"It's about words, and words are all I have…"

Archive for the month “January, 2021”

my brother wrote the killer line in this poem*

i was never free  not for one second   well maybe

writing a poem at Bacchanal in Nola  husband+a bro

drinking ghostriders  then later showing Monk Boudreaux

my pocket pig🐷


did u know pigs represent fecundity  big time?   piggy

banks   just a bastardization  of the fecund goddess

pennies from heaven?   or worshipping mammon?


*(here comes that killer line)


but  if i cover my eyes  can u still see me?   can u see me

cutting the last cord  that keeps me in captivity  umbilical

first cut   then quickly fused to matter   final cut will be a

fucking rodeo


with Mark  the Rifleman’s son presiding   + Rabbi Monson too

he who said: every year after 70 is a miracle!   and also

during my Jewish divorce:

if he wants to remarry   he pays half   no free rides  


but Rabbi   i cracked him open!   Monson grabbed my collar hard

 if you give it for free  you slave in a kitchen  

husband in question has yet to claim his ghett


so should i charge him?  or ice him?   if i cover my eyes  maybe you won’t

see me collecting   the schvartzgelt   this poem is not PC


Winter 2021


*JMA married in the same basement room of my ghett should begin his memoir posthaste

i’m a man of wealth+taste

he had yellow hair  +a wicked combover  a swiss cheese-ey elvis

face strangely pitted  bloated  bugeyed  the wife a mail order bride

with fangs    they’re gone now  crawled back under the rock from

whence they came


but america will never be the same   74+ million  deplorables  some

with long guns +horns  crawled out too   grunting   now forcibly

separated from his de base   by the stolen election   he weeps   as

Mel tells her pallid son:  be best  and go back to your room





Winter 2021’s lonely at the bottom..


the covidvaccine+the doctor from mars

my unique identifier was  KMA  !  at the covid vaccine clinic

where i scurried just yesterday  every aspect was a test  test

your mettle  your herdishness  your commitment to not dying


dr. vanderbeeek was cheeky  rubbed my deltoid hard  so hard

that i went into ecstatic confessions  re: David Bowie on my tee


at one point v.beeeks hand slipped from the ubermassage   to

david’s face atop my left boob  (ew)  +our eyes met over germy

masks   later when i told a brother  he wondered if i’d gone crazy

likely the manic-y  delivery




later when i returned home to husband  afibrulate +supine  with one eye

on the tv  he twitched spasmodically  to my tale of v.beeek’s slimfingers

+ tenderness       (*mums the word on his 10 calls to my cell today)


so  who among u would be surprised at this juncture  to see spaceships

descending   or horny doctors with crepey handskin     stroking??






Winter 2021   ..would it kill u to put on a little Nivea?..



i asked father who his favourite cowboy was   (he was mine)

he said  Tom Mix   back in those days  i loved cowboys with a

passion too big for a small girl  but i did   Mark the rifleman’s

son visited my room of an evening   +when father took me to

meet him at maple leaf gardens  i swooned  +swanned around

like ginalolofuckingbrigida



Tom Mix and his horse rode the shadow range, punishing evil-doers. 

But Tom never kissed the heroine. He seemed very much in love with

his horse.  (Al Purdy  1993)



Winter  2021

..daddy was way better looking than tom..

+would have highly approved of gina..

can u hear me hear u

have u heard of mindfulness meditation?   it’s a new religion

for the body/sensory dead  21st century humans  learning to:

see  smell  taste  touch  +hear   with alacrity


with slow  ness

with numinosity

with a pinprick  of passion


these folks are the living dead  not exactly zombies (they were once alive)

no  these drones are dead to  frissonosity  made dead by: tech meets fame

meets social media  (+now distancing)


so how will anyone know they’re alive post-covid?  when taste+smell loss  are

not signals of an impending mortuary visit   let’s face it   if u have to suck on

a fig  for 10 minutes  to know the ambrosial  u might as well start digging your

own grave


all work+no play  make the modern human  a dullwitted void   this has never

been my issue  quite the opposite  poets see purple  in fig-ecstacy   smell

earth  at 30 below   now masked  even the smile  is an autopilot reminder  of

the deadness in alive


post-covid   survivors will return to smiling vacantly   at every  tom  dick +hairy

while millions of dead  will have sewn-on smiles  like the ones on some people’s

masks    +we will remember the days when we woke up screaming



How the noises stopped. And so did the terror. It was ended. But the 

memory doesn’t end. It stays, hovering on the edge of consciousness

where the beasts with onion heads may still be waiting. (Al Purdy 1993)



Winter 2021

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