skirting the demi dream with carved radishes

i have grown out of the daily
and i can't say it pleases me.
dunno what it is about being with
the scientist that makes me not write.
perhaps tis all the past writing that comes
now to haunt me, or that he wants to be written of
perhaps i can't write unless it seems as if it's
sneaky or taboo even. is that the medium of my ouvre's growth?
how ludicrous. if i don't worship at the sadistic malicious ironist altar
then i don't get to write>
once told an il poet, one i rarely got along with
that i'd give up writing in a second for love.
he concurred. i don't know if he's still writing but i said that
never thinking i'd have to.
never thinking i'd want to do that again.
it's different when u have kids, that kind of love is demanding
who has time to write. and as my daughter constantly reminds me
i shouldn't have done it while she was growing up
because i'm a neglectful and fully abusive parent
i have the poems to prove it. my son
merely thinks i'm insane. my new lover...
loves poetry. has wonderful stories
that would make great copy
wants me to write the story of his life
which parallels mine in some really weird ways
but with a male background...i dunno. he's as in touch
with his fem side as i am with my masc. loves dishes
and shopping. uses his intuition rather than logic
would love to stay home while i work and be that wife i always said i wanted
except
he doesn;t really want to do that.  that's his consolation prize for bombing out

in the professional world. that's his fallback position and he's been pursuing it for going on five years. he's landed in the state where the swamp swallows you up then burps you out after the rest of the country has digested you.  a colostemy bag. that's what florida is you know, not a flaccid penis , we've got viagra for that, jjst change yr pov my fren, turn that map. you too can find your mojo in the land of paradisical whim, if not from a girl, then from a pill. so yeah, bombing out, carrying the fragments of your former life into the subtropics, seeing what a li'l r and r will do ya. findin that pretty thang to fill your time while deciding between dreams and aspirations, doin the man thing,.if that's even what you want to do anymore. by god, this weed is fine, the drinks are cool, that babe is HOT, buddy can you spare a dime i'm on margaritaville time..

and then you meet me.  i am that girl. that vargasviagra girl.  how many aging men have found a spark in me? i'm the legendary cougar, the deified surfer girl,the notorious craigslist killer,  the art inspiring beauty you fucked when you shirked your life in  that transitional time between where you were and where you'll finally go after you find out you must either escape from the pond, or grow scum for hair, webs between your toes and sand in your veins. yes i saidthatallinonebreath.

so the lover. he is a lover. i do love him. he loves me. like i love him. i think. it feels that way. a cocktail of adhd and ocd that fits me well. we saw promise in possibility but i don't know how to foster that and keep true to myself. dont' even know if i need to. foster anything.  but the adhd makes me think maybe a bit. maybe  but not so much...

 he's  midwestern. an indiana baby. but he grew up in springfield so he's really   from illinois. these are important distinctions to him. if i write his story i'd have to get it somewhat truthy. so


 i was a horse
he stroked
nickering into  his
 neck while his hands
brushed both flanks
tightened the cinches
i was horse he rode
with barely enough control
to stop me going through
the woods fast as the sun
painting my  hide
 with desiring dapples
splotches where  his legs touched me
freckles where  his spittle  burnt
me palimino before he fell or
jumped  off
i never knew which.




no, not that.

springfield and orlando had a lot in common back in the day. the integrational seventies.boomers had blown up the old world but  boomers didn't have to face real desegregation. didn't have to live the consequences of forced busing , race riots, the conflagration of the lambs.( but that's just historical blindness  plenny rednecks in springfield, we just call em union boys. it was always someone hating on someone and blacks were   at the bottom of even that.) just like orlando. somehow my middle school had only one black student. he was so token. (but i was like one of a handful of white guys in high school. that's why i wanted to become catholic.) more on that later. this is my narrative. (but this is pertinent to why i wanted to be a catholic so badly) ok but we haven't leaped yet. i'll let you know the warp drive time.

just slow down. we both come from some really racist backgrounds but i don't think we  carry the unholy bigotry with us. with me it was a playground i couldn't go on. (with me it was the drum and bugle corp, travelling in the south with jim crow tudes filling in where  the laws used to be. one time in lousiana we had to drive all the way out to the interstate to find a place that'd let us stay and even then they wrote nigaz go home on the motel while we slept. . ) oh see now this is truthy but it becomes a long narrative that really could only be in a book or a character study and it just isn't distilled enough to make sense of why i 'm not writing at the moment, just kind of slipping into a series of wow it's almost thursday and will i have a job come this time next year and if i didn't could i survive on the thing i love?

i told him when we met that i wanted to be rescued. i wanted out of the slave mines, twenty five years is enough. he thinks he'd like to be back in them. it's exhausting being out there, entrepenuering, scratching, peddling. thinks his chances for success in his doctorate are past him. stressing the big five uh oh rabbit did you forget to run? i think he heard the gun, and raced for fifteen years till it the bullet finally reached him. he just hasn't quite figured out that he's dead. but he's in florida. livin here stayin ova there, driver's license from another state.

 i'll be lucky to die on temporary disability insurance after the trailer's paid off and all i got to pay is the lot rentz. reality obama? you couldn't do nuthin bout that. the pensions are all eaten  by the last great gen and their progeny, the boomers. and florida never saw a pension it didn't wanna shoot, stuff and place on the wall of the robber baron's vault. that's why we like romney and rick scott. if you wanna work the salt mines, you need to get you back to a state that respects workers.


the pres looked tired tonite. he looked as if he couldn't take the campaigning on the dias . romeny on the other hand looked well rested and smug, and he's been practicing the reagan "...well, jimmy, i'll tell you..." i fear he may have won. if i were undecided i might be leaning his way. and that's a lot of writing. incoherent, unpoetic, but writing. i think i'll try that again very soon.