Manga Popart Butterfly

Manga Popart Butterfly

Saturday, May 28, 2016

Ah, Saturday---

...for those of us who've worked office jobs
most of our lives, Saturday equals freedom:
sleeping late, doing chores undone all week, shopping
for food, cooking, laundry, gardening, reading---a few
precious hours to relax...although most of this
sounds like work, too, but for the reading.

Squeeze in some writing,
if you can, and dream about the imaginary day
in the future when you'll have unlimited
time to daydream and write your heart out...
pen in hand, endless pages of paper...

Your heart, that hourglass inside you
that wakes you on moonless nights as
the grains of sand falling down,
down, down sound like
boulders crashing on glass when, in your youth,
they were marshmallows against marshmallows,
soundless, quiet as death...

Saturday, the only good day out of seven.
Sunday, a feeling of dread returns...going
back to the job you hate, with coworkers
you'd never in a million years socialize with, much
less spend eight long hours a day with... all so you'll have
insurance, rent and food...
never knowing, never guessing that
tomorrow never comes, will never, ever come
no matter how long or how fast you run.

The hourglass always wins.
The grains run out in the end.
The grains run out in the end.


Friday, May 27, 2016

Dear Diary:

So, it's Friday of a long weekend...
Memorial Day when we honor those who
served our country.
Thank you...and God Bless You!

Thunder is rolling
across the gunmetal sky
as it cries big, fat crocodile tears.
That's what my Aunt called
our whining tears as kids.

No barbecue today!

My tomatoes and squash
are laughing in neon green,
stoned on the first storm
in weeks...happy.
Lemongrass is shining...
Comfrey's pining for skin
to heal. Basil's humping
Tomatoe's stems
wanting to marry
their flavors...

Wet cats, towel-dried
meows amplified...
Drip, drip, drip of the
slowly slowing rain.
Yes, there's still pain,
but muted, like sound
through a foam bucket.
Muted is better than
loud and blaring,
bright and glaring...
endlessly hurting.

I limp.  I'm a gimp.

But, dear diary, trust me when I say,
there's a heavy price to pay...
for a tiny bit of muting...
Too heavy for mere words,
Too heavy---too, too heavy---


"How do we know that our life really happened and that we are not simply accumulating details, making it all up as we go along?” 
                                                          ― Rachel KleinThe Moth Diaries

Thursday, May 26, 2016

Dear Thursday:


You woke me with pain, you bitch.
Nothing different from all the yesterday's of recent years.
Hives all over my legs
and fear bubbling around in my mouth.
Sores there, too.
Some diet plan,
I'll blame a man...aren't
they the root of all evil?
Especially the root.
Makes me think of sharp knives
and freedom.
Too early for this shit.
Soaked in an oatmeal & comfrey bath...
Shaved my legs! Ha!
Haven't done that in weeks.
Why bother?
Thursday, you did one good thing
today:  you brought me books!
My lifeline since I could read.

Online diary because my journals were
ransacked and their words
tossed at me like heavy stones
ever since.  Getting beaten with
your own private truth is too brutal
for words.  Hmmmm, there's the
cause of the hives.
He's computer illiterate,
so I'll write my heart out here
where no stones can reach me...

I'll think I'll go lie on my $100 bargain couch
and read myself silly, there among my
shelves of books
and my Tarot card & doll collection.
Why not?  P'raps these hives will
disappear if I ignore them.  Scratch, scratch.

That's it for today,
dear diary.
It can only get
better from here...