Before the revolution, we had tape
decks and ghetto blasters and psychedelic
posters. The hummingbirds out there in the
desert sipped red syrup and sang their scorched


music to our patios and golf courses.
Before the revolution, we were one for
all and all for one. We sang kumbaya
and rested our arms on each others’ shoulders.


We smoked whifty, ate food, counted our change
and chipped in, shared cheap red wine at gatherings
where we shouted slogans and argued meanings.
We vowed never to send out children to schools


which required uniforms, or never to send
them to school at all, or we vowed never to
have children. We fucked each other with vigor
and intensity followed by yabyum and


hashish. Before the revolution, the wind
blew strong through the canyons and brought the desert
to our doors and windows, sighed and sobbed what was
to come, sighed and sobbed probabilities and


failures. We knew furniture makers and bread
bakers and those who created sand paintings,
drug addicts who wrote songs, hefty women who
sat at looms and lay with strangers.  It was a


good time. Forever was ending even as
we lived it. Now, there are places where the grass
is no longer damp in the mornings. There are
skies the color of a dirty plastic bag


and that which races through the canyons are strong
winds tainted with the smell of blood. The bosses
are at the doors of our bathrooms and bedrooms.
The money-ed are large, even-toed ungulates.


They eat anything they come across; grass, coins,
berries, carrion, dollar bills, tubers, bonds,
monuments, baby feet, insects. They use their
powerful noses, not just for sniffing and

pig nose

locating but for rooting up the sidewalks,
the beaches, forest floors, the arctic ice floes.
They burn the books and shun science; they nurture
illiteracy, proclaim the trivial.


Now we work for all there is and for nothing
at all. The jewels, gemstones gone to calcium,
pulp and cementum, dentum and enamel
animosteeth in the mouth of a dragon.

greedy drgon



*from the article “Feeding Pigs Do’s and Don’t’s” by Jeff Griffith; July 3, 2009; Smallholder, UK



We should be screaming.
War (s) is unending.
We are at the mercy of the gangs––
not those gun-toting,
gangs from every southern-
and below-the-tracks parts
of every big city in America.

You know who I mean:
the government gangs,
the corporate gangs,
the oil-coated,
thugs who lead us around
by balls and tits.

We should be screaming.
The poets, the painters,
the screenwriters,
the weavers, the potters,
the sculptors and the film stars.

We should be screaming.
The Holiness and the
Pentecostal evangelists
scream for more weaponry,
more anger, more hell on earth.
They scream in tongues––
the tongues of triggers
the tongues of firing pins,
the tongues of knife blades
the tongues of baseball bats
wrapped in razor wire.
Those who handle serpents

are not afraid of handling serpents––
with good reason––
the serpents know them and
scream out their names while
the gospel hymns are sung.

We should be screaming.
The poets, the composers,
the dancers, the guitarists
and the alto sax men.
This country we so reluctantly share
with each other has laryngitis
of the heart.

Our souls hurt so much
that only the morphine
of ignorance dulls the agony.
All these years, all the dead
marching through the years,
all the suits behind desks
stealing the years,
plotting the deaths
of someone else’s kid
in someone else’s country.

Those ghosts walk here, you know,
no matter how many memorials
the goon squads raise.
Those ghosts stand behind their
murderer’s chairs at the Bistro Bis,
watch them eat lobster salad and
drink from cold, brilliantly clean glasses.

We should be screaming––howling
as Ginsberg Howled,
writhing as Ray Smith’s
Unguernica II writhed,
shamed and shaming as
Barlach’s Madeburger Ehrenmal shamed.

Our houses are as silent as the graves
to which we escort each other.
We should be screaming.




  1.  Why is weight loss at the top of my “to do” list this year like all other years?


2.  Why do I check Submittable as often as others check their stock market changes?Their results are probably a lot better than mine.


3.  Why do I consistently devalue my own work, consistently compare it to that of others’?


4.  Why do I hold myself responsible for the bad behavior of others?


5.  Why do I spend so much/too much time on Facebook?


6. Where is God and how do I locate him/her in myself?


7.  Do family and friends who have passed have any interest whatsoever in us?


8.  How do I stop resenting my age?


9.   How do continue to “grow” my work besides just reading the work of others?


10.  How do I get my cat to like being cuddled?


Just like Count Dracula, you have to INVITE him in. (Or, “This Election Sucked, Didn’t It?”)

If you are usually kind, stay kind.  If you are usually non-judgmental, stay non-judgmental.


If you are pro-equality for all regardless of gender or sexual preference, don’t change.


If you stop at red lights, refrain from throwing garbage in the streets, open doors for other citizens, give the occasional hand to a neighbor, slip a homeless person a dollar and a sandwich, don’t stop that.


If you go to church or temple, say “Amen” or allah ‘akbar, cut coupons, whistle while you work, pick up after yourself, don’t stop doing those things.





If you have your friends’ backs, if you don’t bully, pick fights or make mean faces at other people, keep up the good work.







If you believe in prayer, magic, miracles, poetry, colorbooks, omens, good perfume, champagne, good shoes, the daily horoscope, keep believing.

















If you have good manners, respect others, love and protect animals, children, the elderly, the disabled, keep doing that.






If you are a feminist, anti-war, pro OR anti abortion, keep those beliefs.   If you are not a bigot, don’t start being one.

If you don’t pick your nose, puke in public, pee on the streets, run around with your pants unbuttoned, don’t start now.

Donald Trump is not going to come into your home, your heart, or your mind unless you want him there. He can’t force you to do a thing you wouldn’t already do.  You don’t have to stop being who you are because of who he is.




