it is our job
to document the times
in which we live
i have no time
for what never was
there is no poetry in what might have been
bones grow from the center outward
and mine have existed long enough
to ache with all they know
what should be
we live out the choices we make
so few of us retain the right
to label ourselves victim
yet it seems everyone is wearing that t-shirt
these baby boomers
are cashing in their pensions
timothy leary bleary eyed
She begins to speak and
her tremulous voice cracks
her words shaky, yet sincere
and full of truth.
Her voice submerged beneath audible
for far too many sorrows.
Her feelings found their way to words
now tumbling into the air
as they quiver past her lips
sharing her history
expressed by heart.
Her story unfurling
in disjointed fragments of
paragraphs and chapters;
her sentences in turn
poetic and pedantic
revealing the dramatic dance
in which she never quite found
her place in the rhythm
because the tune was not her own.
“I Save Twenty Bucks a Month Not Buying Tampons”
My hot flashes are getting hotter. My desire is getting colder. And my patience and my hair are growing thin. I can barely remember ten minutes ago let alone yesterday. Sending an email that makes sense requires no less than five reviews. I could doze off in front of a friend telling the most riveting story. Or I could stay up all night watching Barbra Streisand TV specials. My attention span is less than that of a two year old. I must be entertained at “Hello” or I’m bored. I take no pills. I create my own prisoners. My filter is worn through. There is very little between my thoughts and my voice. There is less between my insanity and my reality. And there is nothing between my legs. Menopause has set me free. I am a liberated b-otch who has nothing to prove to anyone but herself. That, my friends, is more significant than saving twenty bucks a month not buying tampons.
“Last night the moon was a sun-bleached cowskull.
Clouds moved across the night like sandstorm.
The hours slithered by,
dug their poisonous fangs into me.
My body slipped off into fevered dreams,
Sometimes sleep is an unforgiving desert.”
(Los Angeles, Poet)
“I hear the moan that gets lodged in your throat,” she says. That
‘uh, uh, uh, uh,’ I do.
Just like boys do. “My Butterfly Penis!” I say. She likes
to look at my face right before I make her
cum. “To watch your conceited gaze, “ she says. The
point at which she knows I
have her. “What else do you see? “ she says. “I hear a little
girl. With a dainty voice. Making
soft sounds,” I say. It’s more of a look on your face. Your angles
get softer. Like the muscles in your jaw relax.
But if you could fit inside my skin with me and fit inside my
love for you. You would see, you would feel all that I know.
And you would lie there naked-unafraid. Totally
exposed. Like a little show-off.
long nails and silver rings
hands that speak a gesture
silver chains around my neck
with bracelets on my arm
a silver watch that keeps
(Miss Calif. 1944)
Thank you for all of your love
and laughter Shirley…I am happy
you are free to party now!
I love you…
your BFF Lisa 🙂