Wordle #73 “Apple-chaser”

Week 73

Her lips paw clumsily at the air,

Deliverance sought in lieu of sobriety.

She siphons herself from the echoes

Of their evading jeers, a target

Not of designation but of connotation.

Her lofty brow pants,

A cask upended in frivolity.

An uninvited touch soft as chamois

Shrugs aside her hurried fists.

Her heart has gills to avoid drowning,

Notches carved through galaxies

Of flesh and illusion.




Wordle #164


Your lips, though muffled, sizzle.

Every enunciated hello burns

With a singular commitment

A desire for addition,

For language both raw and organic.

I will not be a number, however,

Profitable I have a right to more

Than my ill-placed existence.

The sun stomps malignantly

Through a fair-weather sky.

I empty my hollow leg

Into your ripped stockings.

The background seethes

Deities of necessity and invention

With scratch and sniff powers

And interminable reach.

It takes a lifetime

To forge one’s desires

And several more

To elicit them.


Not such a good day for writing I have a serious case of sleepiness despite having already slept long and deep!

Wordle #49 – Cabbages

Wordle 49 Feb. 23

Ever since the cabbages died

Her smile is a partition.

Beside it I rest a Paper Tiger

An altruist tearing

His pockets in shame

But no man has the right

To claim a woman’s pain.


She called them cabbages

But they were always children

Our sons and daughters.

Anabiosis cannot be

Breathed through war,

Whether meteor or bomb

Heat curdles just the same.


Ever since the cabbages died

I sit on the porch in silence

Draught after draught

A beggar’s bowl

Between my knees

I asked God first

But some prayers

Only the Devil will seize.

No woman has the right

To censure a man’s retreat.


A visage twinged

Sings the saddest songs

But who will listen?

The days are sparse

The days are wearisome.

Default or defunct

Each man crawls along

A broken heart cutting

The palms and knees

Of whoever greets him.


She called them cabbages

But they were always children

Our sons and daughters

Taken by the Country

To fight in wars that the rich

Should have sufficient fodder

To seed their seedy schemes.


I took one look at this Wordle and knew immediately that it was going to be a challenge. I mean really what was I thinking?! Thanks to Jen for introducing me to Tim Buckley because it gave me inspiration for this piece.

This entry is for


Signed “To the Devil with Love”

Sheep Control Pawel Kuczynski 36
Pawel Kuczynski

They line up single file, pockets stitched, pupils blown.


The particulars are a sphinx without resolution.

An X mutes alternative, dims hearts when leeched.


They slit their throats on dollar bills,

On dreams not worth their weight in confidence

Becoming less with every meaningless acquisition.


I generally like to try a new form twice. This form is fun, no rhyme or meter!

Written for



Pink Tinged Rose

If it was up to me

I still would not choose

Your version of individuality,

Society has nothing to do

With humane interaction.

Society is comprised

Of unsustainable priorities

That leave the barer empty.

Empty people need only apostrophes.

Glitter is favored to marrow

And when the lights have gone out

A thigh can serve as a torch

No matter how dead the eyes.


There is no space for a heart

When the ego is a colossus.

Perfection cannot be defined

By human standards

It is the greatest deceit

To convince an audience

That they are neither accurate

Nor original and that they

Must change if they are ever

To be realized.


To remain day after day

Broken just so, scalpels tearing

Scarlet rainbows from a heart

That castrates itself

Far more than a tenet ever could

In a room without witness

In a ritual of self hate.

What a grotesque buffet

What a cruel prayer to insist

Manufacturer’s error

When the intended use

Is so wholly disregarded.


What if I am the purpose?

What if I must exist

Poor symmetry and all

What if pain comes

From aversion to itself?

What if right and wrong

Are sometimes reversed

In moments of intense fear

When the world is viewed

From the palm

Of an obfuscating recoil?


I know who I am

Without being told

Without definition

I still exist

Everywhere I look

A mirror illumines.

The road is my map

The tongue my serpent

The hands can either be

Dungeon or platform

Depending on

Their orientation

And intent.



Would I rather be free?

Or would I rather be you?

A uninhabitable paradigm

An ideal buried

Within linen and flesh

A coffin snuffing out

The very source of life?

I’ll take my chances

Without a script.

Going Nowhere


Do you approach me now

To assign a destination

To the topography

Of my inhospitable flesh?

I have traveled for miles

Down ravaged gangways

Unaccustomed to the brevity,

The shark eyed infrastructure

The transparent hunger

In eyes that never suspend

Their purpose for long.


I labor over my identity

As if it were applied

A clumsy wooden frame

That holds more charm,

More beauty than the occupant

Can woefully prescribe

I could look at that frame

All day but the portrait

Does not resemble me.


How strange it is to start

But never to cross

A single boundary

Even with the gun waving

Before my estranged eyes.

The threat, the authority

Perhaps it is why

I only run in place.


I am not alone,

There are others faster than I

Sweating for both

Effort and effect

Wearing their pink soles

Blue but going nowhere.


