Segue into Video: Melissa Broder ***(I just wanted an excuse to use the word "segue" because it is a really cool word,)*** Also, Poetry and Sock Puppets are AWESOME!

Dear Aging Anarchist / Melissa Broder from Leigh Stein on Vimeo.

Say Hello to Poet Melissa Broder a.k.a The Gefilte Fisherwoman

 

Author of WHEN YOU SAY ONE THING AND MEAN YOUR MOTHER

:

Well that’s not really her but that is her book and this poem is really by her:

Summer Soldiers

by Melissa Broder

This was the game: we would gaze down the barrel
of our lipsticks, waiting for you to finish
band practice. Stalk you in the 7-11 lot.
Where the boys were. Boys. Sparrow spirits on skateboards,
bottles of Tahitian Treat, Rose's Cola,
and blue raspberry Slurpees laced with liquor.
I had the blues 'cause I wanted to be you:
all shit-beers and stars, pentagrams instead of Temple.
Old-school kick flips—no purses—under the low-hung moon,
and you could skin your knees and you could give me
carpet burn all evening in somebody's basement,
trying to lick my nothing-tit, a baby lion
cleaning a china plate. Calluses and nipples,
bass guitars. Cinnamon gum will turn him on,
said the wise women of Seventeen magazine.
What kind of kisser are you? Timid? Sexy? Strong?
Once I opened my eyes and he only had one eye.
He kept his mouth sealed shut. Is there something wrong?
Then you'd heel-flip your Simples, ollie higher
over gutters, down suburb sidewalks, to your mothers
and we'd go tongue the mirror in your honor,
apply silver eyeliner, make scars out of pimples.

http://delsolreview.webdelsol.com/dsr15/poems-melissa.htm

I may just have to dance on potato chips

 

I'm s'mad I can't sleep. At present I'm sitting here in my living room looking over the wreckage. Today my husband took the kids to play laser tag and to hit some baseballs, and to just goof off in general supposedly to give mom some "time alone." Translation…"Mom plans on cleaning house today we better get the heck out of dodge."

 

Okay, fine. Often it is easier for me to just roll up my sleeves and get things done than to direct the traffic of who should do what, where and why.

"BUT Mom, I cleaned the bathroom LAST time."

Yeah, last MONTH. If you call running a rag over the sink "cleaning the bathroom."

BUT MOM, why should I pick up the living room, I didn't make the mess in here. That's not fair."

I never thought I'd be the kind of mom that would ever say: "Because I said so."

But now I say it. BECAUSE. I. SAID. SO.

My favorite excuse from my nine year old son.

"I can't. I think my legs are broken."

So, my family comes home from their day of lollygagging and within ten minutes…probably not even that…what I'd worked ALL day to clean was destroyed.

They decided to watch movies. Good end to a nice day.

Well bully for y'all. I thought to myself and I decided to just sit back and wait and see if anyone would bother to pick up a thing, one thing, before they went to bed.

The mess statistic as of 1:00 a.m. Sunday night:

8 pairs of shoes in my living room. That is sixteen individual shoes. Not even piled in front of the door, no, like easter eggs they're scattered all willy nilly about the place.

2 cups under the couch, 1 cup beside the couch.

1 granola bar wrapper shoved under the couch and some other stuff, but I'm not going to see what it is.

1 batting glove.

Some sort of tool which says Dewalt on it.

Two bowls and one spoon.

A box of art supplies.

Socks. (single of course, not matching.)

X-box games (two) gaming control (one)

A blanket (looks like someone spilled something and used the blanket to cover it up.)

And that's just the living room.

In the kitchen---Oh god. I don't even want to talk about the Kitchen!!

Half eaten bags of chips left open. Left OPEN. Are they trying to drive me mad? I think they are.

I am having this really strong desire to dump ALL the chips on the floor in the kitchen and just dance on them. Two step, boot scootin boogie, stomp…whatever. Dance, dance, dance on potato chips and just leave them there and when the kids wake up in the morning and ask what happened I'll pull out some of their own lines on them:

"What? What mess? Where? I don't see anything. Oh…that….I didn't do that. Don't worry about it, it's not a big deal, why don't you just CHILAX sheesh, you'd think you'd never seen potato chips on the floor before."

 

:: maggie taylor ::

"Messenger"

Great artist, fascinating work, Southern Gothic, click to visit her website.

