Musings and Poems...

139 Ways to sings the blues (abridged)

The walls in my house are
transparent revealing
histories of Broadway
and Madison. How I
imagine them, unknown
to my own eyes.

And suicide sleeps in the
closet next to Hughes
and Bessie Smith. Because
real art may have disappeared
within the last 20 years.

I am of separate
generation of dreamers
and hypocrites. I ignore
beggars on the street, but
want to solve world hunger.

And Nixon bathes next door
to the kitchen. Smoking
a joint and smiling as
he listens to Bono. Smiling
as he begins to drown.

Inquiries about price pop
up form observers who
think home has an
appeal. Forgetting the
importance of objectivity.

The basement is full
of ghosts passed down
through the generations
like furniture, but nicer.

Lithium batteries and
nuclear power charge
party night needs.

And I walk through
walls, knowing that
they didn't ever exist.

Transparency is a
game for the mind.

And objectivity died with Ginsberg.

And apathy is the drive in my eye.

Call me Lorraine

I dream of fishnets,
green sequins,
sleeping on the hood
of my car.

Counting 330 brushstrokes
to my two pairs of
jeans. Seven pairs
of clover shoes.

Chastity calls me
names to see if I
will react, I am
slipping away.

I remember stop sign
battles and bulemia
caught in a war of
wits and skirts.

Dreading the day he
realizes I love him,
and daring God
to hide it.

Patience is a virtue
I knit in my sleep.
Potholders yield my
inability to read.

I beg call girls to
say my name to
strangers, they
unwittingly agree.

Shifting position with
a lack of grace, no
beauty. Bitten nails
and Sharpie tatoos.

Luck is a seven letter
word, who few can
spell and even less
are willing to drink.

Makeshift virtue in
a yellow pill comes
fast and silent. A
pineapple's frown.