Possible Titles for My Autobiography/Memoir

“I’m Kind of a Big Deal in Europe…,”or maybe…

“I’m Totally About to Be a Big Deal in Europe”

“Pooping in Public Restrooms—the Story of a Girl Living Life on the Edge of Her Seat,”

“DISASTER—fondly handled, heartily fondled”

“The Life and Times of the Poor and Fameless”

Or perhaps, just,

“The Unstoppable-Tameless.”

“It Was Me Who Took the Cookies From the Cookie Jar,”

No, definitely “The Lighter Side of Irreverence”

...”Benevolence, for the Otherwise Cold-Hearted,”

And “No-it Was Not ME Who Farted”

“You’d Know if it Was Me

Calling” “This Voices Knows Everything but Stalling”

And “Silence

Doesn’t Know My Name” “Not Scared

To Share My Shame

‘Cause I Don’t Have None.”

…yeah. That’s the one.

Inspiration Has No Respect

Inspiration has no respect
for your schedule.
It doesn't knock first,
and enter later
or apologize
for keeping you
up
all
night--it doesn't kiss
the back of your hand politely
upon first meetings, but
yanks you--kicking and screeching
your life
to a hault.

It pinches you at night, won't be quiet at
dawn; doesn't care if your contacts aren't in yet,
or the light isn't
on, because inspiration will seize you
...just when you didn't wanna be shook,
slap you hard and walk away, not even pay
a second look
and it's inconvenient
it's rude!
It pushes and it shoves,
when the dishes need doing
and the homework's piling up.

It rips at your itinerary,
grabs you by the cuff...but it's okay, 'cause inspiration
knows
I like it rough.

"There's gonna be a birth."

The beginning:

breath to lungs—the first romance; you “have” him.

Your body,

an exhaling cocoon from which

she alone

emerges—not as a fling, or some temporary

thing

but an ever-after

kind of

love.

And just because at first she may be small

Don’t be fooled; she’s not

your doll to flaunt

and dress, play games with before

delicately placing her back

on the shelf.

A baby

is cleaning up sick

and ick

at 4 a.m./

cuddling until

the Boogie Man goes to sleep/ he’s

pick-

ups and drop-

-offs

and a lifetime of asking you “why?”

...so be sure you know the answer,

Why.  Because

a baby cannot be kept

small

like a photograph

that you stow away

in your pocket, only to pull out at those times when you want to say

“yep, that’s my baby,”—can’t be stretched big

enough to fill

with dreams you couldn’t hold

in your own

hands.

He does not exist to make you proud,

but to learn

all the ways

to tell you

“no.” and to grow

into his own mind, her own heart

you’re her start,

but, remember, you’re just

the beginning.

To Look is Not to See; To Open Me Like a Book is Not To Read

All I could see were here feet, socks reminiscent of bandages from some war I'd never fought in, blue peaking out between folds of white like they'd been double-wrapped.

"Her nephew is here.  Yes, it's gotten a lot worse.  Ahuh.  Just wanted to check--ahuh...yes..."  The blue-scrubbed surgeon stood clear of the doorway with his cell phone, keeping his voice low.

I tried to focus on the six month's old copy of Good Housekeeping in my lap, awaiting the doctor's retrieval of me like a good patient, but...there was more talking, the hum from the room across the hallway evolving into a buzz around words like "cataract," "tumor," "radiation."

A man in clerical garb emerged from the room where all I could see were those stilled feet, and his smiling eyes persisted beneath his slick, baldy scalp.

The surgeon went on, now minimized to a disembodied voice, from within the room; "You're really doing great!" he said with strained enthusiasm, followed by nervous laughter aching to just cry already.  "You've still got one ear and one eye...you're doing okay!" he said as he re-positioned the feet which turned out to belong to a lady with the whitest hair.

