Cold sweat.

The last day of summer came hot and hard all over our city’s asphalt, this Tuesday. Strangely, it is October. Then, there were barely 24 hours during which to enjoy our afterglow when, suddenly, we were facing the cold, closed door of fall; cardigans, blazers and arm warmers all gathered in our confused arms. The earth is a fickle mistress.

I have been neglecting my promise to keep this journal with some sort of dedication (in fact, I would make a terrible custodian, letting rats all around the place, chewing holes in the furniture). I had mentioned doing an awakening piece on Stonehenge many moons (or maybe just two) ago. Halo 3 and cramps and pastry practice and migraines and vet visits are all shoddy excuses for neglect but, hey, life gets in the way of living. So, without further ado (I would prefer there be much ado at all times) here it is. Coming up right now, right here, one night only: My first poem in 4 months.

October, The Writer Has a few Words with her Few Words
I can see you in
the distance, you,
fickle phrases
and reluctant
words, holding each other’s
hands tightly, having
long since let mine
fall away;

waving me off on
a bon voyage
toward diffidence
and the perils of pedantry
(who reads poetry, anyway?)

casting me off to
the island of
professional obscurity:

another girl lost to the
necessity of being.
and shoes.

you’re all a bunch
of tarts, you,
teases and toads slipping
out of my grasp and
miring around now
in someone else’s muck.

leaving me to watch
the onomatopoeic orgy,
the panoply of prose


alone, on the deck of
a one-way cruise peopled
with the greased-up
people’s people
primed for insertion
into reticulum delirium.

you have all left me for dead
here, you, you jerks.

I was not ready yet,
to say goodbye.


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