Saturday, April 30, 2011

Sex, as I Recall it.

How does one know that one is not a lesbian?
When you are haunted by the scent of a man.

Sorry, Ladies, it would be easier to go your way.
And find a hundred lovers, but ooooh, that smell.

The strong shoulder and the curve of the back.
The hand that envelopes yours and opens the door.

And that scent that even the shower can’t erase,
Especially when you are there, washing his back.

And then, in the sheets, when he slides inside
Without a word, easily, because you want him there.

There is no machine on earth that can match this.
There is no machine to kiss you and whisper.

And cover you with the musky, manly scent of love,
Perfuming you as you make the morning coffee.

We are animals. We must smell our mate.
We are animals. We must meet our mate.

We cannot do it here, on a cold computer screen.
We know nothing until our nose gets involved.

And our fingers touch and we look into real eyes.
Only then we may speak of Love and Lust.

And let our hearts be broken.

Thursday, April 28, 2011

I Can't Produce my Original Birth Certificate.

Thirty-six years ago, I married and changed my name from Susan Carol Boring to Susan Boring Reinhard, thinking marriage covered it. But, I could not get a driver’s license unless I called myself Susan Carol Reinhard, so I did. Social Security accepted Susan Boring Reinhard, as did my banks, etc. But in 2006, the State of New Jersey decided they could catch terrorists and illegal aliens by requiring the Social Security name on the Drivers’ License, completely forgetting the fact that terrorists and illegals don’t have ANY driver’s license at all.

So, for $3,000, I took the fast and easy route, just so I only had to redo the license, I opted for Susan Boring Reinhard. Yes, Boring is my middle name. (Thanks, Dad! Did it for you. I’m an idiot). The State of Pennsylvania destroyed my original birth certificate for Susan Carol Boring and now I am officially born Susan Boring Reinhard.  (This annoys my mother because she hates my first husband so much that she spells my name Rinehard after thirty-six years, thus voiding me from her will.)

Of course, if I were President, not being African-American, I probably wouldn't be forced to produce it, you racist pigs who demanded it of Obama.

And being that in the last few weeks, I have allowed a huge pile of reality into my life, driving out all the fantasy, I am wondering if I am any one of these people, Boring, Reinhard or Rinehard. Retirement and Disability are what is Boring. Being fat, and old, with a disproportioned face is what is Boring. And that is my middle name. Legally. Here I stand, on two legs and a cane, alone in reality. I have to figure out how to make it all Reinhard again. (This annoys my first husband, Ethan Reinhard, who wanted me to go back to Boring after the divorce. Not for a last name, Kid.) You can’t go back. You can’t change anything...except the name you were born with.

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Plus des Poems de Terre

Engine slips out of gear
...sputters and dies... story line for my
...fantasy machine.
There will be no stars the sky tonight beautiful smiles
...or warm flesh, therefore... sleep.

Was the gauntlet dropped if you didn’t notice it fall?
Should I pick it up if you don’t give a damn if I do?

We play the same game I play with my mother
Your childhood was worse until you confront her
And then, you’d better drop to your knees.
And beg for forgiveness from the Queen of Pain.

Blue and blue and more blue
You say the paint was on sale.
I toss my metaphor into the trash.
And drown in your skies and seas.

What is this magic that will happen
When he/she/it arrives?
Why is what has been impossible
For fifty years
Suddenly possible today?
What changed?
Not us.

Monday, April 25, 2011

Poems de Terres

“Cinnamon, curry, tangerines”.
The best line I ever wrote.
Because you can taste it.
And smell it in the air.
I can make of you a King
In my dreams but somehow
I can never rise above
Lady in Waiting.
Every day, there’s a riot
And a party in my mind
Especially when nothing
Real is of interest.
Are any animals androgynous?
That is what I want to be.
Sexless, free, with no fences.
And then, I see his hands.
This world! This world!
This fucking nasty world!
Where the pigs rule
And children starve.
I should be marching.
I should be screaming.
I should be demanding justice.
Not writing bad poems again.

Sunday, April 24, 2011

I am not Qualified to Write One Word

I am not qualified to write one word
About the world or its suffering masses.
I’m safe, cowardly, coddled for disease.
Most of my words are nonlethal gasses.

