I Scare the Dead...Happy Halloween

I Scare the Dead

Back in the day when kids were kids

And we never saw the hate

We could walk for miles all night long

For four bags of chocolate

Big grocery store bags for sure

No danger and nicely cute

I remember the day it changed

Razors appeared in the fruit

The crazy old lady down the block

Cut little girls’ hair, the Bitch

But now, at last, I don’t need wigs

To look like an aged witch

I’m hunchbacked from MS and age

And terrify the dead men

Who haunt Facebook and the chat rooms

Looking for a younger hen

And if the ghosts and goblins come

I know to just tell them “Boo!”

They’ll run away from my candy door

And never again haunt Sue

Hollow Connections

Hollow connections, ringing through my eyes

Make the circuit with trembling fingertips.

No Prince Charming  No Damsel in Distress.

Just hordes of peasant beggars needing food.

If I see the same poster one more time….

I will Like it and not type any words.

You have been trampled and still don’t know it

I keep moving and leave you in the dust.

You can’t take stop looking at the Princess

And will die alone, dreaming of her smile.

The only song I have is from You Tube

With barely twenty three derisive hits.

I want to touch warmth and skin, not plastic.

I need the challenge of a strangers’ eyes.

Give me people fresh off the nine to five

With children and hobbies and screw the art.

I don’t want to see representations of

Silken flower petals and musky fur.

I want the real things, before they are gone.

Free, Blind and Limping Verse

Everything is tucked in place

And my dinghy is securely docked.

 

All that’s left is clean and rearrange

And nobody cares when it’s done.

 

I found an abandoned book

On English Literature in the basement.

 

Will read it if I ever remember

Where I put the damned thing.

 

The Navajo Spirit Guide told me

“Now….before it’s too late.”

 

I should have read that yesterday

Because now it’s hopelessly gone.

 

We’re here because we’re here

Because we’re here. Because we’re here.

 

Truer words were never spoken.

Sonnet VI

Sonnet VI

I spent my teenage years locked in my room

And did the same with all the men I loved.

I now face you alone outside the tomb.

As crippled, aging, weakened, and ungloved.

I have no adversary in this game,

Except myself and this shyer nature.

Dragging myself into minor small fame

Facing my life, trying not to say ‘grrrr.’

But that I am well, fat and once more writing

Proves that I have a will of pure hard steel.

I need be outside in the sun’s lighting.

Ready to hurt, think and to break the seal.

Of a life lost behind locked and closed doors.

And laugh as my newly freed spirit soars.

I Can Have My Bitchy Moments

Up to my pupik* with poems on sex

Drowning in sweat and hot lubricants.

Call me old fashioned, but I must demur

No one is hot to get into my pants.

All I can think as you rave about love

Somebody’s going to get hurt real bad.

And I’m not talking about the position

Or falling out of that harness doodad.

When you blow air on it, it will cool down

And in front of an audience? Come on!

Maybe it’s the American in me

Who doesn’t talk about who’s come and gone.

Twenty inches on inches and itches

Starts sounding a little too Show Bizzy.

Been there and done that, gotten all the shots

Juggled male models into a tizzy.

Strangely enough, only one thing haunts me

Holding the hand of the man I loved most.

The orgasms and ejaculations

Are not the things of which I want to boast.

And sitting in my rocking office chair

An old lady logged again onto Facebook.

Don’t judge your writings by my jealousy.

If you need write it, I’m happy to look.

*A Yiddish word meaning lady parts.

Poem, October 20, 2011

Band Aids, butter and vanilla

The high point of my day.

Forgot about the glass cleaner.

God damn me!

You cannot believe

What vanilla costs.

The rare and exotic bark

Of something.

It is seldom that I receive mail

All the bills are paid on line

Spell check rejects the word

“Seldomly.”

The trees are turning orange under

A blue sky with white clouds.

The smell of the air whispers

“California.”

I have to start thinking about

The play we’re reading next week

And forget about the inspiration

As he fades.

When I clean my apartment

For the seven actors arriving soon.

You have to remember the best way

Is move things.

You’d be surprised what’s hiding

Behind the couch or under the table.

I try to do the same thing with my writing:

Bare my soul.

Living in the Moment, no Fantasizing Allowed

It’s taken me 62 years to figure out that fantasizing is fatal. It kills your relationships and friendships. It distracts you from your career and your housekeeping. Everything in the daydream is a version of perfection. I say it’s a version of perfection because you lose every concept of what real and attainable perfection may be. I know. I started daydreaming at the age of four when I realized that I was being raised by lunatics. Don’t get me wrong, they had the best intentions but they had absolutely no idea how babies were made and thus ended up with two, which they were incapable of handling. The insanity got really bad when Mom was forced to go to work. She blamed my father for not providing enough but she was very clear that we cost too much money to feed and clothe. So I started dreaming about Roy Rogers rescuing me. Then Zorro and the Monkees. I only came out of my dream state when my Mother told me that I was crazy and the only future I had was as her caretaker, so I transferred to the farthest State College available. But I fantasized and married a man who didn’t love me and was probably Schizophrenic. I left college when they cancelled my major and started taking any job to take money and support the husband who, surprise, was not able to support two of us, just like my Father. Back on the East Coast, I left him and said “yes” to any man who asked for sex because I was daydreaming and fantasizing. I ended up in another live-in relationship with a man who did not love me and was also probably Schizophrenic. He ended up saving every can, box and bottle he ever used and finally the junk moved me out of the house and into relationships with married men and celibates which were never consummated or fulfilling. This pattern continued until lately, when I found myself fantasizing about a man who was…wait for it…destroying everything in HIS life by fantasizing. Relationships. Career. Future...because he fantasizes about the ideal woman, who is younger and prettier and naughtier than I could ever be even if I wasn’t sixty-two years old. I love you, Kid, but I don’t want to be your type because your type uses, abuses, and abandons you and I love you too much for that.

SO, ENOUGH!!!!!!! I put many of the fantasies on paper as plays, but it takes reality to get a play produced in this economy and I am running out of time. I have gotten my life under control and I am going to get this apartment under control and keep this disease under control. I’m old and fat. Perhaps that is a blessing because there is no fantasy that can come true now. Prince Charming would need a Clydesdale to carry me off and he probably doesn’t have a job to pay for a castle.