New Cleaner, Close Call, Horror Story

We are looking for a new house cleaner. I hopefully have someone coming to interview today. We’ll see how it goes. I don’t want to go much longer without someone to clean. Obviously, I clean too. But I definitely need someone to come on a regular basis and do cleaning.

I have been sick. I have been vomiting bile for hours every day for several days. I finally went to an emergency room to make sure that everything was okay and that I didn’t have a recurrence of a medical problem I have had before. They took a CT scan and said that everything was good. They gave me some medicine for nausea, and I’ve been taking that for 2 days. It helps a lot more than it did when I was pregnant. They also told me that I have a cyst on an ovary that probably needs to be fixed. Sometime this week I will call a gynecologist. I just really don’t feel like it. I don’t want to go into one. So if it’s not too big I will probably just let it burst. It hurt like hell the last time that happened to me but at least I didn’t have to go in for one of those god-awful exams. It’s just important to make sure that the cyst is not above a certain size because if it is you can have a lot of internal bleeding when it ruptures. I am just beyond grateful it wasn’t the problem I was afraid it was.

It must be a stomach bug, but this is a very unusual and long-lasting stomach bug.

I have been doing some writing but not as much as I would like. On a bright note, I have begun writing horror (what a weird sentence). I’ve been talking about it for ages, but I put fingers to keyboard and I started a story. I have the beginning how I want it, although as usual I will have to revise 50 more times. I just not sure how I want it to end. I’m not sure where I want to take it. And I have a second story in the works.


The electric book hums,

breath gently, contently

escaping between pages.

What if you popped a balloon

and the air kept coming

and coming?

This conjuncture stays in

the library where it belongs

tended by the purple librarian.

In the living room

the dance has become

joints half eaten by microbes,

rhythmically popping.

What starts as a good time

will end in death

as it always does.

In the shelves,

a sleeping beast with my face.


My motives caravan

through a red, peerless desert.

Water travels just ahead

slightly faster than either I

or my mirror glass needs

can go.

Out here,

straws and dictionaries

present serious problems.

As though it were dead skin

scraped from the devil’s heel

by a pumice stone,

my purest motive blows

around the others.

If I flew my determinations

like kites,

attached to my stringy nerves,

could they rise to Heaven

and beg for a cloud?


I escape from the camera,

breaking through the

red tape

like a finish line.

What difference does it

make if the old house

turns blue?

The surveillance of my feet

reveals slick roads.

Confined actors in a play

poorly scripted.

The wasps I shared my

candies with

sting one another.

The other side of bureaucratic eyes

is a dim place,

shy from old rejections.


Agnostic calendars

are great for those

whose lives are spiced

with regret.

On the cutting board,

her right arm.

Home is smart.

Weather is dumb,

beating the bones

out of what already dies.


the months refuse

to coalesce into a year.

She wants what she

can’t have—

a private train.

Her old job

encased amber.

Dirty Poem with Christmas

Found poetry on my phone.

Shore said he thought he was my best friend. The windows then go masturbate and get to know you. Tearing down a word or two about the flower growing up, she has been so tired. Carnality is a big deal to begin with, but it isn’t a good idea for Christmas.


Like a strobe light,

my nipple flash from my

bra cups,

overflow of myself and my softness.

He seizes me with his smart hands.

He knows what to do.

He will tease my peaks

and stroke my heart in

small, deft movements.

This is the game we play—

him catching me over and

over again like a ball.

I throw myself into clothes,

then shed them like unwanted baggage.

It is dark at the fringes

of my lomographic mind,

and in the center is my man,

plunging into me like a

lamp into an outlet,

completing my loop.

My hips squeezed in the

straps of lingerie,

I wait breathlessly for that

meaningful motion of his

hands tugging my panties

down just a little,

giving me permission to

unwrap myself

in his mute language.

My fire begins at my neck.

The beginning of pleasure

presides over the creased

space between shoulder blade

and ear.

That is where he starts—

at the beginning—

wise to my whimsical womanhood.


The whiteness of deers’ fear

behind the wheel of the car

I stole.

Deep in the woods,

whispering moss.

The direction the road takes

is determined by the path

families will take.

On their way to an

end made of synthetic light,

hurtling metal.