Pssst. Go check out my new article at a big ol’ eco-savvy site…
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From the category archives:
Scribbles. (Writing & art)
I tasted coffee,
tea, on your tongue,
your face above mine.
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She definitively cares and does not care
about:
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One woman laughs, barks, through her lunch, as if the empty wheelchair beside her is home to a friend, a wiseacre, a real crackup.
“Tell my mom I need clothes, toothpaste, a toothbrush,” I tell A. Hard to say what is needed. “Need” is a word that means close to nothing anymore. You slip from want to almost want to yearn and back to want, but you dare not need. That got you here in the first place.
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There is something about a naked, fully unedited, bathroom/laundry room/cat feeding station online tour that is enough to make this author’s mother go pale. “Jennnnnnn,” she said, in a pitch somewhere in the garden of a plea and a whine and a mortified whisper, “PEOPLE ARE SEEING THIS. AREN’T YOU WORRIED? DID YOU HAVE TO [...]
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Good deeds, not words, you write and I
get a whiff of who you are, just a whiff, a tang
of upper lip sweat and talcum-powdered
armpits and generations of dustbunnies
under the bed and Love’s Baby Soft and
urine, yes, I said, urine.
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…and the winner of “So You Think You Can Dance” is… well… not me. But the winner of “So You Think You Can Dance Like a Fool in Iceland” MAY, in fact, be me: http://www.workitmom.com/bloggers/singlemomatwork/ or GO HERE to offer up some gooey pumpkin-y Thanksgiving comment love slices. Happy T-day, all. I am thankful for [...]
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Action, reaction: I wake up. I close my eyes. Action, reaction, reaction: Teenaged boys grunt and holler in the school yard, preying on a leather ball with fist-fangs. I wait them out. Do they ever study? Action, reaction: “Why are you fat?” one of them yells. I retreat, inside. Reaction, action: The dogs sulk. They [...]
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raking hair not leaves / kids screaming, pleading for help / say what? flea on cat?
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I thought maybe for a change I’d blurt out a few posts in a Twitter-sized Choose Your Own Adventure sort of way. That way I get some Twitter practice. And you can read the titles, and kind of read whatever you want, and hand over the funnies or the glummies or the world news or the sports to the next reader.
Okay, there will be no sports. Unless you want to play dodgeball with me. I like dodgeball, always did. Email me, Justin Timberlake. Or, you know, put your tweet in the box.
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