Friday, June 23, 2023

If You Aren’t Afraid of Mouths Born with Teeth

Meet me at the garden of forking paths. One hundred years of solitude will become fairy tale, if your face is at the beginning of my ever after. 

I am the girl in the flammable skirt and a hat full of sky. If your hands crave the feel of my hips and your lips dream of my tongue, tell me about it. Say you are not afraid of mouths born with teeth. Show you can survive our kind of cruelty.

If you do it for me (just the way I like it), I shall wear midnight for you. If you do it for me (just the way I want it), I shall turn Time Lord for you—let you take my hearts and other body parts, to dream and feel all over the multiverse.

the wee notes
- for Poets and Storytellers United--Friday Writings #82: Favorite Books. The prompt invites us to write poetry or prose which includes the complete title of one of our favorite books. I have too many favorite books, so I might’ve chosen more than one *cough*: The Garden of Forking Paths by Jorge Luis Borges, One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez, Ever After by Wendy Loggia, The Girl in the Flammable Skirt by Aimee Bender, A Hat Full of Sky by Terry Pratchett, Born with Teeth by Kate Mulgrew, Our Kind of Cruelty by Araminta Hall, Kiss Me First by Lottie Moggach, I Shall Wear Midnight by Terry Pratchett, and Hearts & Other Body Parts by Ira Bloom.

- if the glorious nerdiness is not strong with you, and you’ve yet to delight in the Doctor Who TV show, know Time Lords have two hearts.

Thursday, June 15, 2023

I Root for Hope

not-quite Journaling, 55

I root for hope
and flirt with joy.

6/6/2023: And to cover all my bases, I kiss determination (and ram-headed stubbornness) on the mouth.


in a New York haze,
I wonder if flowers dream
of Canada rain

6/10/2023: The air quality has been good today, so I visited señoritas tulip, Persian buttercup, amaryllis… Since New York City is supposed to go back to unhealthily smoky haziness, by the end of the day, I figured my soul (and lungs) and I should gather a few breaths of fresh air for later.


I can mar the darkest mood
with a smile.

6/14/2023: It’s true. The ability to burst into endorphins-infused smiles (and cackles)—regardless of how bad things get—is just one of my superpowers. I can also annoy cruel people at will, delight my friends (and in my friends) from afar, ink horrors into armor, love all of my bits unconditionally… What about you? What are some of your superpowers? 


Rosemary asked me to dream city dreams, so I did:

a w
ee note

- When I shared the “I root for hope” blackout poem on Instagram, a dear friend informed me that, in Australia, “root” is a not-so-gentle euphemism for sex. Now, I can’t read “I root for hope” without giggling. Also, I am totally getting “I root for hope” on a T-shirt. 😁

- for Poets and Storytellers United--Friday Writings #81: City Dreaming.

Thursday, June 1, 2023

Glimpsing Forget-Me-Nots

not-quite Journaling, 54

5/26/2023: When I was diagnosed with breast cancer, my life turned into a series of postponements. Piles of things were dumped on the backburner: writing, business projects, travel, birthdays, anniversaries, other health concerns, emails… I used to think, I’ll do A when B is no longer an issue, or when my body doesn’t hurt so much, or after my sleep is more restful. You know what I figured out? Letting things pile up, in hope for easier days, is a terrible mistake. I’m so behind on everything that I would burst into manic laughter, if I had time for hysterics. But I don’t. So, I’ll just take a deep breath (or 50), do some serious reprioritizing, and get things done as efficiently and promptly as I can. Freaking out about things I can’t control would just be another mistake.


5/30/2023: There is a wet rumble in my chest. My nose is full of best-left-undescribed yuck. And while my skull and joints consider the merits of imploding or exploding (my OCD hopes for the latter, less cleanup), my scratchy eyes glimpse the forget-me-not I planted last winter. All isn’t even close to well; but the tiny smile the sight blooms, out of my exhausted self, says that all isn’t exactly bad.


6/1/2023: A not-so-helpful health coach manexplained to me that “chronic fatigue is a clear sign that a person isn’t eating healthy, resting enough, or exercising”. Since I had already used all my maniacal cackles spoons for the week, I just stared at him unblinkingly for an unconformably long moment… and then scribbled this poem. Besides, I would’ve hated to waste a proper burst of maniacal cackles on an idiot. I save my glorious cackles for people I like. Muahahahahaha!

- Poets and Storytellers United--Friday Writings #79: Unfinished Projects.