7-18-13

"Is Saturday family day at Camp Cupcake?"
The little girl said as she hopped circles around her granny.
Camp Cupcake, I thought, how cute!
Must be some lil summer program she's in.
"Camp Cupcake," her granny said to me, "women's prison. Don't worry it was white collar crime."
She turned to the girl, "And, no, family day is not this weekend."
The little girl quit hoppin'. I felt the smile drain from my face.
Granny answered questions I never asked.
She could've let us keep our illusions.

small stones catch up...well kinda...again lol

1/23/13

Going for a drive with Usher.
I'm picky today,
and he's the only one I'll allow to vibrate my....
speakers.

1/24/13

I hate the way the good ol boy
at the service station
stares at me,
as if I'm an abnormality,
as if i'm a circus sideshow,
as if I just perfected a magic trick,
all because I don't even have a PENIS,
yet I was able to pop the hood!

1/25/13

The waitress looks frazzled.
Not cause she's busy,
but because she's hungover.
I wanna ask her if she
slept over with a stranger,
puked on her shoes,
wore yesterday's clothes to work,
didn't wash her hair or body,
and attempted to cover it up with
a pea-soup-thick layer of cheap perfume.

1/22/13

My stepmom wrote in my husband's birthday card,
"Here is some money for gambling and new britches."
I glanced over it and thought it said,
"Here is some money for gambling and new bitches."
Mister IS going to Vegas.

1/21/2013

1/21/2013

The sun comes in sharper, clearer through the single-paned glass

on the 74 year-old door.

That same window filtered her sun

as she lived and as she died.

I snuggle in a blanket,

let it warm my face.

I wonder if the same window will shower sun on me when I'm 74.

It's still 37 years away,

but these first 37 have gone by fast.

 

catch-up! Whew! Small stones 1/17 to 1/20

1/17/13
She had no money and didn't know what she was going to do
when her daughter pulled up one day and dropped off three babies under five
with only a: "Take the damn things. I don't want them."
So she pulled out her sewing machine and started making them some clothes.
The next thing you know, she had raised them.
I have so much more than she does and also so much less.

1/18/2013
I dispersed the children off to school,
And then spent the afternoon collecting them up.
It reminded me of my grandmother... lost to Alzheimer's...
still trying to find her children at the non-existant bus stop.

1/19/13
The decrepit old man had to neglect using his cane
so that he can carry around a whole gallon of wine.
  I offer to help him, but he refuses my help.
He's trying to climb the rubber-tree plant.
He's trying to make off with a whole biscuit instead of just a crumb.

1/20/13
Cleaning out the attic makes me realize
how many of her things I never parted with.
The more I try to clear things out,
the murkier the water gets.

My autistic son smells my hair every morning to make sure that I'm still me. If I'm gone, and he get stressed, he's been known to bring my hairspray to his dad as if to ask, "Where is she?" Last night's power outage must have stressed him. I have spent all day trying to locate the hairspray that he apparently swiped sometime in the night.

In the Sunday Obits

In the obituaries, everybody went home to be with the Lord. It doesn't matter if he was the meanest sonofabitch alive or if she was the biggest whore on the block. They are all angels in the Sunday paper... gone home to be with the Lord. It takes the glory away from those who actually lived like saints. There they are, side-by-side, with the local drug dealer. They are ALL knockin on heaven's door, wakin in the arms of Jesus, walkin the streets of gold. (No matter, as mortals, how many drugs they sold.) It's like kids' sports teams everybody gets a trophy... doesn't matter if you're MVP or the waterboy. All trophies look the same. All rewards are the same. The church lady (who sat home with her impotent husband every night for 50 years, who never smoked, never drank, never cussed, never let her hair down,) is probably mightly pissed that Buffy, the local hooker from down the street, is right there beside her in the (SUNDAY!) obits getting the same accolades. Jesus, who made extra alcohol at parties, who hung out with prositutes at the watering hole, walks through the obits with the might-as-well-have-been-a-nun 70-year-old housewife just as frequently as he walks with Bambi, the party girl who had six husbands of her own and a few of y'alls too, just as frequently as he walks with Junior, who got himself fried stealing copper, or Jimmy who died in a meth lab explosion that he caused. They're all: red and yellow, black and white precious in his sight. Black and white and read all over and read over and over every Sunday in the obits.