My skin is angry and red
from a day at the pool. I forgot
to reapply sunscreen, and as the sun
toasted my flesh, I relished
the feeling. It showed me
that I could burn on the outside
as I burn on the inside,
rage twisting in my gut
at the insensitive words spilled
from too open mouths.
I hope they catch flies.
They say, during the winter months, she lures in a mountain lion to sleep at the bottom of her bed and keep her feet warm.
Some allege, she had an experimental organ transplant in France and received a baboon’s liver; that’s why she can drink so much bourbon.
Presumably, if she touches your hair, she can read your thoughts, so don’t let her hand get near your head.
According to sources, the ghost of Frank Lloyd Wright designed that cabin; she summoned him during a seance, and he guided her hand to sketch the plan.
Word is, every April, she comes to town, takes a lover half her age, uses and abuses him ‘til fall, then sends him back looking twice her age.
I hear she’s got an army of crows that flies around and finds lost jewelry, then brings it back for her to pawn; that’s the why for her wealth.
It’s been whispered she has a tattoo that says “Ride at Your Own Risk” inked just above her most private of all parts.
By all accounts, for the last thirty years, she’s only eaten Lucky Charms cereal and food she forages from the forest…gets all her protein from crickets.
Rumor has it, she has a couch down by the creek, where she goes twice a week, to talk to an imaginary therapist.
Reckon any of it be true?
Guess you’d have to ask her.
Hell, no, I’m not going near that witch of the woods.
And that’s just the way she likes it.
An abuser, veins on chemical fire
scorches out on a gurney.
A father figure slaps the future
out of a victim who will later
scorch out on a gurney.
A spinster’s ruler splits the knuckles
of a future twisted father figure
because this hurts me more than you.
And so on. And so on.
Pilgrim dunking parties, tribal extinctions,
racial ghettos, persecutions,
and the feel-good promise of Manifest Destiny.
Being human, we create truths
that conform to the twisted
natures we possess.
Like warriors in the night,
we went to war.
Reclaiming what they,
had taken from us.
Raw screams,
deadly weapons.
An ambush.
We found ourself at the battlefield,
fighting like brothers and sisters in arms.
Until we finally pushed the enemy,
back into the inner corners of hell.
After all, that’s where they all belonged.
We unleashed the demons,
and patched eachother up.
While watching the night burn out,
into yet another day.
We made it out alive.
“Didn’t I tell you about the time my mom
just add hot water to this cup
already prepared with cinnamon and brown sugar to sweeten what is bitter
just add hot water to this cup
and the saucer will catch the overflow of any exuberant sipping
just add hot water to this cup
and everything will swirl together into magic, into morning ritual, into making sense
just add hot water to this cup
and watch the steam rise like dancing prayers
“Joyful — now there’s a word/we haven’t used in a while.”
– Louise Glück in “Presidents’ Day”
Squeeze the “j” in joyful of its sweet
juice. Let its taste stay on your tongue,
in your cheeks, till you’re ready to open
wide for the vowel — a diphthong really,
that joins, blends. And think of the good
in that! -ful‘s “f” is a toothy sound
written as Philly or trough, strong
as a fortress, feather-bed soft,
dreamy as frankincense. I don’t know
why -ful would end with a wet-washrag
American “l,” except to give your muscles
a break before you shout joyful again.
In the 1860s great grandfather converted over 500 Indians to Christianity rounded up by soldiers & brought to the fort in chicken wire covered wagons to be taught by missionaries these people were called savages.
In 2023 homeless at the bus stop across from the Lyric were rounded up by police & arrested for loitering these people were called vagrants.
