art poetry

oh, sylvia

Sylvia Plath death scene photo

oh, sylvia

daddy and ted




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my oven has died

my oven has died

as my buoyant soul has no need for it


pulled to the middle of the kitchen floor

an asphyxia case in need of cpr


of a burned out ignitor


mr. repairman

is an hourn’half delinquent

of his 9 to noon service window


he made me miss my lunch date


i stand hand on hip

in a dress

from a November 1954 edition

of vogue magazine

my whimsy contained

by a tea length line of buttons


a cat on a hot tin roof southern slip

because i hold a firm belief

the maytag man should be met

with a combination of elizabeth taylor

and donna reed


sylvias’s ghost stands behind me

eyebrow raised commenting

“good thing you had no plans to make one of my dishes tonight”

i call her a tramp

we laugh like conspiring sisters



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the year i carried a copy of ferlinghetti’s book poetry as insurgent art like a pentecostal carries and twists their bible

i saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
thoughts of kissing me
sleep on disreputable futons
show up at hotel room doors

just about the time
one of my gods said
i was coming close to my

but i’m nowhere in proximity
upping the ante is perhaps required
my addictions too mitigated by motherhood
and the yolk of practicality

i’m not lesbian enough
i’m not disenfranchised
i’ve never been to france
i’ve never given anyone a hand job for a grant
ted hughes has not yet abandoned me



in my mind
and heart
sylvia plath
is the same shade of blue
as the bicycle
you built for me

thank you
i love you
i haven’t been 6
and able to fly
for so long now

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

dressing the part

she sits blue velvet cushioned
in the silver oval reflection

pinning her hair into an effortless chignon

listening to whispered revelations
filtered through david bowie’s singing voice
coming from the lips of the looking glass

as her piano fingers turn their attention
to tying a bow at the nape of her neck
lifting the bodice
of the white suggestion of a dress

it’s mirrored words fall amidst her perfume bottles

be careful my dear one

he could be your more tearful ted hughes

…a less crucibled arthur miller


suicide season

february 11th
took both sylvia plath
and my father

i’m not sure what life lesson
is to be gleaned from that
beyond the timing of suicide season

whatever god is

it has a sense of humor

either way

it makes me feel bitchy enough
to make a blonde cry for no reason

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

in the coming days

i should be terribly afraid
of all the ink and blood ramifications
of falling in love with you

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

selfish like sylvia

we give up
the luxury of suicide
when we have children

it ceases to be an option
because you are no longer
living for yourself

oh, if only i could be more
selfish like sylvia

or as drunk as my father

today would be the day
i’d go join the other writers