Rip, rip, rip!
Red glazed paper
Cling, cling, cling!
The falling sugar
Whirr, whirr, whirr!
Grinding of the beans
Stir, stir, stir!
Till the surface gleams
Drip, drip, drip!
Dripping black ocean
Sip, sip, sip!
The bitter decoction

Sweetheart
Ain't it sweet enough
To believe there's someone we're made for
But it's never enough sugar
in that sachet
Why does love last as long as it's paid for?

My mother dearly wanted  
to be Dorothy Parker.
She yearned for a taste of the power that comes
from a truly witty response.

She craved to deliver
A statement so powerful
and sardonic that it would terminate
all argument or discussion.

My proximity made me an easy target to practice on
as each of our arguments ended with a bon mot
delivered with the all the acerbic flourish of Bette Davis.

As I listened to her footsteps receding down the hallway
I had only to take one more breath
before the footsteps reversed direction
and - standing at the doorway to my room -
She would deliver another culminating witticism
turn, leave and repeat.

In the fifties and sixties an intelligent woman –
a single mother of three
with no high school diploma,
but a surfeit of imagination –
Savoured what little power she could find
even if it was a fiction, a delusion
or just a punchline sharp enough to draw blood.

I prayed to God in the silent house,
In the quiet stillness, in came a mouse,
Yes, in scuttled Horatio the Mouse,
Sardonic God has sent me a mouse,
So, a little fur friend,
God's blessings don't end,
This mouse is way too hyperactive,
I ask, does it come from a mouse collective?
Is Horatio pregnant? think twice.
Shall I be plagued by furry mice?
I bought poison and mousetraps, too bad,
Is the mouse collective about to be sad?
Thus spake God, in the silent dark house,
"I shall send you a fur friend mouse?"

Have you lately realized
How much self absorbed
Heterosexual amorphous
Hominem ad narcissists
Love their oneorientation
Love their self esteem pen
Love their uncanny purse
Love their rightful rituals
They abide to admiration
They wear polite persona
They share unrelentlessly
They know salt and peppa
Immortal talent n'crowd
Inspiring dear friend days
Interrupting pink panther
Integrity by wild abandon.

Sitting in my home
The power hasn't gone dead
I'm writing in a storm
Letting the wind carry thoughts from my heart
Up the spine down to my pen

Thoughts like... You and I snuggled together our bodies United against the cold or more accurately, me sitting on this couch alone, playing a video game that's old

Or wondering what it would be like if Zelda went cyberpunk or if banjo kazooie was an rpg,
Or if pokemon was a platformer, these weird daydreams interest me

turns out that the more water you drink
the dryer your mouth is when
a pool of it runs down your throat
leaving your tongue sardonically parched

and writing poetry in classes filled with numbers
doesn't make them any clearer
      (however it does make you clearer)

people self-sooth all the time
playing with lips
hair
squeezing arms
clicking pens

and wearing dresses results
in legs sticking to chairs
eating a lot
makes your abs hide

stay away away away
you won't for long

the more water you drink
the more parched you become

before I can write, I have to stop
and consider the new nail growth
that has pushed nail paint further up
as my tiny talons become more worthy of their name.

earlier, I pointed at the individual students
one by one; they hesitantly mustered words
to match my unclear expectations;
hoping to avoid my sarcastic cackle,
or the full blown eyes gleaming
like the deepest darkest black marbles
wedged in my eye sockets,
their words trailed off, along with their interest.

I don't try to find a broom that fits my grip.
mine has always been the right fit,
and I've had the ability to travel through time,
and somehow connect one vague memory to the next,
adding detail and sharpening what was dull and lifeless,
so the imagery is mechanically pointed and precise.

My face paint is strategic war paint,
but brown, never green.
At once I'm judged as foreigner,
of foreign origin; young (you're THAT old?)

they will never know that I fear my own image
and imaginings
worse than they fear what power my pen wields.
to bear the weight of an expanse of thoughts--
strenuous, burdensome, careful responsibility--
with relief only once words materialize on a page,
on a screen,
that they will never read.

for no witch was born witch;
she was made so once her dreams shriveled
and resembled the lifeless frogs in her hands.