the coffee scoop

It’s ordinary…

mundane, absolutely nothing special.

Part of a set that was purchased in the late 80’s

or early nineties would be my guess.

This brown, plastic 1/8 cup scoop

that came to symbolize our every morning

spent sharing coffee

no matter if we were 12 inches

or 1,200 miles apart. We always had coffee.

It is special because he sent it to me

in a care package when I was aching for him.

I still ache for him,

so it’s my coffee scoop until my dying day.

Christmas comfort dance digital photography divinity fairy tales festivities happiness love love poetry medicine mindfulness mourning muse museums Music mythology nature papyrus

01/01/11 NYC Holidays with Family

Photo by MPP
affectation art behavior chronology civility comfort poetry Uncategorized

embracing needles

age has
inoculated me
to human charm
genuine and feigned
thank goodness



even our shoes
sitting together
at the end of the bed
look in love with each other


up do

this day

was me,

my bitchy resting face,

(don’t tell me to smile, fucker)

and ten bobby pins

against the world

addiction Americana art behavior books civility happiness literature poetry psychology punk rituals society sociology Southern Gothic writing

poem scribbled onto the back of a half price books receipt whilst sitting in the architecture section

i needed to escape my thoughts

but didn’t feel like driving

all the way to the library to be


surrounded by books

settling instead

on a half price books

i was hoping to find

kafka on the shore

by haruki murakami


no such luck



gleefully discovering

a hard cover with pristine jacket

of larry brown’s


and a two buck

the smiths



i sat in the wing chair

of the architecture section

devouring my unearthed treasures

trying to forget

for a moment

people were elsewhere

in the world






i found myself

wishing for a part time job

in the intellectual oasis

as a way to support my book addiction


sighing as i realized it could never be


i don’t have enough facial piercings

i’m not pale enough

i don’t have an ironically bad manic panicked haircut

i haven’t stretched my ear piercings with grommets

inside which one could wear an antique salt cellar

or piece of driftwood

in each lumbering lobe

i don’t wear my sweaters belted and frayed

or present with a look of general disdain

and loathing of the shoppers or human race

a permanent puss on an acne scarred face


they would never

hire me

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends writing

memaw’s dishes

it’s all comfort seeking behavior
when you stop the automaton
for a moment
and think of it

sleeping eating sex drugs social climbing
tread mill running
and still more consuming
a great mass
of maslow’s needy children are we

see me
i’m an addict
an anemic ice chewer
and plate washer

it all started at memaw’s house
when i had to stand on a chair to reach the sink
somehow her suggestion of doing the dishes
little hands submerged in dove soap
always dove soap
the smell of it
(now inextricably connected to her)
made everything right

my sensory storm calmed

so now

when life gets dirty
i wash a plate

for ten minutes
faux flow blue pattern
rubbed clockwise by my attentive wash rag
with the white dish soap full of extra emollients
so one feels pampered
as the toil over soil is underway

and maybe it’s a plate that doesn’t even need cleaning

a metaphoric stand-in

comfort seeking indeed

what i’m cleansing
is my soul

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends writing

the sure morning routine of my stepfather

5:30 in the morning
beside myself
belly twisting
nothing seeming right

i revert to my childhood

the sure morning routine
of my stepfather

turn on the radio atop the refrigerator
700 WLW no other station will do

make a pot of coffee

whisk the batter in a yellow plastic bowl
and fry pancakes

as aunt jemima stands by the stove
with a syrupy look in her eyes

and i think he does not know

how many times

this ritual saved my life

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

come winter

woke up this morning
full of
and the calm which descends
upon a woman in her mid 30’s
who fucking knows
exactly what life
isn’t planning on giving her
and what it almost did

my six year old frame
was just one of dad’s bottles of canadian mist
and a few tiny white pills away
from being raised
in abject poverty
in a town so poor
even the mayor is on food stamps
no escape no escape

thank you for having the good sense to die, daddy
so mama could drag me to the safety
and fluoride filled waters of the north

because i’m 400 years removed
from indian princess
but only one generation away
from the whitest trash on earth

you spared me the fire
the dropping out of high school
the five snotty lice ridden children
and worrying
about sealing the broken trailer windows
in plastic sheets
and kerosene heaters burning
the half retarded baby
come winter

you spared me from a walmart complexion
mcdonald’s thighs
and the crack toothed meth head
transient sometimes truck driving husband
who beats me regularly

now here i sit
too educated for my own good
i’m damn near intolerable
and my most cumbersome problem
is that the dog keeps dragging
my expensive plum robe from nordstrom’s
to the couch to sleep on it

i’m mixing irish cream into my coffee
fully aware of what class i’m boxing in
grateful for the blood
on my teeth and tongue

i could have been helpless
but instead i’m merely wasted

and enjoying the life
of a bourgeois drunk

jesus turned water into wine
before he got put up for the night

but you, father, in death
turned regret into gratitude

that’s a god damned christmas miracle
if ever there was one


love affair with my bed

my recollection
of when the shift began
may only be viewed
through opalescent glass

but at some point in my early 30’s
i rediscovered the magic of my bed
the restorative power of the midday nap

overcome with a sudden awareness
one needs sleep more
than stay-up-late-night projects
or splendor in the grass

i bought better sheets
adorned it with ridiculously ornate pillows
coordinated rugs
candles and lamps
duvet covers
better lovers

cleopatra would be envious

and then began doing everything on it
one would normally do upon a sofa
or seated at a desk
write read listen to music
perform radical feats of paperwork
snuggle furry family members
connect to the interweb
stand on my head

a cloud floating base of operations

my throne
my safe place
beneath the stars on the walls and ceiling
all made from the softest cotton

no monsters
no ghosts
no goose feathers

my love affair with my bed