I can’t escape my woman’s clinging skin.
I can’t see beyond the fairy tale to life.
I am human, I am mortal, One cell.
In this vast reality. More than wife.

Adrienne, Sylvia, how did you lose
The steel of a Maya or an Alan?
You sang like larks, then flung yourselves away.
And we never heard your sweet voices again.

I must not make of you model or Muse.
I must not let mere loneliness still me.
I must not let romance censor me or
Stop me from being all that I can be.

A senior citizen...still a student
With the clock running, no time for the past
Which can’t be changed or reconciled today.
Do it today before I breathe my last.

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

The Dream World is Over. Wake Up

While I can understand that worrying about Vampire and Wizards and Justin Bieber can provide a little respite from the day-to-day troubles of the world, it’s time to deal with the fact that the day-to-day world is in your face, screaming. If we ignore the Republican agenda, we will end up living in Nazi Germany on a bowl of gruel a day, living in a barracks. Every other cent will be given to the rich while we watch The Real Housewives (Prostitutes) of Somewhere roll in the mud for our entertainment. (The Barracks will have televisions to keep us quiet.)

I think I am well qualified to speak of fantasy. I spent my whole life fantasizing about being rescued by a Prince Charming. I’m not sure I put the real men into that Savior category because as I got sucked into the bad marriages, I was daydreaming about movie stars and TV stars. Would I had been daydreaming about novelists and physicists, but that would have involved too much reading. Both times, I ended up paying all the bills and doing all the housework for someone who would say to my face that he didn’t love me and go off to fantasize about a pinup who would have laughed in his face.

I’ve spent the last thirty-five years virtually apolitical and totally inactive. Right now, I do have a few dollars stored away and am aware that Capitalism feels permitted to steal it. If they can get at it, I deserve to lose it. That no one was jailed for the last big meltdown proves that even Obama was co-opted. That millions of poor whites embrace the Koch-owned and operated Tea Party, cheering on their own demises, shows the reason why the powers want Education destroyed. WAKE UP!

We have to connect with real people. Put down that mouse and step away from the computer. Put down your dick and see if those hot fantasy girls will give you the time of day. Give up the fantasies of men in white Mustangs. I have to accept that I am old and sagging and it’s all right. Reality is here and it is big and ugly and pounding on the door. Meet people. Look at yourself in the mirror. Talk to people. Organize people. No. You can’t put it off another day. WAKE UP!

Monday, April 18, 2011

Starting a Political Life

I wrote a paper in high school about the election of Andrew Jackson, and I don’t remember a word of it, except that it was pretty much possible, due to a publicity machine much like we have today, for this crazy old soldier to become President. I used to know all about the Whigs and Tories, the Democrats and  Republicans who actually wanted good for the country. (YES! Lincoln was one. Hard to believe.) I’ve studied Jefferson and read Ralph Ellison, Lawrence of Arabia, and F. Scott Fitzgerald. I hardly read at all any more. I’m too restless for reading. Perhaps I’ve become addicted to writing and I’m running out of time.

Once I got into Playwriting, I started my dream days. Fame would arrive and set me free. Love would arrive and set me free. Money would arrive...stop laughing. I’m 61 years old now and the only thing that set me free was Scripps Howard. Barump-bump! Laid off two years ago, and straight onto Disability. I am annoyed by the petty realities of life. I refuse to take more than 3 medicines and will stop them when I can. I see the thousands of cars driving through the streets of Montclair, from doctor, to test, to treatment. 6 or 8 appointments a week and I think I’d rather die. If the blood clot had not been so painful that I went to the hospital, I wonder if I should have taken a pass on the rest of this insanity and let this machine stop. Fear of death makes you a slave to anyone dangling a cure. Fearlessness means you can be the guy standing in front of the tank.

But I chose to keep breathing. In 1993, I had vowed to never be distracted by men again, and then, last year, I fell head over heels for a younger man, once more ending up a bruised and bloody laughing stock. But maybe I needed that. Maybe I needed to remember I am human. No more vows. Let life happen as it happens and don’t be afraid. If it doesn’t kill you, it makes you stronger. And I think (pray) it made him stronger too. Meeting real women in real life will do that, Angel. HINT! HINT!

