The garden blossoms and blossoms

With hope and wisps of future dreams

Planted with love, on stormy days planted with



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My heart still throbbing.

At least I didn’t sleep with him

Yet, I still wake up thinking about him.

You don’t have herpes if you never had an outbreak.

Thank goodness I didn’t have miss of a condom –

There was no need for one.

Get tested for AIDS, HIV. What about the perfect
Love story? It’s not him. I miss writing to you.


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It’s been storming night and night

In the pouring rain; I drove to my parents’

On the small, two lane highway streets

Of South Michigan at night. Fog was thick.


Later, my sister told me my brother

Shouted, “Victory or death!” over

And over again while they were driving

Through the pouring rain, as well.


My body later awoke me, with chattering

And shivering of my jaw, my body, legs, inside

Me. I was frozen. I got up and told my brother, knowing

I looked ghostly pale in the night mirror and it scared me.


This was June, not December. He said take aspirin and

Lorazepam he had begged me for earlier tonight to assuage his

Severe depression. He said put on a sweatshirt. I did, all of those.

Except give him my meds.


“My name is on the bottle,” I said. I go to my doctors and they give me

My meds. Why don’t you go to get meds from your doctor? I asked.

He said, “They won’t give me any, just Prozac. It’s worthless.”

“Maybe you’re not saying the right things.”


My sister inquired, “You have anxiety attacks?”

“I don’t have panic attacks,” I said, “Just when I can’t take it.”

“The anxiety,” she said. She gets it.

It’s clear.


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True Loving Dreams

Men can die or leave.

The only forever while I’m alive

is me.


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Hey, how about you

Jump right in? The

water’s Great!

Bet you more gold

than a canary that

you’ll love to wait

for the next bus

that leaves us here

at the lake.



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I Want to be a Prostitute.

Does that make sense to you?


It makes perfect sense to me. My


Career would already be set.  I’d


Have Customers wherever I went.


Allow myself the fantasy – but what

About the illegal findings?


And the men forging a rift between


Themselves and their Wives.




How would I drum up Clients

In the first place? Not in a market

Aisle, in the mid-day. And certainly


Not on the street corner Wearing

Fishnet tights.


But then, How would it come up, come

about in a conversation?


Hi. I’m flirting heavily With you, Allow

me to wink and tell you a thousand.




A Thousand Dollars. Wink, Wink.


The most ridiculous think, I’ve thought today.




But what’s the best part about working –

Well, not WORKING, I wouldn’t want

To be WORKING as a prostitute. Only if it


was an attitude of added leisure, instead of

a Moneymaker for paying the kettle bills.


The Best part – no commitment. No man left

unpunished. And no little me bereft

With agony of abandonment. The Best part?


Maybe I’m not monogamous. Maybe I’m

Actually GOOD AT THIS! Does that frighten me?

A little bit. Men love to talk with me, and no, it’s


Not because of my cute face, and my lovely, curvy,

albeit some would say “thick”, beautiful body.


It’s because I can listen. It makes my life easier to

Listen to other people talk about themselves,


Or whatever else it is they wish to speak about.


It makes them feel better, and therefore,

By alliance, provides me with relief, above and

On top of the lightened pleasure of being


In one man’s line of sight for a few minutes.


Eyes, Eyes, Give me Eyes.


Fuck me on the side, too. You know how I like it.

Slap my face and make me squeal.



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Why do you care

about me? What is it

you want? I hope you are

loving me, and not

needing a new cook, recruit

or damsel, miserable and desperate.


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Putrid, ROTTING hatred.


How can I resist this hate again?

So easy to manipulate my pain to

rerotten the hate of my past.

So much complain and anguish

in small little so much empty pit

pots of nothingness oils, semisoiled

vials of rerotting greens and white molds.


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New Year’s Resolution

Something special,

of special magnitude.


A person who you like


who can love you back.



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Smell the gravy

Regardless of the bird

or beast, of which has


been butchered, bled out,

sliced open, and guts out.

I see the gravy; thick and

smooth, brown and good.

Savoring the meat’s softness

as it melts in your mouth,

the lust carryovers of the past,

in greedy ravaging on slow haste.



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