The Quiet Girl

She wasn’t the kind of girl who sought the spotlight.

In fact she avoided it.

But she loved to sing.

She sang in the shower,

she sang in the background,

she sang harmony,

she sang those echoing lines that not everyone realizes are even there.

No one focused upon her,

no interviews,

no paparazzi,

no Twitter following.

No one could even really describe what she looked like.

All they knew is that once she stopped singing nothing ever sounded the same again.


Little Piggies

*I turned a 2 minute impromptu naked pig mask selfie shoot into This:

This Little Piggy went to market

This Little Piggy stayed home

This Little Piggy dropped acid

This Little Piggy dropped none

This Little Piggy cried WEEWEEWEE all the way home

*If you liked this, you might enjoy my short story THE KILLER – scroll down

He’s a Bad Boy, for Breaking My Heart

I have kind of a slow burn with death.

It can take a while for grief to consume my cells, but once saturated, I live with that person by my side.

Memories everywhere.

This one just shot through my heart:

One of my best friends, Inès, the one who has passed from pancreatic cancer, holding her closed hand out to me and then dropping something into mine.

It was a tiny neon pink button that read:


Delicate Flower

I’m a delicate flower.

And I hate it.

I can’t drink much.

It makes me sick.

And I don’t mean puke sick,

I mean complete immune system crash sick.

I’m stronger than I used to be, but if I don’t listen carefully to every cue from my body, I can end up sick for weeks.

And it pisses me off.

Sick is my alcoholism.

It trips me up every time I think I’m going to get somewhere in my life.

It’s the reason I can’t hold a “real” job.

It’s the first thing I would change if given 3 wishes.

I hate being sick.

I wish I could drink in place of it.

I wish, instead of wasting all my time in bed, sleeping, trying to feel better, I could waste my time in madness, drinking.

At least then I would be engaged with life, listening to music and telling stories, howling at the moon. dancing, and fucking… even if I don’t remember it at all later.

It tends to be week 5 in bed that I start to lose it.

My mental balance.

It’s then that the specter of the 10 years of chronic illness starts whispering in my ear that it’s coming to get me again.

That while I thought I was holding balance through clean air and healthy living, that I really just am a victim waiting for the attack that I can never stop.

That I am defenseless.

That resistance is futile.

Time is one of my most precious commodities, the thing I fear losing the most.

At least if I was drinking, I would be killing time on my own terms.

Not having it stolen, one nap at a time.

At least maybe then, the pages of the calendar would ruffle in the breeze, instead of blowing away entirely.

Wish You Were Here

I had a friend who protected herself to death.

She was dedicated to turning over stones to reveal potential and hidden dangers in our world.

She was highly intelligent, and was not going to be anyone’s fool.

She knew where to look, how to research, and how to read between the “it’s not a big deal” lines of rhetoric.

While she was at it, she uncovered all sorts of abuse and injustices, plots and conspiracies.

If you weren’t aware of them, she would disseminate information, seeming to feel smart and important.

There were things she refused to eat or sit next to.

She eschewed Facebook and microwave ovens,

No secret horrors were going to sneak up on her!

“I know too much.” was all she would say, as she mysteriously pushed a beverage away from herself.

The problem was that she forgot there was more.

She focused on the bad, the awful, the scary and the disappointing, like it was a religion, but forgot to acknowledge the beautiful, the potential for grace and trust that surrounded her at all times.

She became out of balance.

Eventually she lost the sweetness of life.

This was confirmed with a diagnosis of pancreatic cancer.

The wonderful and unique gifts she had to offer the world were strangled and withered at the end of a string like a deflating helium balloon.

No one could believe that the life could drain from this outrageously beautiful, ridiculously smart, big hearted, seemingly fearless lioness of a woman.

But with all those punctures in her heart and soul… she couldn’t hold on. Her life simply leaked onto the floor, and crept away on cats paws.

It’s Too Late

I crouched on Eric’s bathroomfloor, giggling with to my soon-to-be lover in the wee hours of the morning.

A speck of guilt twinged my conscience when my eyes rested on his stupid piano shaped phone at the end of the handset’s curly cord.

But. I won’t do this again.

I won’t sit on your shelf, waiting for you to play with me. Waiting for all those. “more important than me” people and issues to be addressed, resolved, and then endlessly examined.

I’m done being Kleenex.

For anyone.

Hells Bells 

Here I am again.         

                                                                          This is probably why the stories,                                              The warnings                                                  Are so great in number.

It was surreal to begin with,                         
and I can’t decide if now its More Surreal.    
Or incredibly hyper REAL.

All I know is that I feel lost,            
Scrambling to wrap my head around any possible misstep,                                  
Even though as I retrace my steps,
              I see nothing but dance.

Suddenly I am that being,                                 In that one George Bernard Shaw play, Realizing the Real within the surreal,
Resisting succumbing to the inevitable pull of time and gravity,                                        
All the while longing for the Peace that only acceptance of What Is can manifest. 

The leaking                                                      The memories                                                Real or imagined                                            Toy with my weaknesses.                          
And confuse me to the point of absurdity
The pounding rabbit heartbeat of not knowing 

It’s not you…
It’s the bells in my head that are bad. 

But you rang them, and right now sound is Deafening