The pen is poised, impatient for inspiration to strike.

Thursday, December 24, 2009


Throw down that bottle but the paper tiger will still grin. Stamp on it
To shatter your simmering secrets. Don't forget to use protection:
I have scars on my souls that will make your toes curl like lace. Make
Sure you put that bitch down! Scrape off every label with every burning word.
Use his limbs like toothpicks, casual as a cowboy; peel him like a mandarin;
Toss his skin, Suck his flesh, Spit it out; throw a fistful of leaves into his folding face.
When you're through, crawl off into the sunset. And for god's sakes,
Try not to throw up this time.

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I laugh, I live, I think, I write (not necessarily in that order)... padam, padam indeed, Ms. Piaf. This poetry is almost always spontaneous and almost rarely edited.