Then and Now

I didn’t allow my thoughts to roam
I told myself not to muse
I didn’t allow the flesh of
My calves or thighs or wrists to bruise
I didn’t allow my dreams to stick
I ushered them out the door
I shut my unconscious with a brick
I blocked off the id’s back door
I didn’t allow my armpit hair
To grow past an eighth of an inch
I watched the news and didn’t sigh,
Regurgitate or flinch
I didn’t allow my tongue to taste
The nutritional blend I drank
I hitched an anchor to
My moral compass so it sank
I didn’t allow my spending to be
More than half what I earned in a year
I didn’t drink water in order
To hinder my eyeball
From forming a tear
I didn’t allow my rage to flow
I bottled up all my grief
But that was then, and now
I’m liable to weep
At the sight of ground beef.

The Wolf Who Couldn't Sleep

There once was a wolf who couldn't sleep
His fur was matted and gray
His eyes were bloodshot and he felt
Lethargic through the day
And then when bedtime came, his brain
Was riddled through with thoughts
With content like: Do clouds have minds?
What happens when wood rots?
Do skunks know just how bad they smell?
Are certain mushrooms shy?
Can lowly earthworms fall in love?
Is earth aware of sky?
The thoughts went on and on like this
Night after sleepless night
And not a wink of sleep was won
The sun rose cruelly bright
And due to deprivation, this poor wolf
Would drag his feet
The pack went on without him
Soon he had no food to eat
Cold nights in cave with questions like:
Is starlight close or far?
Do bats have dreams? And why do
Frogs say 'croak' and bears say 'rawr'?
He lasted only three weeks more
No food, no sleep, just thinking
He tossed and turned each night, and spent
His days at rivers drinking
But no one gave him answers
Until one night he was dead
There was a wolf who couldn't sleep
But you're not him. Go to bed.

How would you like your therapist?

How would you like your therapist?
Neutered? Buxom? Blonde?

Neutered: its balls in a velvet sack, tied with a golden thread, locked in a safe aside Civil War-era ammunition…

Buxom: its breasts bursting out of a Jessica Rabbit dress, then melting like snow-cones, flesh-colored blobs on the floor…

Blonde: bright blonde, sun-blonde, marigold, daisy-eye, lemondrop blonde; so blonde the shimmer hypnotizes you as you gush on about your parents, your sexual hang-ups, your childhood troubles—whoosh—and the session is over—you feel, if not cured, that a weight has been lifted; your chest helium-full, a lunar clarity in your mind, the willingness to live another day…

yes. Blonde.

The Imagination has its Feet in a Cement Block

The imagination has its feet in a cement block
And is trying to break free of the head
But keeps sinking down into the sea of the unconscious
where it gets shoved around by opioid-drugged pufferfish.
“Owch!” it bounces off one. “Owch!” it bounces off another
The pufferfish drift by unscathed
“Can anyone help me get my feet out of this cement block?” the imagination asks--
its plea a gush of impotent bubbles.

Fertility and the Dove

“Fewer than half of university students were able to correctly identify the age at which a woman’s fertility declines,” said the dove.


Fertility sat polishing her fingernails.


“and only one in five knew male fertility declines at 45,” the dove went on.


Fertility blew on her nails to make them dry.


“a third of men and women thought female fertility starts to decline only at 40,” the dove continued, its voice rising to a shriek.


Fertility carefully gathered up her chromosomes, her eggs, her intracytoplasmic sperm injection, her polish, nail file, and acetone-soaked cotton balls into her purse.


“Kiss my ass,” she told the dove, and walked out the door 


(stumbling/her panties around her ankles).