with apologies to Mindy

I blamed Mindy for the mess on the floor at her house.

"I think Mindy got a bit messy with the crafting this weekend and is blaming everything on the pets. Minnnndy."

This is how the universe responded:

diesseell

The cat's name is Diesel.

a poem after the style of D. A. Powell

[reading poetry leads: to writing. often enough this]

reading poetry leads: to writing. often enough this
is not true, pretentious poets being what they are

and they cannot help it, I know. so I take the cue
promptly and run with it. David Sedaris’ new book

the one about the animals—naughty, what else?—is on
my mind: gay men comprising the theme today. loving

that so much, I can’t swallow the coffee for the humming
and the reading out loud and the anticipation. (Dave not hitting

the Kindle ‘til tomorrow; fuck, right there in the middle.) oh hell
with the gerunds. hitting. loving. not taking the ing out of humming

bird, I don’t care what. humbird. humbug.

So I am writing today, a poem, not reading
the other three articles for tonight. response due: today at 5

more things I should be doing. enjoying it so much,
so fuck-in-the-middle much, that I am swallowing. If you love it

that much. swallow, hummingbird, just swallow.
I am writing, today, poetry: I should say so

A Morning's Work

Laundry

Kleenex

Survivor Statement

The mother in me
would remove your lungs
by teaspoons over
a number of months,
watching your breath
grow precious.

She would have you
live long years,
seeing those
whom you have loved
die in your eyes,
waking you often
to view reruns.

The woman who
put her child to sleep
brushing circles
with her cheek on
a tiny head of baby hair
would hood you
and beat you on bare feet with
bouquets of barbed wire.

The sensible liberal
who is carrying my purse,
containing a card for
the ACLU and a copy of
the New Testament (NRSV),
petitions nightly to God
to deny you entrance to Hell,
sentencing you to a lonely
oblivion, conscious of your loss.

We dream of these and other
gruesome punishments for you,
often shocking the little
girl in me who had her own
nightmare offender, but we shush
her protests. She is not a mother.
The only thing that might
make it any bit better
is to never have been born—
you or I—it hardly matters which.

Error in Syntax

roses
having no noses
do not smell

I Don't Want to Die Right Now

I heard it said on TV
flashed back to times when
that wasn't true

I am so glad to have failed
at least twice
at least that many times

failure teaches they say
and saves your life
saves your life

I'm Back to the Blog - a poem to celebrate

beautician baby

her hair, blonde in the way only a toddler's can be
escaped barrettes and blew across blue eyes

long hair, daddies like and mommies brush
to remove the tangles left by dreams

this hair, she poked out her bottom lip
to direct a blast of baby breath against it

and it fluttered up, blonde hair, caught the light
to settle back on cheek as sure as eyes are blue