Dr. Caligari’s Cabinet

I love horror films!  LOVE THEM.  Not the slasher stuff, but the paranormal, supernatural, psychological thriller kinds where there are hauntings and furniture flying through the air., or figures in hoods skulking through forests or dark hallways. I love ghosts andnosferatu4.jpg shadows that run across the screen behind the hero’s back or out of the corner of our heroine’s eye.  My father, a man who loved sports and John Wayne movies, used to groan, “How did I raise such a ghoul?”  I know there are those who simply cannot watch this genre of film.  Horror movies give them stomach aches and nightmares.

As I thought about this over the last few days, I came to realize that my love for the ghoulish comes out of a realization that NOTHING is as scary as real life.  It’s not the zombies, ghosts, mad monks, aliens, or demons that haunt my days and nights, it’s real life.

It’s the shootings in schools and theaters and restaurants, (more frequent now than ever), cropped-stereotypes12.jpgit’s the continual state of war America continues to pursue, it’s my America’s insistence on isolating and blaming the Muslim community for terrorism, it’s the upswing in racism and ageism, it’s the increasing gender shaming/body shaming/sexism, it’s the hatred for good religious people and organizations because of the behavior and meanness of bad people who call themselves “religious.” Hell!  I haven’t scratched the surface. There are beatings of homeless people, the elderly buying cat and dog food for themselves to eat, threats by the government to take away social security and welfare programs, threats of walls between countries and always the threat and the fear that there is nothing to be done about it.  That’s some scary stuff!


Not even Freddy Kreuger can compete with the ugly, devisive attitude rampant in the lonelyStraight vs. the LGBTQIA  communties. Scary is more than an alien abduction.  Scary is sitting in a bar or at a party or in a cafe and knowing that the crowd there doesn’t like you because you are gay or straight or ugly or fat or religious or non-religious or poor or disabled, and they are not afraid to let you know it.


From there to here, from here to there, terrifying things are everywhere.  “The Walking Dead” has nothing so scary in it as our government’s control of US citizens. Not a flesh-eater anywhere can hold a candle to Bush Jr., Dick Cheney, David Duke, Henry Kissinger, or the Koch brothers.  “The Conjuring” never imagined a evil spirit as soulless as the big banks and the billionaires who own the U.S. government and own us as well.

I blame no one in particular. There’s plenty of fright to go around and way too many real-life people to scatter it. I just think it’s downright hilarious that rest and respite can be found in “The Exorcist,” and that the worst nightmares come from the news.

’nuff said


Prayer to the Divine Feminine

Beloved mothers of Humanity …
We thank you for watching over us and
for nourishing our souls with kindness and mercy …Mary Queen of Heaven

Thank you for showing us ways that lead to the
You are Mystic Roses of the world’s gardens;
You are precious waters cooling the deserts.
Your presence purifies everything.
You are the mothers who protect us,
who help us to heal the wounds and scarsHindu Goddess
this false world brings to us.
Thank you, Divine Mothers, for the ancient wisdom and
the clarity your love offers us.
Ladies of Peace,

Ladies of Meditation and Prayer,
Mothers of this world and the one beyond,
grant us grace, peace, the willingness to forgive.
Ladies of the Rainbow, of the Angels, of the Lotus,
shine on us the rays of the Creator’s love that we
might warm this frigid world.
Spread over us the Divine Cloak of your endless love.
Calm us that we may calm the fearful.
Warm us that we may warm those who are cold.
Feed us that we may feed the hungry.
Forgive us that we may forgive all humankind.
Jewels of Heaven, continue to love us though
we rarely deserve it. Show us humanity through Muslim female saint
your eyes. Continue, please, to plead
for us, to place our vulnerable souls and our
human needs before the Creator.

Shanti.   Amen.   Amin.  
Om Mane Padme Hum.   Hallelujah.


Back in February 2015, I had surgery to replace a hip.  Leading up to that surgery were a couple of the most pain-filled years I can ever recall.  AND, the good news?  I lost weight.  A  lot  of  weight. Pain took away my appetite for the first time EVER.clothes_too_big_by_toxiccloudz-d5m2gg4

After the surgery, all my clothes were two sizes too large. It was Heaven time for me and my closet.  I gazed at my skinny self in the mirror, thrilled with what I saw–and I DO mean thrilled.  Ribs, hip bones, cheekbones, no appetite to speak of.  I got on the scale at home with glee, fully clothed.  Could those numbers be real?  I was happy to have them weigh me at the doctor’s office.  I was THIN.  Lovely.

Gradually, I have put back on some of the weight I lost. Gradually and regretfully, my appetite has returned. This morning I got dressed and thought about getting on the scale to see how much I’d gained. I broke into a cold sweat, my stomach lurched, I felt like crying.

I was scared to death to get on that scale. In fact, did NOT get on the scale.

What a pathetic set of emotions!  Here I am, a woman of 72 years. Throughout my life I have had many challenges: no food in the house and no money and no working car in a town with little bus service, had my utilities turned off, been beaten by an ex, had numerous surgeries, walked miles when I shouldn’t have been walking at all, etcetcetc–all the scary things others have gone through–and I came out ok on the other side. Sometimes I was a little nervous, but not often frightened.


So, why is it, that just the thought of those numbers on a scale in the privacy of my bathroom terrify me to the point of cold sweats and nausea?  Last year, I got dressed with a song in my heart and a big smile on my face. Last year, my closet was not the Haunted Mansion reborn.  Last year, my jeans were just my jeans, my shirts just my shirts, nothing more. This morning they were dragons, night-blooming monsters, and wild beasts.  Last year I told myself that I had FINALLY grown up and out of that crappy body image thing. Last year, I told myself that hating every pound and inch on my body didn’t have to be a “woman thing.” And here I am again. This “woman thing” taking big bites out of my life and my time.  How do we make it stop?

This morning, my body said, “Who are you kidding??” And I responded as always..