I have no children or grandchildren, so I’m really not like most people I know, which could be a political shortcoming. I don’t own a house and I don’t have a job. But I can see clearly that something is going wrong. I can see clearly that people are terrified to fight because they need their jobs. I can see people embracing social illiteracy and worst of all, I can see racism and hatred being praised, by the kind of scum politicians who use fear for raising money and no other reason.

Like I say, I am free and best of all, I’m not afraid. Enough with the personal. Let's picket something.

Thursday, April 14, 2011

Let's Talk About Men (Calm Down! It's Nice.)

I’ve reached the age where it is best not to think about sex, the act, but one is constantly reminded of sex, the gender. God bless all you guys who got married, had children, figured it out and stuck it out. You are smart. You accept your age and your wife’s age because you’ve taken the ride together. I have a young friend who is enjoying a young son and watching another one grow inside his wife, while at the same time, marketing a movie script successfully. I think they go hand-in-hand.

I have many male Facebook friends and enjoy the challenges and the jokes that come from all over the spectrum of humor and the world. One is teaching me about frogs and another about Australian politics. My British friend is the go to guy about guys. We have vowed to never meet and are therefore free to be open and honest about our strengths and weaknesses. And he tells great jokes.

My Minister and my building manager are good men and treat all of us with the same care and interest. It’s really quite simple, you see, when you are just dealing with deals and work and inspiration. I am so glad that I have a male playwright friend who is astonishingly successful and can understand what the hell I’m talking about when I speak of casting and set design.

After a recent...weird...experience, I can see that the problem arises when sex rears its overwhelming, addictive head. Isn’t all this talk of women’s reproductive rights another way of saying there are men who want to control our sex. Our amazing power to seduce and entrance and horrify them because we can choose life or death. I think that’s why some men get involved, to retain some power over those choices. I am watching a beloved friend destroy himself over sexual addiction and that is the one thing only a shrink help him with. I don't know what to say without...never mind.

As the old saying goes, we are all bozoes on this bus. We are all stuck in the game as Human Beings riding around on a loose cannonball called Earth and that has to bond us long after the breasts and the penises have sagged and retired. And as every woman knows, losing desire is wonderful and liberating. Losing desireability is what's depressing. Let’s sit down and talk about it. Guys?

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

There’s more than one of me, I have a job here

This blog is about women in general, I have to think about what I say and about repercussions. Of course, I know that I am not an important or relevant voice, but I have to play one in this blog. This is about women. This is about aging. This is about trying to survive in a society that tries to marginalize us and under Republican rule, literally wants us dead.

But then, there is me in real life, where I have to cut some people some slack. I have to be understanding because friends deserve that. I know them. I know why they do what they do. I have friends with troubled lives that gives them unique complications I must respect. I have a group on Facebook who want to play Volleyball on the beach and tell raunchy jokes, so I find raunchy jokes. I have a group who are into frogs and snakes, so I am trying to learn about that. There are a dozen different political causes to follow and as they are at least Facebook friends, I try to keep up. I do the least well with the literary intellectuals, ‘cause I aren’t one. All I do is write and I analyze strictly from the gut, not the brain.

I’m not a hypocrite, I’m a chameleon. Welcome to the theater.

Sunday, April 10, 2011

You'd Have to See A Certain Video to Get This

Here’s the thing: How do real women compete?
You show the cream of the crop, dressed to please.
Must they also be feminist and wise.
Christian and compassionate in their heart?
Man, is that bar set really high for us.
If forces us to ask are you their type?

I know. I know. The heart wants what it wants
Said Woody A. as he counted his cash,
Making sure Sun Yi can see it mount up.
Because,  you know  it’s all about money.
Which none of us have anymore, I fear.
It’s not cheaper to keep her in silky lace.

It makes people pity you, I fear, Love.
It makes women fear your displeasure, Love.
Because we get older, we sag, wrinkle.
Or were not born tall enough or thin enough.
Which means we have no value to you. Love.
All I ask is that you think about Granny.

When she looks like a bad Playboy cartoon
In a bustier and spiked heels over
Sags and wrinkles and a bit of a spread.
Perhaps you must find one so very young
That you will not live to see her aging.
And pray to God she understands you, Love.

