songanddancegirl

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

Archive for the day “October 12, 2025”

..but we cannot simply sit and stare at our wounds forever.. says Haruki Murakami

No?

why do i write my autofictional narrative/confessional  prose poems?

all diatribe   memoir-esq  +rage   always prone to hyper-vigilance +amygdala

hijack-ers   especially  re:  bugs  serial killers  +narcissists  (what’s the difference?)

 

they’ll eat you alive  clean your slim bones dry   dem bones  dem bones dem

dry bones   1st 65 years in a rage   last 7 in grief   pandemic  cancer maximus

a brother  and old mother  crept away  +on+on+on    now it’s  rise up time

from perpetual  fightflightfreeze   un-Anna Karenina me  the train already upon

her as she decided  to rise  does memoir try  to pin down the un-pinnable?  nail it

to a cross  where it withers  forever a relic  mementomori

maybe the past shifts +transforms  as we do  how-what-who  is remembered

maybe it’s all a mirage  hallucination  feverdream   did big Paul Paladino exist?

a small time mobster from Buffalo  circa 1968    did bovine Jackie Gaudaur?

(who should rot in hell)

how ’bout blacksonavitch?  poodle extraordinaire  he who spoke 5 languages

held my hand in the night  when parents cussed+squealed  +wild animals entered

the suburban backsplit   made off with my 1st husband   and where now Difranco?

frogman in the Great War  dance teacher  gigolo   your family reads like a 

broadway play!  said my de mentor  who was not fond of  over-rhyme   his

own father in a ward   mother married the handyman  who beat her

 

..my father is frothing at the mouth..his hair  is disarranged..his eyes crackle

like electrical storms..his fly bursts..his cock emerges huge+wet as a wriggling fish..

my father was a classics specialist and died from a torn heart when i was 9 1/2..

(David Donnell  Water Street Days  1989  Governor General’s Award  for poetry 1983)

Haruki Murakami   these wounds

+their perps  seem to have one helluva

staying-power

which is my hand?

which is hers?

__

Fall 2025  ..at 92  Rhonda  who killed her rabbi husband against a fence..

perpetually begged for a bowl of her mother’s soup.. (true story  inmate #666

Living Life on the Avenue  a now defunct hellhole mirage)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Post Navigation