Grandma tried to look breakable, delicate, fractured and frail.
She wanted us to cough up the five hundred for her bail.
We knew her ways, and ignored her acting, though it was grand.
She had stolen the money from the U.S. Army band.
It’s not like it was the first time, and it would not be her last.
She was a con artist, a grifter, a fraud, just like in her past.
Her alligator tears meant nothing, we had seen her act before.
We gave her a happy good-bye as we left through the jail door.
Poison to your lips
Marketed as a choice
Whilst they monetize free will
They claims to numb the pain
but it just delays the agony
No one want to kiss the decade lips
Or touch the smoke ridden fingers
Inhale the smoke
Exhale your future
The posion spreads to those around you
Addicted to the feeling
Stuck with the consequences
cough up the black tar of yesterday
Sacrifice your tomorrow
Miny marshmallow minds, are minding the store.
Their heads are on fire, still they come back for S'more.
In the heat of it all, they can't find the door.
Till their milk chocolate membranes, ooze out on the floor.
They cough up graham crackers all over our shoes.
Their breath reeks of cigars and cheap homemade booze.
With heads still on fire, they can't follow the clues.
Just keep marching side by side, and two by twos.
S'more the merrier? Well, I know that's what they say.
But, how many more marshmallow minds are melting today.
Maybe we should put out the camp fire, be on our way.
Before all we can taste, are muck, sand, and clay.
The door swells in its frame each winter,
paint curling like old tongues —
still you press it open with a finger,
leaving soft dents in the wood.
Inside, the walls hum from hidden wires;
plaster sighs under your barefoot weight.
Every step — a loosened nail,
a whisper of dust sliding down beams.
The windows breathe in drafts,
their single panes shivering;
no storm need rage —
your shadow is enough to rattle them.
In the hallway, wallpaper blisters;
your sleeve grazes it,
and flakes of me snow to the floor.
The ceiling, swollen with damp,
droops lower each night you sleep here —
timbers ache above your breathing.
Downstairs, the kitchen faucet drips
like a clock without courage;
your laugh sends the pipes ringing,
and the cupboards cough up ghosts.
Upstairs, in the attic, silence nests —
you climb no ladder,
yet I feel your warmth seep into rafters
where rot waits, patient.
When you close the door behind you,
its frame leans inward, yearning.
The house is always colder after.
I wish I was still scared of the monsters under my bed,
I wish my biggest fear was still giant sharp teeth,
And I wish I still needed a night light to help me sleep.
I'm still scared of the dark that hasn't changed.
I used to be scared that I wasn't alone but now I I'm completely aware that I am and it's suffocating.
There's so much air to much empty space I'm choking on it,
Choking on something I can't cough up.
Don't get me wrong I still need the fear but I miss when it was innocent.
The fear is better than the sight of my blood,
I've fallen in love but it's not with a person it never will be,
It's with the feeling of fear that's always with me.
Always clawing, always biting, always with a loaded gun I don't know who it's aimed at.
Fear does not have its innocence, it dies for me.
Died to protect me or maybe to kill me,
But I hope one day she finds it again.
The combination lock I had
In high school, for the gym,
Would open with a special code;
Though memory’s grown dim…
I still remember: 2 – 8 – 2
Turn right, then left, then right,
Those numbers etched into my brain,
Which I can still recite.
Those were the only numbers that
I had to memorize
To access something locked away
(My sneakers, I’d surmise).
Yet nowadays, we have to learn
Numeric codes, as well
As passwords to protect us
From where hackers hide and dwell.
And each one should be different,
With 8 characters or more,
Some upper case, plus numbers
Or some symbols, por favor.
It also is expected that
Your brain will, on command,
Be able to cough up those codes
When apps make that demand.
Those years in school so long ago
Did not provide a clue
That some day my stuff would not be safe
With simply 2 – 8 – 2.
I tried to revive myself one morning,
to sober up the soul that was drowning in the chest,
to cough up the ashes of burnt desire,
to light a new one,
and so on again,
every time
this soul woven from ashes,
burns.
night yet clings
yet smothers the numb highway
breathe the wheel
sigh through the gears
wave-ride rubber after-shocks
follow the beam-eyed light
into the blossoming gray
adjusts to blacktop rapids
the sky is passing
it is now ahead of itself
convertible clouds weep dry tears
slip-slide the slick dark banks
with flickering wrists
A second light blooms
a small sun pastes itself onto distant white
a hooded bonnet shakes like a wet wolf
the horizon is now a mobile scaffolding
the whispering tread of a fast coming daylight
rushes into view, it snorts though a crystal vase
that the mind grips tightly
the roads blind ability
to avoid Niagara or the Grand Canyon
guides cold white knuckles
the drunk rocking of a back axle
warns you of a surfacing
unpaved parking lot
engine bones tick-over
articulate shuddering full stops
as they cough up stillness
here
at the end of
one half of a minute
and that is the third manifestation
of breathable light
My left brain and my right brain are never in sync
I can cough up the best words but they will be misspelled
Or I can toss out perfect words
But they have no flavor, no emotion, no zest.