You do deserve the best, I know, but, oh
It hurts us to think that that means just looks.
When we have so little control of that.
Close your eyes so to be kissed and caressed.
You don’t have to vocalize your daydream
And give yourself someone to talk with in

The lonely dark.

Saturday, April 9, 2011

About Another Woman, Not Me, How Refreshing

I was asked today, “Does he love me?”
I no longer know what to say.
Define “love” without daydreams, sweet girl.
Define it living day to day.

We both must ask, do we love ourselves
Enough to know when it’s offered?
Or is it a faceless fairy tale
That no mere mortal male can grant?

There’s no money in the mix today.
And credit burdens kill the soul.
No palace, no white steed or armor.
What can he bring you, my daughter?

Start with laughter  and intelligence.
Simple, naked sex and soft kisses
Or do complications excite you?
Do lies and games drag you closer  still?

Then, you are not ready, you must wait.
Until you won’t suffer for him.
Look in the mirror and see a Queen.
Who will make a good man into King.

And if he never comes, so be it.
This new world demands survival.
Let us be the ladies in waiting
Our skirts above the mud and the dirt.

Giving our great Love to those who need.
To our families and our friends.
No longer mourning games we won’t win.
Dancing in the sunshine alone.

Thursday, April 7, 2011

I Get What You Were Telling Me and Thank You

I think I get it now, Sweetie. I was trying to censor and control you and now that I must have no censorship or control on my art from you, I get what you meant. My deepest apologies. The sad part is that I had to get you out of my face and my work to understand, but you were also censoring me and might want to do it still. Amazing the freedom I’ve found since you are gone.

But I get it and I apologize.

Now, I’ve gone beyond the past and am opening up the doors of the future. My characters are once again taking off on their own, with me following along with steno pad, taking dictation. And you are flying; those beautiful hands churning out painting after painting. And it is not my place to say anything except that one is a masterpiece and the rest are exhilarating. Beautiful music, Thorn Bird, sing it.

I’ll follow along as best you can until you disappear and remember ever color and image. And if I can do my art half as good as you, I will be another Master.

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

First Page of New Play "Siren Tears" (From a Shakespeare Sonnet)

(You may use whatever stage you have. There should be a fainting couch, a long curved bench that a woman can lay back on. Bandu enters at a leisurely pace. He has a beard, sunglasses, and a hat pulled down. He purrs when he talks.)

Stud boys and Ladies...Gentlemen and Cooze.
Welcome to the birth of rhyming reason.
Land of poetry and classic brown booze.

X Y Z pronounced just like it’s spelled: Xyz.
Oh, it feels good to say the name of Truth.
Trip on your tongue as it dazzles your eyes.

Xyz. Xyz. Xyz.

O.K. Cats, here’s the dealio. The man has played the legality card on our sorry asses and we now have to balance the rhymes of our lovely peahens alongside the peacocks in that great moment that is known as the Saturday Slam at Xyz. I know! I know! We are but innocent pigs. My apologies, but I thought you knew we knew you knew. You know? Whatever. New age. New day. Kerouac stands next to Angelou. Alan plays nice with Sylvia. Peace. I hope that you comprehend that we didn’t disenfranchise the Sisterhood, but the thing of it is...we never really brought them around and they never really asked for entree...capice? Stand up for yourself, my sisters. And you did. All right, then. Water under the bridge, as the cliché clicks. Let me introduce for the first time in our collective consciousness... The lovely Miss Adoree.

(Adoree enters, dressed in white. She is around 40 years old and beautiful. She sits on the chaise and reclines.)

Silken ashes slipping through our fingers
Casts the scent of cedar throughout the room.
Breeze rises through the curtains and lingers
Cooling air and making our bed a womb.

Pale sunshine captured in linen valleys
Musk of manhood on my body like dew.
Female perfumes on your hair and fingers.
My Love, you are in me and I on you.

You stained my tan flesh like India ink,
But you washed me off you within the hour.
And walked to other beds with no goodbye.
Silence that thundered and made me cower.

Was he dead or injured or stricken dumb?
I was called mad when I demanded answer.
And told “be silent and let man be man”.
And was treated like a despised cancer.

