There, on my office wall, above the lamp and tiny, sterling Buddha, a house centipede, more legs than a marching troop. How they move in unison, soldiers obeying a single brain, beautiful in their complex simplicity. Except…one leg is missing. You have to look closely to see it, the gap in the line, the […]
If I charged what I was worth, the world would be poor. That’s not a brag. That’s everyone. Look around. Look and say with certainty, “I see the gold of El Dorado.” It never was a myth. Look! There…there is potential. There…there is talent. There…there is honesty. There…there is the one I thought I lost
#GrowingUp, I housed a battered, silent, shriek: “#StopFighting!” It never moved out. #KatherinesCoffeehouse
I should go to bed, bury my ear and head in a pillow of sweet smelling sheets and sleep, maybe Egyptian cotton, or something on sale I bought off #AmazonPrime. Because, see, I spend so much time online, I start to see things like #promos and #discounts and #coupons as #BigData puppies tugging at the
On days when #FacebookIsToxic – those are the days to #WritePoetry. Go ahead. #Hashtag the hell out of #inspiration, #art, and #TheCreative. Use whatever #MetaphorWorks. Breathe #life back into a dead thing gone wrong. #Lazarus didn’t rise because #JesusHealedHim. He sat up in a stony tomb, peeled away his gritty bandages, felt the new, smooth
I’m going to miss my neck. No, I’m not headed to the guillotine, or decapitating myself in some obscene science experiment – though my brother wants to freeze his brain, not by eating ice cream, but trying cryogenics. I’m not into it. But I digress. Last year, I held a funeral for my uterus. It
Purple was accidental. I like how it looked on my website. So I started out with a logo, a two-tone purple half-arrow, pointing up towards something, whatever it was for the day. Then I moved on to business cards. And purple brochures. And pens. Hues and tones of purple, blueberry in between, purple scarves, plum
*Ogni pensiero vola How many poems love Mondays? Do any of them laud the week’s overlord, strum a bard’s mandolin, raise a tenor tone up towards a stony window where, instead of a maiden with perfumed tresses, leans out an old ogre? “I’m Monday,” the ogre says. “And you are a goofy bard.” He tosses
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I’ve never been good at either/or, always been a “both” person, really. Explains a lot – the extensive collection of conditioner in the shower, five different bars of soap, two razors (one is dull), and an extra roll of toilet paper just outside the stall. You never know when you’ll need a tissue. If you
