Strikes Again

The past couple of weeks have certainly been odder than most folks. Go ahead, ask me about it. I dare you. I am just itching to talk about some of my crap.

In the meantime, I leave you with this question:


Do I live with a dogge or the real killer in the case against OJ Simpson?

Life Is Hard, Wear A Helmet

Happy Birthday, Brother.

My very first pal, may we live to see the Rancheros de los Perros, where of course the perros des toros will be king.

Sunday Falls Softly Like A Piece Of Paper

Check out Jihadist Jerry. I stumbled across him and laughed so hard I almost schnarfed my Diet Dr. Pepper.

Thanks Jerry, for a good time.

Now I am off to feel the sun on my bare arm as I drive with the windows all the way down, turn the radio up and smile at firefighters who linger in the open engine co. doorways, airing out the past few months must and sweat and adrenaline.
I'm going to speed a little along Shore Road 'cos it isn't cold anymore, not in the least, and pull my ponytail out. I imagine it's also time to air ourselves in a way. I am thrilled to see crocus and forsythia prodding the world with a little color, the trees are budding, in fact my neighbor's magnolia is almost in full bloom.

I woke up one day and it was spring again. Too good, life is too good.

I should have called them "Thelma & Louise"

...for surely I am driving my first submissions to an official publication over a cliff to their fiery demise.

So I guess I should start singing something to the effect of "999,999 Letters of Rejection in the Mail." It might serve to keep the spirits up.

Mmm, spirits. That's an idea.

Scratch Card

'I have no chocolate
to give you,' he says as he
offers me his heart

He futzes with my
bra and we fall back laughing,
too young to get it

She's something of a
fraction that has overshot
itself, repeating

Imagining how
he sips her succulence slow,
I smell the flowers

A conspiracy
of silence virtually
erases the fact

Return Trip

Sometimes I wear your socks.
In lieu of you, your socks.
Empty reminders I keep in a drawer.
I want to fill them with feet,
Sometimes.

Sometimes I pretend that we were just socks,
two in a pair,
that got lost on the way to the dryer.

These socks reminisce with me,
whispering of
clumsy late-night love
in a room too small,
in a town too big.

Sometimes your socks speak;
they bring back blisters,
my worn out sneakers skipping over
sidewalk cracks and anthills.

Your socks too thin,
and my heels burning.
I think it’s fitting,
as the sun peeks over apartments and
spies on my clandestine morning stroll.

How I wonder—
will anybody notice
bleary-eyed, tousled me?