Monday, April 4, 2011

First attempts at screenplay...the format gets ruined in copying


The sound of a crow and the outline of its flight.

Car tires halting. Booted feet of two men hitting the ground. A flash of a young man with long, dark hair, jumping behind a cactus.



Women in feathers and sequins, men carrying props and lights. A woman in a g-string and bra pounding on the Woman’s Room door.

Bonita? Chickie? Come on! Nobody’s going to hurt you. Just walk around a little bit and they’ll all be happy and give you money.

(from the bathroom)
I don’t think I can do this.

Of course you can, Honey! I taught you. You are a beautiful girl. Just do this one show and then you can go back to your College and dedicate that book to Juanita.

JUANITA’S POV Bathroom door revealing Bonnie, a stunningly beautiful woman of twenty-two years, dressed in a tight, red, low cut dress. Her eyes open wide in terror.



A half-clothed track team is fighting over a book. A teenage blond boy in a towel grabs it away as the guys crowd around.

Gentlemen Gentlemen. You’ll get your turn! This is a serious, scholarly opus about an ancient Art form. Let’s start by studying the photography. Oh, My God! I think I am in love.

And she writes stuff, too?

She must keep her brains in those bazongas!
Shut up, you Pigs!  You’re talking about my future wife.


The young man with long hair suddenly takes off running with the two men in boots in hot pursuit.



A group of workers in the tropical rain forest chasing something. A flash of his boots, and  he is gone.

The workers stop, lowering their machetes, and head glumly back to their bulldozers and hop on board.

The bulldozers refuse to start. Much cursing.



A pair of woman’s legs, wearing high-heeled boots. Camera goes up her body to the forty-two-old Bonnie Fieldstone, walking across the campus of a college. She is still beautiful.

She gets into her car and drives down into the town. She pulls up in front of a store. The store is called Native Cultures. Shot of its window full of pots and beads and colorful cloth.


Bonnie opening the door and entering. A young Asian man and a young woman wearing a Muslim scarf are behind the counter. Bonnie stands at the counter, trying on earrings.

Hey, Miss Bonnie! How have you been?
Fine, Dat. Busy. Hello, Layla. You know what I’m going to say.

I freely choose to wear the scarf, Professor. Mr. Malone’s still not back.

We were kind of hoping you’d know
where he is as we kind of have to get paid tomorrow.

Bonnie turns to a colorful array of cloths and beads on the wall and chooses a long scarf.

He always gets back for pay day. Right     on cue!           

SOUND: The roar of a 4 wheel drive engine outside the store.

Bonnie goes to the window.


Charlie hops out of the Land Rover in parking space in front of store. He is tall, dark-haired with a bit of silver, sunburned, with a broad-brimmed hat low over his eyes.

Bonnie in the window, smiling and waving.

Back to Charlie, smiling and moving faster toward the store.


Charlie throws open the door and scoops Bonnie into air and swings her. She is a little embarrassed.

He’s smiling. He never smiles. Why is he smiling?

Her, of course. I just wish those two would stop fighting it and do the nasty already. What? I’m Muslim. They’re not.

Charlie lowers Bonnie and turns to the counter.

(to Dat)
Give me the metal box, Son.

Charlie sits at the table in the center of the room. Bonnie sits across from him. He unlocks box and takes out his checkbook.

    Why don’t we shut down a little early and you two go on home so me and Miss Fieldstone here can have a little private talk?
Does “private talk” mean what I think?

I don’t want to know. Come on!

Dat gets his backpack from under the desk and Layla grabs her purse. They come to Charlie and get their checks and exit quickly.

Charlie and Bonnie sit at the table.

So, were you someplace where the ladies were ready to “love you long, long time?”

Brazil. And I don’t have time for “ladies”.

Bonnie stands and walks to the window.

You know, I gave you that cell phone for a reason. You didn’t answer it once.

Damned thing fell in the River.         Piranhas probably choked on it.


Charlie coughing again and again.

Bonnie turns and returns to the table, where Charlie waves her away.

Why didn’t you tell me it was back?

You wouldn’t have let me go if you knew. I had important business down South.

Tell me you’re going to fight it.

