Tag Archives: chapter book

Every Woman Over 40 Should Have a Gay Boyfriend – #102

Me:  I bought some lipgloss today.

GB:  Yay!


Filed under funny poop, my gbf

Every Woman Over 40 Should Have a Gay Boyfriend #101

“You look nice. Your hair is curlier,” says GBF when he sits down at the table.

We meet someplace every Tuesday night for dinner. Tonight was the Ryzome Cafe.

“How can it be curlier, it’s getting longer.” I say.

“I don’t know, it just is. I like it.”

Huh. Sure enough, when I go into the women’s restroom and take a look at my hair, it does look curlier.

“You’re right,” I tell GBF upon my return.

“You must be happy. Happiness makes your hair look good.”


Filed under my gbf

Dropped Pages: solar strings

This was a poem dropped from Her Red Book. I still might include it in another book.

solar strings

dust is beautiful
it floats in the stratosphere
above the cumulonimbus
and diffuses the waves
making the sky blue
azuring the eyes
of the nomadic poet
who learns the names
of constellations
like pop songs
singing them in her head
without sound
with only light
electromagnetic rays
that bounce around the nape of her heart
because in the middle world
there is a such thing
as sunshine

Jump on The Monday Night Poetry Train

The words “middle world” did not appear in the original poem. I borrowed them after hearing this wonderful post on TED. If you have 20 minutes to spare, this will curl your brain:

Richard Dawkins Speaks on our Queer Universe.


Filed under dropped pages, her red book, monday poetry thang, poetry

dropped pages: girl moves to woods

I’ve been very absent around here. Life got away from me for a while. Just finished my gig on the Nickelodeon film and our house renovations are down to the details. No more drywall! Woop-woop!

The following poem isn’t really a dropped page as I don’t think I’d even considered it for any of my books. In any case, here it is, written 10 years ago while living in Seattle. It still doesn’t quite work, but I like the sentiment.

girl leaves suburbs, moves to woods, builds log cabin

words connect her to earth plant
her among cousins
just running around she prefers
life lived out
terraced jungles that grow physical
something strong that breaks from classic
nuclear TV dinner says joyful
is someplace arrived
twleve years toiled with the ground
soft resilience behind eyes loves
to learn but heart
vulnerable to anything except stellar grades and
curved words as relatives
family radius reaches
thinly towards self
a holiday, a liberation, a domicile
where she can build
strong ceramic pots
in which to keep them

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Filed under dropped pages, poetry

Dropped Pages: On the Night She Signed up for French Lessons

This is an odd little poem that was dropped from Her Red Book.

(I’m not sure how the title relates… I think I literally signed up for French Lessons that evening.)

~ ~ ~

On the Night She Signed up for French Lessons

The heat getting to her
she was hallucinating
one postcard from Gualala and she’s got
the Pulitzer Prize

Never mind the extra weight since she’s turned to
chocolate cigarettes from Holland
putting back everything she’s ever stolen

a glance
a minute or two in the executive chair
with her eyes closed

Funny thing was
every time she stepped out of the kitchen she was startled
by a man sitting at the diningroom table
turns out
it was only her raincoat and a potted cactus

She sees familiar names in NY magazines
and thinks I’ve got to get out of here.

It’s going to be a slow accent the kind you build
over time moving steadily north
she’ll practice first by ordering food or asking directions
she says
nobody really notices you anymore

except when you’re pinching fruit

~ ~ ~

Hop on The Poetry Train


Filed under dropped pages, her red book, monday poetry thang, poetry

Dropped Pages: On the Night of the Angelic Ellipse

Dropped Pages is a series of poems that were originally dropped from my books and chapbooks. I have reclaimed them here.

Dropped from Her Red Book

On the Night of the Angelic Ellipse

She confuses her back porch for
something wayward
circles the peeling paint and rusty cans
like wrinkles in a plan

The white of her new uniform
makes her smile while looking
into classmates eyes
opening their chests
fire escapes
their beautiful round faces

The Korean instructor
places his hand over her heart
and when he moves
away     she still feels
presence     whispering
in a halo

She swears there are angels in
the room when the lights are
down    eyes closed
she senses     a pressure from across
the room and a voice counts to ten…

At home in post-yoga trance
a friend explains to her
the mathematic symbolism
of the ellipse
the center of which is equidistant
from two communal circles
a macrocosm   the voice delights
an architecture

I’ve always liked the word orbit
she admits     the voice nods
It’s good to travel around the sun

~ ~ ~

Hop on the Poetry Train


Filed under dropped pages, her red book, monday poetry thang, poetry, random poop

Dropped Pages – Whale Calls

Late for the train. Let’s blame it on the time change, shall we?

This was a poem dropped from Every Day Angels and Other Near Death Experiences.

whale calls

clouds in two separate directions
     move overhead
skink on rock, copper head
world a smooth glass
the largeness
     of your palm on my ribs
I was going to sleep

before in the jungle your smile
I couldn’t help
but love that
every step gentle
     the way it should be
each stop equal to the last or next
balancing at the base or edge of something
I understand you

hanakapai beach milky way fired from pink
you take pictures of a young couple
celebrating by the shore
          like out of travel magazines
where the girl is perfect and the
boy so careful in her presence

I lost the shell I picked from the beach the one
you blew as a miniature instrument in the
rental car where I think I dropped it
nothing was coming home with me
not even you

and I knew this before we left for the journey
I was unstuck in time
and saw our parting as one
continuous moment
as I dreamt it always but kept
under a spell

your footprints in the sand I walk inside of
     forward     and backward
I watch you read or pick lemons

the way your feet turn in as you walk
the breath at which you
     confidently blow     sweet low music
whale calls

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

da train!  da train!


Filed under dropped pages, every day angels, monday poetry thang, poetry