:: maggie taylor :::

Born on a blue day

To adopt to chaos the mind might recite π for hours

two is yellow, six a void, five a clap of thunder

the rosetta stone

profound talent/profound disability
are divided by a thin line

Not even an eyelash.

Each hair on the human head has a number
the sparrow falls without counting.
Intelligence is not a gift it is

a cracker-jack prize, a wash off tattoo
a plastic compass
the candy coating on the pop-corn

or likely just the nuts that settle
to the bottom during shipping  

1. What is a baby goldfish called?
   
2. Where do iatrophobes fear to go?
   
3. When is a nightshade a vegetable?
   
4. 'Hands' are a part of what religion?
   
5. What is the collective noun for collective nouns?
   

   
    

Wisdom, on the other hand, is a wonderful peculiar

 

pebble

 

 

*Italics are author/autistic/savant Dannel Tammet's words, used with permission. Photo by John Sweet, also used with permission. After the fact of the post, but still, it counts.

Bad Luck, Good Luck: “I Shouldn’t Have Been a Pirate Whore.”

 

You ever wake up with an epiphany? Words flowing from you like St. Elmo’s fire, ( y’know not the creepy red puppet, but the legend) and you pick up whatever writing utensil is at hand and whatever scrap of paper, box of tissue, back of a receipt you can find and write it down as fast as you can, and then set it aside, pleased that you have captured brilliance, that exact moment of divine reckoning where Truth (capital T) has been revealed to you. So you fall blissfully back to the cushions, sigh a contented sigh and embrace sleep only to wake abruptly and realize that on that massive pile of paper and books surrounding your bed…

 

you’ve lost your treasure.  That precious, nay, sacred gem is buried somewhere deep within the  folds of chaos, and like blinking right before the picture... you know you've been caught with your eyes closed, and you'll never figure out where you put that damn scrap of paper, and you don’t even know what that paper looked like, or what color of pen, pencil, crayon you used for the text because you didn’t even bother to turn on the light before you began penning your serendipitous verse down?

No?

Maybe it’s just me.

Anyway, this post is about luck. Why some people seem to have good luck, and some people seem to have bad luck. My oldest daughter seems to have the worse luck of anyone in the family. She’s been to the emergency room more than all my children combined. She trips, a lot. She hits her head on things, a lot. She’s dealt with the suicide of two close friends. On reflection, she’s come to a point where she’s developed a healthy does of sick humor to cope. .

Now when something bad happens, like she hits her head or stubs her toe or cuts her finger somehow on a box of cereal (really, how does one CUT their finger on a cereal box?) she says: “Dang it! I shouldn’t have been a Murdering Pirate Whore!”

and we laugh.

Now there’s Ben. He has found so many four leaf clovers in his life we stopped counting after a hundred. One time the child found twelve of them, all at once, during soccer practice. (What he was doing looking for clover rather than practicing, I can’t tell you.) I find them too, every once in a while, only one or maybe two at time. But almost every time that child goes outside, viola’ there’s a clover. My other children have invested time in attempting this feat. The youngest two will try on and off to find them. They’ll spend twenty or thirty minutes looking before they give up and Ben will come up, bend right over in front of them and pluck it out of the bunch.

I asked him how he did that.

“I don’t know, I just sorta feel like there’s one there. When I feel like there’s a clover there, I just go over and get it.”

Now, I wonder can our expectations MAKE bad things happen and good things happen when we want? Does Ben believing he has the power to find four leaf clovers, give him that power. Does Halee believing (somewhat) she must have done something bad to have bad things happen in turn make bad things happen?

I don’t claim I know. All I know is that, for my own part, my luck would have it that the epiphany I was going to share in this post is likely lost forever.

Dang it. I shouldn’t have been a pirate whore.

From Schole’: “Pied Beauty”

Glory be to God for dappled things –

For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;

For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;

Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;

Landscape plotted and pieced – fold, fallow, and plough;

And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare and strange;

What is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)

With swift, slow; sweet, sour; dazzle, dim;

He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:

Praise him.

 

by Gerard Manley Hopkins, Poet-Priest, 1844-1889

Legacy of Pennies. Remembering Gary

Today is the one year anniversary of Gary’s suicide.  But rather than dwelling on how he left us, I’d rather dwell on what he left us with. 

Pennies. 

More to come…

***

You know. I wanted to make this positive and uplifting. I wanted to write, everything’s all okey dokey now. We have our memories and that’s enough and things will all work out in the end. But, perhaps a year isn’t enough time. Perhaps this isn’t the right space to show the under-belly of a horrific event. Perhaps silence is the best gift you can give.