Unnatural Hell. Needles and poisons.

You have to fight. So many people around the world need you. I’ve seen Villages explode in song at your arrival.

I’m paying them money for their wares. It’s not me they’re celebrating. It’s their first good meal in months. Here I go, making you cry.
Not the first time, Trickster.

Bonnie moves away. She walks to the window.


EXT. Brazil.

Tent in a jungle full of amazing birds and flowers.

Bonnie comes out of the tent, dressed in Khakis and strolls down to the River, where their canoe is anchored. She hears the splashing of water. Bonnie is a little deeper in the jungle.

Charlie’s bare back. He has his face into the water of a small waterfall. 

Bonnie’s amazed face.

Back to his oblivious joy.

Back to a moment of Bonnie’s yearning, then to her turning away.



Bonnie and Charlie are standing at a distance from each other.

A brave man wouldn’t take the easy road. That’s all I’m going to say.

No, it’s not.
All right, then! Come on! Pick up the sword! Fight! Put on your armor! Feel the blood in your veins. Fight! Fight! Fight!

She suddenly buries her face against his chest and sobs.

Charlie touches her hair. Leans his cheek against it. She pulls him closer. His hands almost raise to touch her face. Slowly, painfully, he forces himself to put her at arm’s length.

Didn’t know my dying would upset you so much, Bonita Rae.  Maybe I do have a couple of things I’m obliged to get done before I die. O.K. Let’s do it.

Bonnie claps her hands and does a little dance of joy.

All right! Battle plan! How are you paying for it?

I guess I’d have to sell the store.

No, not the store! Wait! I have Health Care at the College. Think! The family plan?

Us? Married? No! I can’t marry anybody!

You don’t have to be a “husband”! We’ll have separate bedrooms and divorce when you’re cured.

I don’t know. You got a new book coming out and I don’t want to be in the Press.

I can keep that all away from you. I promise. Come on! Marry me tomorrow. We’ll get you on my plan and then have your doctor “discover” the cancer.

What do you get out of this?

My best friend alive. Deal?

Charlie goes to the jewelry case.

Deal. Guess you’re going to need a wedding ring. See anything you like?

Oh, God! I never thought about it. It’s really such a symbol of... Is that real Jade?

Everything is real in my world.

Charlie picks up the ring and slides it onto Bonnie’s hand. He holds it a beat too long, savoring his ring on Bonnie’s hand.

What about you?

Going to be climbing and diving. Don’t want a ring getting caught up.

    Right. Charlie Malone wouldn’t want to get caught up in any damned ring. All right, then, meet me at City Hall at ten o’clock. You don’t own any ties, do you?

Hate them. But I’ll wear a nice jacket if you like. So, see you then.

Bonnie goes to the door.

I can’t wait to see your definition of “Nice.” See you then.

Bonnie exits.

EXT. The store.

Through window. Charlie stands looking after her. He lowers the curtain on the display window.


INT. Rob’s apartment, DAYTIME

Rob’s POV of his closet, as he opens the door.

Rob looks into his closet. Rob tries various ties against his shirt, miming shaking hands with someone, rejecting the tie.


Cell phone ringing.


Rob’s pants, across the room on the bed. Cell phone in pocket.

Rob dives over the bed and grabs the cell phone, flips it open with the ease of a Gunslinger.

Yo, Rockford! Talk to me, my man.  Seven. I don’t care, it’s not worth it to go lower. No. No. No. Six five billion is a bogus hedge...hang on a second.

Rob pulls up his pants and returns to the call from a standing position.

Yeah, well, that’s coming out of your pocket, Buddy.

Rob goes over to the mirror to smooth his hair.


Rob’s POV, one of the pictures of Bonnie in her stripper outfit, cut out of her book, pasted to the mirror.

Rob kisses his fingers, then places them on the picture. He spins around and looks for his jacket.

Look. Talk to Saul, I have to get out of here. Right. Right. Wrong. Goodbye.

Rob pats various pockets.

Wallet. Blackberry. Kissed my girl. Tie!

Rob returns to the closet and grabbing a tie.

He stops in front of Bonnie’s picture.

Stay hot, Sweetheart. I WILL find you one day.