Poets can do no more than the muse allows
My muse is ready to show off
Dare I hold her back?
He knew the hearts of his wives, and yes, he had two.
They were hard and mean, and not easy to impress.
He knew he had to cough up some real money to please both.
So, he maxed out one credit card on one.
And to the other he deeded his house.
He did these things to keep them happy,
so, they would be kind to his daughter Maribella.
Maribella was the love of his life.
At three, she was happy with a cardboard box and a hazel bush stick.
He brought her both, and she played for hours.
Giggling and laughing, loving her daddy like no one else did.
I love this box Daddy!
I love this stick Daddy!
I love you Daddy!
All of his wishes came true daily when he saw his baby.
He did not care about anything else, for this was the top of the mark.
I used to like the Wordle bot,
But Times subscriber I am not.
They stuck the bot behind a wall;
I hit max reads, and that is all.
Suppose that is the way of things:
Start out for free, see who it brings.
Then once they’ve got you hooked,
Cough up the dough, or else you’re cooked.
I liked the bot but cannot say
That it’s a cause for me to pay.
If I’d a bird, I might engage
To line the little birdie’s cage.
How much is this duvet? Elise asked.
I found a tag that said two hundred and seventeen dollars and ninety-five cents.
Not bad, she said.
Is she nuts?
Another tag was attached to that tag. It said $895.95.
What is that for? She asked me. “The rest of the duvet?”
This is a really upscale store. Not sure why we working girls are in it.
Maybe because three of us “girls” are retired?
I began to point out the crappiest stuff.
Saying nice things like “I wouldn’t pay nineteen cents for that in a thrift store.”
Guess how much this ugly thing is? Elise asked me. We were howling now.
Sales help was following us around “offering to help us.” Ha!
The chair I liked the best was seventeen hundred on sale from twenty-four hundred.
Is that dollars or cents? I asked the sales lady. She tried to smile but couldn’t.
Rita was rubbing a chair’s material. There was a price tag on it and another on the seat.
What do you think the $200 price tag is for? She asked.
“That’s what it costs to rub the material,” I told her. “Cough up.”
Our friend Susan was keeping out of our way, pretending she did not know us.
The male ward is never quiet at night,
machines hooked-up to invisible bodies
buzz and beep.
Someone’s moaning in his sleep.
I listen to the late-shift nurses gossiping
at their station.
Follow their footsteps as they move
from somewhere to some other place.
Every hour she arrives by my bed to check my vitals.
mostly I contrive to be unconscious -
just savoring her gentle touch.
Beds creak as patients turn in their discomfort.
I know what she looks like; petite, lovely.
I got myself stabbed in Kuala Lumpur, my fault,
got too drunk to be careful. It’s 1981
back then China Town could get rough.
I’m planning to marry the Chinese nurse
soon as I am up and about.
Meanwhile the other sick folks here
piss their beds, fart, or cough up a lung,
seemingly hell bent on disturbing
my drug induced fantasies.
I dreaded it when I hit the age of waist band stretch.
The choices I have are butterflies with glitter; they make me wretch.
Can you spell dumpy and frumpy? Because now I can for sure.
Fashion designers have excused themselves from old women mature.
Sure, we are slower, but are we less wise in the head?
Do we want to wear navy and black for years ‘til we’re dead?
I look at my choices. Where are the oranges? A purple or pink?
The fact is that in woman’s world, my options pretty much stink.
I see the size two’s and three’s and fours, and I want to wear them.
They are colorful and sexy, I think as I cough up my phlegm.
I see no linens, no waists, nothing fitted or smart.
I leave the store gladly, exiting with a well-chosen fart.
I want something sensual, colorful, and fashionable too.
The best I can do is a two-toned high-heeled shoe.
Where are the fashion designers for women of distinction like me?
I walk to the next store, where the selections are identical, I see.
Breathe in a dust
Cough up a lung
Atmospheric poison
Futuristic prison
Can't you see the destruction
Of the offspring of evolution
They see beauty trough filters
Hear nature trough earplugs
Smell pines in candles
And don't touch! Oh so dangerous...
They walk trough life,
Like they travel the world
Experiencing the superficiality of existence
Thoughtlessly missing out on the essence.
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