But, I can’t be silent anymore. Gary was gay. A group of kids (mostly Jocks) were very unkind to him. I don’t know much about his home life other than his mother was supportive of him. I know my daughter would come home and tell me about the latest escapade on the bus where the ridicule and torment were getting so bad one time that she stood up and yelled “SHUT UP!!!” and actually physically went to smack a football player upside the head, or wherever she could reach. Now, my daughter is a pacifist, she’s the oldest of five and has played the role of peacemaker her entire life. She doesn’t yell. She doesn’t get mad. She doesn’t like to hurt anyone’s feelings, ever.

The WHY of what happened doesn’t matter. The HOW doesn’t matter. What matters now is honest reflection. In this community tolerance towards homosexuality is pretty much at a zero. I don’t care what religion you are, but from what I understand about Christianity Jesus said, “Love God with all your heart, mind, and might, and love thy neighbor as thyself. On this hangs all the law of the prophets.”

LOVE, not judge, not condemn, not exclude, not preach to, convert, LOVE.

Unconditionally.

This community is full of churches, a church on every corner. Yet the high-school has one of the highest rates of drug use and pregnancies in the valley, three suicides in almost as many years.

Gary had a smile for every person. The awkward outcast, the shy girl who no-one spoke to, the boy who was smaller and weaker than others…He was KIND.
Since he’s been gone I’ve been finding pennies everywhere, where-ever I go. He used to call himself “King of the Pennies.” People who knew him, loved him. It’d become a tradition for his friends to give pennies to the king of pennies. A standing joke, here’s a handful of worthless change, ha ha. Here’s a down payment for your car, ha ha.

No one knew he kept each and every penny. He saved them to give to a teacher who in turn, gave them in service of the homeless, the hungry.

By itself, a penny isn’t much of anything. A penny is a waste of space. A penny won’t buy you anything.

But whenever I see a penny now, I think of him. I pick it up. I put it away. I don’t know what I’m saving it for. I don’t know that I have as much hope or faith as Gary did, that a few pennies here and there gathered together can make any amount of difference, but God knows…if he left us in this place without him, and there are only these pennies left to remember him by, then, we have to try.

Across a Great Wilderness without You - Poets.org - Poetry, Poems, Bios & More

A "must read" poem, found via Stephen Bunch (thanks for sharing) Across a Great Wilderness without You - Poets.org - Poetry, Poems, Bios & More:

If you are on fire, do not run.

How many poets does it take to write a poem? None. Obviously a poem can write itself. Ha!   

The past few days I've experienced the awkward side to the creative process: Publishing. I was invited to contribute to a book with three other poets. It was a simple question really, do you want to be published or don't you? But, I wasn't fond of the collection title. I jumped right in to the ring and started swinging. Why that title, why not THIS title?

( Simple? Asking four poets to agree on one thing, simple?) Ha! again.

If I didn't get a better title, I thought to myself, one that truly represented me and my work, why, I might just take my poems and go! *stomping my feet.*

I realized, on some level, my reaction was purely instinctual (and somewhat childish). Why was I feeling so overly protective towards my work? Would a title diminish what I'd spent so much time and energy creating? Was it the fact that I didn't get to pick the title myself, was I a control freak?

I wasn't sure.

I asked my husband: "Would you say I'm a difficult person?"

He didn't even say anything; he just gave me a look.

Reality check—Duh. Yes.

"Gee, thanks a lot."

My husband laughed. "Difficult, but fun, wouldn't want you any other way."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you don't always listen. It's very frustrating. You already have your mind made up before a conversation or debate even begins."

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do. When you make up your mind about something, you won't change it for anything."

I contemplated this for a moment. I have changed my mind about some things, very drastically in the past ten years in fact. But was it true that I didn't listen? I considered the discussions we've had about politics and religion…

"I don't change my mind because I'm RIGHT." I told him.

He laughed again. "See, that's what I mean."

"Fine."

"Don't be mad. You asked."

"Fine."

I've always considered myself open-minded, aware of others points of view and empathetic towards those views. But, was I—really?

I reviewed my position on the title of the book and I took myself out of the debate, got out of the way of others who have their own vision concerning the name, and threw my own ego out the window. This allowed the universe to approach me with a measure of grace. Almost.

Ha! So there. ..see! I can change my mind.

To boil what I learned from this experience down to one sentence, I'll quote a writer friend of mine who suggested in situations like this I should just go with the flow and:

"Be grateful, not grating."