a Modern day Scribe must write.

first and foremost

attending to the guts of a story as if it might never be read,

revealing in great detail the smudges on light bulbs long trashed,

the same smudges to which any handled object is subject,

but few dare own.

Surrendering pride

the Modern Day Writer writes because she knows.

–knows someone has to record accuracies.

Distortions, satires,

and parodies, too–

versing excursions

and lessons only learned in detention,

but accurate.

The Modern Day Muse is possessed.

Scribbling characters.

Characters by word.

Blacked reflections of

experience perceived

–sometimes reactions

rarely redactions–

since the Modern Day Truth Teller is

unconcerned with falderal

such as popularity

–knowing, as she does,

that veracity will endure in a manner

prettiest eyes,

lies,

and cleanest ass

–will not.

The Modern Day Poet

aches with every

interaction.

Bruised by careless rabble

more counterfeit than compliment

(like China)

original thought diluted

by virtue of sleeping heard

Still, the Modern Day Writer wields this pain

as pen–

–all pain, really.

an act that can compound

but might diffuse

often astounding the scribe herself

as it disperses

into all that’s unwritten between lines

–that the best Modern Day Writers include.

Lost,

on writer’s block

I

look for the way

poem.

A poem

without you

–and abstract concept at best–

space between

beats

at once

too large

and too small.

Consulting clues

at curbside

I consider,

Garage

sale copy

–that points–

to ALL CAPS

and

papers pole

above abandoned

furniture

­–that smirks–

F-R-E-E

below,

but my bits

and baggage

cost everything and

have gone missing, besides

–imprinted but missing–

spinning

past strangers

seeking well-plotted tags.

Beggars squat

on haunches

–also F-R-E-E–

disturbing strays

they

–also L-O-S-T–

with nothing left to win

my

disregard hinges

on

my

disconnect

unfelt

and my heart

remembers

only that my route

was different

–paper

and fountain pen–

rather than

cardboard

and marker.

Dreaded hitch-hikers

appeal

thumbs without

con

without text, either

advance

sidelines,

a different front

to OHM

–roam sweet roam–

and unable to turn around

(or even take note)

elusive verses

loop

like cursive

on circuitous paths

I can no longer find.

Thought Balloons

alight

briefly

­–too briefly–

and float away

. . .

away with Ideals

that festoon

a letterbox

describing

a must-see and

hard-to-find and

not-invited-to

nearby celebration

its lines to enter

defining

carefree

in a tongue foreign to me,

and

Frantic,

(now)

I scan

fruit

stands

manned by barker moppets

–policed by parents–

offering oranges and avos and

a chance to learn capitalism,

altogether too contained

to notice

a writer-less

soul like me.

Farther away than ever, now,

with every footfall, farther,

flyers flap

overhead

faded and newly stapled, both

framing favorite

photos of wandering

dogs

and cats

and

last areas seen

reward regret

ranging in heartfelt decimals.

Exhausted,

I stop.

Calling off

the dream

of poem,

I collapse.

Contemplate

a crude cross alongside

–commemorating

car crash casualties–

and after a while

my restless, empty hands

write the carnations

and candles

there

–into clumped circles–

Re-wording elegies

and last areas also seen.

I attempted to

pull myself up

by my bootstraps–

but discovered I was

wearing

loafers,

and I sought to keep it in perspective,

but my camera switched

to selfie mode

–in and of itself, terrifying–

and my dysmorphia deepened,

and I tried to brush it off

shoulders

–squaring–

(2)

but my Roomba

(with a view)

had hella strong force,

and I was obliged

to suck it up instead.

two months at best

the doc said,

and we went home…

–in drowning rain

–in pregnant silence

–in circular, useless thought

* houseplants *

* houseplants *

* houseplants *

(need watering)

and we’re still out of milk…

‘better remember to–

oh!

a new lymphatic system!

you need

a new lymphatic system, too…

‘missing red lights

that beamed like

land bound sentinels

worn-out

windshield wipers

smearing grey horizon

over everything

. choking view .

obscuring doorways

faceting teardrops

blurring petals

of withered African violet

(the one in the foyer)

(the one that’s been there as long as I’ve known you)

(the one that needed watering sooner)

leaves falling

like fuzzy rain…

like two months left

to live

(at best)

after the rain

do you see the bow?

or do you track mud,

wherever you go. . .

–in steps you don’t measure

–in boots made for walking

in lines,

but not loops,

that don’t lead to treasure?

& after the trials

are eyes open wider?

or do you walk gauntlet,

always the fighter. . .

–instincts you don’t curb

–in acts that prolong

in loops,

and in lines,

the thing that disturbs?

& after the strut

do you wait in wings?

of stage that is silent,

or hear angels sing. . .

–in tones that are gleaming

–where sound & light merge

in loops,

but not lines,

of lyrics redeeming?

since after the reign

& after all glory

a new page begins,

–and so does your story…

dancing with veils,

I dropped them

one

~by

~~one

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~~

~ ~ ~~~

by–

well–

some were ripped away

(inveigled violation)

and some were

trod upon,

(and went missing thereafter)

and some were too thin

(to qualify as veils)

and were mist

nonetheless

and some floated away,

(caught in the tango of divestment)

and some weren’t veils at all, but ephemeral spirit

(disguised ascots)

which I

so vain

didn’t think I needed anymore, until finally

all were spun and sung and flung and to my

sheer amazement

I only then noticed there was nothing of

me

left…

just a bundle of rags that seemed

threadbare, in the glare

(of spotlights lit too long)

shedding detail, and

sequins, and

~silvered threads~

in tinseled drops.

The Game of Life

(the card version)

is 52–

you pick up more

or less

cards

(sometimes, too)

(depending how you play)

and perforce

arrange them by suits.

Birthday Suit

is freshest.

The hearts & love suit,

because…babies

(who doesn’t love a baby)

an up-all-night pastime

with in-your-face cards

stamped by cake

(whatever’s left)

candles,

dangly bits,

and

me-me-me

(me)

–the magic meld

that wins the hand.

Suit Yourself

is closely related

–the other red suit–

which appearance

(in the game)

could be marked by diamonds

(conflicted or otherwise)

friendship bracelets,

matching polos,

or promise-I’ll-buy-it-later

rings

–the strong of this suit

all about

you-you-you

(you)

Monkey Suits

follow

(suit)

a disproportionate sequence

of uniform,

office wear,

and ties-on-top

Zoom apparel

that goes on and on

(and on)

and so on

its paycheck-based

clubs

mandating dues

for the best part of this go’round

–as boring as War

and practically

lifelong

Good thing, then,

Suits of Armor

can also be drawn

–or purchased on Amazon

with iffy second-day delivery options–

since at this point

in life’s game

–you better have won–

outerwear to

trump

the luck or misfortune

of your draw

a blinded amalgamation of

all that’s come before

–piled high and brought to the table

(courtesy of)

me-you

hymns & hearse

–along with

pencil

(to keep score)

and spade.