree

Charles Dickens, true to his words became an exceptional philanthropist. “…the welfare of the nation’s children was at the top of his list of concerns, and he used his pen and his considerable dramatic and oratorical powers to raise awareness of the plight of poor children and to raise money for children’s charities…”

sources in order of quoted appearance: Uncle John’s, Christmas Collection (yes, the Bathroom Reader, please don’t judge where I sometimes read😉), charlesdickensinfo.com, hharp.org

if my little poetry book love of the monster helps one heart, that would be a gift I’d keep trying to give😘

she likes curves as much as the next guy

she likes curves as much as the next guy
your supple lips create a secret shadow
she dreams of hiding in
those amazing shoulders of yours
burst into perfect half-moons
she adores the curve of your back
how your lats run down into a sinewy v
on your well-formed biceps
she imagines suns rising and setting
on those glutes
ah, yes those magnificent rounded caps
leading to the sweeping arcs of your sculpted tendons
she visualizes your body thrusting into forward motion
with all those powerful curves
yes, my friends
the ladies like curves too

Ra

Ra

 

this fellow sketched last year at a wrestling match

you sexy things

seven am
returning from a school drop
two older gals
walking, striding, smiling
sun
yea, it’s shining
not as brightly as these two powder-fresh sprites
their white Sketchers impossibly polished
like their well-seasoned eyes
almost see facial twinkling from my car
I’ve lowered speed
decelerating
crawling my Ford tires
slow the rushing axles

beaming at these living cherubs
while I sing along with Sirius ’70’s

wouldn’t you know
you sexy thing
starts playing
too freakin’ perfect

exuberant I’ve grown while observing these fine ladies
damn, still buckled in
I wanna get out and dance
run, sprint
stride step with these great smiling ladies

I picture them shakin’
moving their tried and true derriéres like they were 25
and in their minds, they still are
easy to deduce by their meandering glitter trail

I bet these 2 beauties were live wires
the kind that stretched and sprang back
knocking all them young lads for a loop
and a tongue tie

with their bedazzling smiles
and fine fighting features
you go girls!
you sexy things!

 even more perfect ’cause I love hot chocolate especially after wine;)

sippin’ shit from the satellite saucer

dude won
sippin’ shit from the satellite saucer
that’s brain milk in there
did you know?
swallow hard and wait for the
Mensa explosion
a thousand stations
to blow your mind out your ears
snort reality
heady up
here comes the gong show
whoa, get your damn greasy stumps off my pristine screen

dude too
looks soreal

dude won
that’s surreal, jack
hey, step back from the ultra hd
and hands off her ass
you’re crapping up my visual

dude too
freakin’ sharp ass glass
realist trip I ever fell over
‘n I slept in a needle
space powder in my orfeces
oh wait, shit
orifecal holes
man, her ass is sublimb-ded

dude won
you’re pot ROASTED, jack
SUBLIME ass and yes, it is
now repeat after me, “ORIFICE”
hey, get your damn hands
off my ultra hd
I already wiped your last scum off there

dude too
shit man
yer satellite saucer
runnin’ outta menses milk
you got one of them cage-free cows
back there in the yard
maybe hangin’ out in them cannibal plants

dude won
you must be allergic to dairy, jack
that’s cannabis
you fuckin’ idiot!
cow pasture with bullcows brought to graze in 2008, find the little green bull…
Experimentally expressing 😉