"I will be okay," said the lady on the gurney, "because I want to be."  Her strength only fed my curiosity, and I took a quick glance up from an article about potted plant creations, just long enough to catch the very conspicuously-sized bandage engulfing her left eye.

"Her eye," said the priest man, leaning against the door frame, "was stuck, was attached to her eye-lid by a tumor," he went on to a lady who kind of looked like a receptionist and who seemed to pop up out of nowhere.  "She was trying to wash up under there, you know, it was getting encrusted, you know, and so..." the receptionist/rogue wanderer nodded, concerned, as the maybe-nephew went on.

"And so...the wash rag...it got...stuck," the man got ever-so-slightly uncomfortable.  "Her eye got stuck to the wash rag and...SCHWOOP!" With this he threw open his fingers in dramatic fashion, upward-facing palm, body jerking forward in a vomiting-like motion.

SCHWOOP! Just like that.

I marveled at the lady's face, small and weathered by years and infirmities but none the weaker.  She looked back, though I wondered how much she could see.  And as the kindhearted and well-meaning, albeit awkward, surgeon stood over his papers and the priest/nephew stood over his aunt and the wanderer took off to schedule and file, the doctor finally called me into his office.

Fun With Words

Some awesome new words I learned or relearned today:

Succubus--female demon who seduces men in the night; male form: incubus

Kismet--fate, destiny

Susurrus-a whispering sound...I'd call this one an onomatopoeia :) 

Phone Phucks

There are two types of people with whom I cannot stand talking on the phone...or sometimes just talking to in general, actually.

I. The "I Never Stop for a Breath" Talker

This is that dear friend who, for all the good about them and all their good intentions, just never takes a hint.  Phone conversations are lovely when they are quick and to the point.  Sure, a long talk here and there is great, but before you settle in for a good long chat, make sure the person on the other end of the line has the energy and time; please do not drag them, kicking and screaming, into "I wanna talk about me" land.

When I talk to someone, I like input.  I want to have a conversation, not give a damn sermon, so when people talk to me like they might just as easily be talking to a wall with no feelings or thoughts of its own, I call them preachers who bogart conversations and I will typically try to avoid speaking with them, especially on the phone, in the future.

This subject brings me to the second type of person I cannot stand speaking with, and they are called:

II.  The "I May As Well Be Plaster on the Wall Because I Am So Boring and Utterly Responseless" Individual

This is the one that bugs me the most, even more than the bogarter. This is the person that you can pour out your heart too, tell them what you think is probably the funniest story in the world, or with whom you bestow some other titillating little tidbits that you are excited to share with another human being, and what do you get?  "...Uh huh...yeah...grunt...*undetectable head nodding*...yeah."  Wow, thank you! I'm so glad we could have this conversation!  I may as well have just spent the past five minutes shellacking my toaster with cream cheese for all I have just gotten out of speaking to you just then.  Bravo!  Let's be sure to do this again...NEVER.

Thank you for reading and "Phuck you kindly."

Sicka Chicks

Chin strap beards in the corners of your photographs.
Glare on the hair dyed so many colors it's evident you can't make up your
mind.

I wonder what you see at the bottom
of that glass,
when it's on top
of your face...just space?
Swirlingspecks of lipstick
or lip-liner
or maybe a nice glossy shimmer, whatever you girls are wearing nowadays,
folded within the ebbs and flows of your drunken
backwash?

Is it fulfilling, this sight,
day in and night out, this sight, every night,
what life is all about?

 And it doesn't make me furious, that you leave me
out

because really
the next morning, what more have you gained?
Have you sustained
even a memory
from the washed-out stains
on your name...it's a shame,
because everyone has their party phase
but when it seems no longer to be just a phase
but, instead, a way to pass your days,
living long in that haze,
where potential's erased...

in your photographs, I see
you erode
at Mr. Toad's when that last call is called out
for the last
time,
and my rhymes might be all that remain
in your
mind, so have a good night
--now I'm gonna go
sHiNe.