Whistles softly and spins out of the door, turning off the lights.

INT. of a hospital corridor, DAY.

There is a giggling gaggle of nurses and candy stripers hanging around one certain door.    

Bonnie approaches and stops, her way blocked.

Excuse me, I would like to get into my husband’s room? Thank you.
Nurses make little disappointed sounds as they move down the hall.

Bonnie enters Charlie’s room.

Charlie, without his shirt on is on the bed. A nurse is disconnecting from the chemo machine. The nurse leaves as Bonnie enters carrying a paper bag and approaches the bed.

Charlie? I brought tea. Sweet orange spice Can you handle it?
Charlie shakes his head, waves her away, buries his face in the pillow. Bonnie, opens the cup and gets a plastic spoon from the bag. She leans over to him.

Would you like me to leave?

Nice smell. The tea.

Bonnie helps him sit up a little. She sits on the bed and takes the cup of tea and puts it to his mouth. He sips.

Just a taste.

I won’t do this again.
You won’t have to, because you’ll be cured. Tell me where you’ll go when you’re all better? Africa? China?

Wars and famine. Tearing down the trees. Killing people for diamonds. I don’t belong there anymore. I’m not the right man to fight them any more. I need somebody smarter than me.
Bonnie kisses his head and draws him close. He allows himself to lay his head low on her shoulder. His arm circles her waist.

Bonnie. Bonita Rae. I’m so tired.

You need to sleep, Darling. Close your eyes. Feel the waterfall. Listen to the water. Listen to the beautiful green birds.

The beat of my woman’s heart.
Tears pour from Bonnie’s eyes. She kisses his head and he sleeps.



Bonnie and Charlie at the front desk. checking out. An orderly comes up with a wheelchair. Charlie simply looks at him from under the brim of his hat, sending him scurrying. Bonnie is signing papers.

Sunday, April 3, 2011

Sweeping up Scattered Thoughts, Blogging the Dustpan

Never leave me. Never leave me. Get out!
It gets easier every time.

I have freed myself and untied my tongue
I have nothing interesting to say.

Give me an S!
Give me a U!
Give me a E!
What’s that spell?
Oh, her again!

Monsters come in many shapes and sizes.
The worst are the pretty ones,
Who make you smile.

Just one thing worse than being a failure.
And that is being on top, and then falling.

Ginger Rogers did it backwards, in high heels.
I do it on a cane, with white hair. Same thing.

You don’t know it’s wrong to sell your body,
Until you reach the age when no one wants to buy.

Friday, April 1, 2011

Strange Days and Nights

I had the oddest dream last night, except that I often have similar dreams. I had traveled to see a movie, using the usual convoluted path that takes me from Montclair, New Jersey to somewhere in New York, where I never quite get the trains and subways right and have to come home on another convoluted path that runs parallel to the correct one but has only one crossover that I cannot miss. OH, SIGMUND!

This movie was shown in some kind of gymnasium with folding chairs. I was carrying three bags, one black, one white and one green and the green held my wallet. I remember children and senior citizens. I moved back a row of chairs and lost track of the green bag,eventually finding it two rows behind, intact. I wanted to go home and found a bus parked in a garage and since I used to know how to drive a bus (Father drove for Cleveland Transit), I got in and started it, but it was in reverse, and I ended up hitting a red van.

I woke up. It was 4:30 a.m. I had recently lost a friendship because this friend did not believe that I got psychic vibes from him. No! I wasn’t using that to “capture” him. Believe it or not, I never wanted to get into that particular psycho/financial/sexual/artistic/religious mess. But! He declared me on Facebook “too much” and blocked me. I believe I am the subject of a painting called “Shut up.” So, Friday, 4/1, at 4:30 a.m., I logged on and let the vibe take me to You Tube. He had just posted a video...And I mean JUST, by minutes.

I watched it, pushed my jaw shut and logged off. When I returned a few hours later, it was gone. I, the evil one, may have been the only one to see it. I will say nothing about it, because, believe it or not, I respect his wish for it to be forgotten.

If anyone has any kind of totem, or incantation, witch doctor, or juju that can break this psychic connection...PLEASE SEND IT TO ME!  We will both thank you eternally and probably sleep a lot better.