More of my crummy photography. This is me I am wearing hubbies’ jacket which is too big on top of a large skirt that is why I look so lumpy lol

Prompt #77 and Tale Weavers #30 “Chalice”


There is no incision

That does not compromise its host.

I thought I might bleed today,

Drag my ancestors

From their common red graves,

A séance where no one speaks

Their secrets are safe in me

Perhaps repeated but never staged.


I am the jar, the chalice,

The latched box

Inside of me even darkness laments.

Those who live in the gutter

Brew in the piss of their benefactors

Those who live in the gutter

Never forget that foremost

In their composition are stars.


The clouds are my anchors

I flicker as a man

Approaching death

In another war

I might have been a gun

A solider, a limping child

I might even have been a stone

Mute, encrypted,

Worshiped in retrospect.


I am not limited to what I perceive

Some days I curse and others sow

There is naught to do but ascend

But I’ve done my fair share of tunneling

Hope is always stronger

When there is no where else to go.


You may find me ignoble, wanting

You may scoff at my suffering

My education, the tenor of my constructs.

I am proof of your excess

Proof that a smile heals

What antiseptic can only bleach

Proof that love is endemic

And that when there is nothing

Left to give, there is still more

Than enough to share.

Wordle #31 “Cenotaph”

Week 31

When will these invisible armies recede?

These murders, these lichen-gripped cenotaphs

My neighbors, my brothers will you dismiss me?

Feast on my currency, on the enamel that holds my heart

That candied apple, will you tear away

The sweetened plastic sheath and disregard

The grainy flesh underneath?

Do your eyes follow the slope of my breasts?

The slope of my breath as it escalates in plain sight?

Will you step on my bones,

Rip the nuance from my smile and if the mold

Cannot be made to shelter will you break me?


What a terrible crunch the soul makes.

I do not need to be a miracle rising again

A new woman for every trend and occasion.

I do not need your idols, your face, your laws

Your prejudice I know who I am

So why must you root me out and say

That I am not fine, not sane, not prosperous

When it’s your mirror that breaks.

Why must I apologize when I have lived gently

Despite the cradle of your violence

Despite your persistence, always turning,

To forgive is a miracle, to forgive is a hex.

Ostensibly Numb

Natalie Shau

Natalie Shau

I need to believe

That there is something

Inside still salvageable

Some overlooked heart fragment

Still red, ripe, and pumping

Some hint of the original

So that without

Too much embellishment

I can say

I am still myself,

At least the parts

Worthy of presentation.


I thought it was okay to die,

My right to step into the war

And come out again

A hero, in a discreet box

Adorned with some flag.

A picture of you perhaps?

(The one who murders

Has the right to confiscate

My body, having emptied

The suit for deployment)


I have thwarted evolution

My component fibers

Coarse as burlap

Settle in the gut

Like a mutiny

Of bewitched caterpillars

They chew the binding

Of all my diaries

That not a letter arrives

In the order of consignment


My self-improvement efforts

Are much too clinical,

They don’t leave much space

For living, only doing

And I’ve done enough

To earn the title of Sisyphus.

A visit to the anesthesiologist

Will keep me ostensibly numb

Numb as a glacier passing

From ship to ship,

An eviscerating tower

Unalterable in its contacts


The less we know

The more encompassing

The excuse

I live to pilfer

If you possess it

Why shouldn’t I?

And if I am you

Than I’ve no reason

To acknowledge my roots

Those obscene snares

Which remind me

Of the refuse

From which I rose


No I’d rather be you

That I can remain pristine

A Goddess, infallible,

Untouchable, reduced to ash

In the eyes of unscrupulous mortals

Yes I’d rather be death

In a human disguise

S Slashed

Scarecrow Face

Richard Keeling

We of the swollen carapace

Shall know pain mightily

Shall learn when to hold

And when to surrender

But until then we carve

Our ruts especially deep.


The world is a petri dish

And my expectations

Are irrelevant to the duration

Of my species as a whole

I speak for no man who does not

Possess a heart and tongue

Equally capable of noise

Sometimes there is even

Music between us

A kind of invertebrate symphony

Our flesh more easily stitched

Than bone or is it?


No amount of persuasion

Could draw this veil aside

For there is always another

Willing to negate the privilege.

We are alive but only just

Who among us can face

The collective consciousness?

We’ve created a society

That is contradictory

To life and our sorrows

However, scarce their content

Cannot find amelioration

In any known conquest


We contend that as children

We lived but every whisper

Contains its dose of poison

To be is to be had, to become

For the sake of an approximation

That in conflict does not stand


There are no eyes only

Pits of contagion

No smiles only frowns

Of inebriation worn askance

No hands without blood

For mercy does not fill

Leather as hate does

The seismic universal

Of self-worth is S slashed


We never look into the fires

That we have lit unless

We’ve found in some

Fool a culprit or alibi

There is no accounting

For denial, we survive only

In this moment

No matter how precariously

The future rests


I got too excited about the prompt Jen suggested so I went ahead and wrote something. I might have to move that challenge up in my schedule lol This is just where my mind took me on reading it.