Wednesday, November 25, 2009

An interview

I NEVER saw myself as a hotboy, SL or otherwise, but apparently I got the thumbs up by Bubbles Komachi, one of the six or so SL'ers whose company I enjoy immensely and who has tried over and over again to make me a more posh avatar. Despite the fact that I deplore prims (I'm known for making my head smaller so I didn't have to edit my hair), she has tried to kindly persuade me to upgrade my tastes from freebie clothes to a couture, and I have encouraged her to continue exploring her poetic voice; she is a budding SL star of spoken word. A self-proclaimed "gansta" (yeh, right), she has become an SL blogger worth noting.

Finding Bubbles' previous articles entertaining, I gave in to the interview request and subsequent photoshoot. Although, not surprisingly for me, I rate low on the "meter" (a 8.3 compared to the other hotties who have gone as far up the chart as 9.7), I had a blast. Bubbles took in account my religious convictions, and my faithfulness to my marriage, and was very tasteful with her questions. According to one of my raters (the girls and guys whose votes determine the meter), I expressed quite a bit of "snark" which I think people in RL would say I'm full of as well. All in all, I had a great deal of fun, but Huck, Hadley, and all the other SL true hotties out there are perfectly safe. I ain't stealing nobody's cred. :)

You can read of my hotness at

Thursday, November 5, 2009

It Only Breaks Along the Cracks

As he sat there, Freud-like, scribbling on yellow steno paper, He remembered—or he thought he remembered, maybe he just remembered the stories— when he was two and was locked in the car the faces of giants at every angle trying to set him free his mother screaming silently just outside the glass— fear, confusion, heat— they broke the glass but it didn’t shatter— put your head down cover your face baby— all the pieces stayed together a transparent jigsaw puzzle the man punched it and broke through the air came in cool.
He remembered it for only a second at the sink —I’m cracking up spinning out— metaphors come to the insane there was no logic here —hold my breath, no breathe— all he had to do was the dishes he fell to the floor plate after plate fell hurled their china shards in a spiral across the yellow linoleum red dots across the sunny yellow— he had wanted hard wood, but— Someone had to get in past the panic punch through —insignificant so major— come, cool, inside
She held his head to keep glass from shattering
not knowing it had to break to let in air.
Because it only breaks along the crack
And you may fall in the mire of madness
with only the little dwarf pills to join hand to hand to pull you back
and afterward the shame—
there will always be the shame—
the how can you do this to your family shame

and he must say to the sinking soul lying on the couch beside him,
“you can learn to swim from two types of teachers,
the one who always perfectly split the water
and the one who almost drowned.”

Sunday, October 18, 2009

Doctor's Prescription

You said, “Not ideas,
but in things.”
Like wet farm tools,
or the last plum,
or white chickens pecking at the dirt,
shards of my teacup
on a wooden floor
in a lake of amber tea.

Sunday, August 23, 2009

Around the Square

A vampire walks every night past the inns in Savannah's Lafayette Square, rumor says, down the sidewalks looking for its prey.

"Pray each night before you go to bed," the nanny tells the pajama wrapped boy," that you are forgiven of any darkness." She turns the nightlight on and looks out the window over the square. "You must be filled with light."

"Light weights can't be balanced any more than heavy ones." The student is sipping his tea when he should be doing his homework. He looks out the coffee shop on the square and feels metaphorical. His eyes play with the cracks in the pavement. College restrictions fit tighter than black plastic bracelets. "We all do our best to walk the line here."

Hear the sounds of the man with the briefcase as his Italian leather footfalls click on the sidewalk. He works at the courthouse. He thinks over the face of the little girl victim he saw today, and thinks of the eyes of the woman he is defending. On days like today he wonders if he is a vampire.

spanish moss shadows
dance across the gray pavement
worshipping the moon


What led me to agree,
to leave my bath and my commitments
and follow the servants to the castle
was not his handsomeness, the mixed magnetism of poet and warrior,
although I once told him it was.
And no matter what you have been told,
I did not bathe purposely for him to see.

The force that drove me to dry the moistness
of my body and apply
the most alluring perfumes my husband had purchased for our bed
was not an obligation to the king
although that is what I once said when I was old.
Converting selfishness into patriotism is a common, if not forgivable,
act of the aged.
When they called me to see him,
I knew what he wanted.

The lust that later birthed love,
that caused me to leave one kind of nobility
for another
and anger a jealous God,
began for me
as I gazed at the bath water
once more before leaving for David’s bed
and saw the curve of both firm breasts
under the silhouette of my hair
and felt,
for the first time in a very long time,

Tuesday, July 21, 2009


It is the stuff we buy.
It is the need that is not quite a need.
It is the hollowness filled with chocolate.
It is the landfill on which I build my playground.

The plastic bag reads,
"Caution: Keep away from small children.
The thin film may cling to the nose and mouth and prevent breathing.
Atencion: Mantener alejado de los ninos pequenos.
Se puede adherir a la nariz y boca e impedir la respiracion. "
But the Spanish version adds,
"Esta bolsa no es juguete,"
a fact not given to English speakers.

No es juguete.
No es un chiste.
Se puede adherir e
impedir la respiracion
even for adults.

Sunday, July 5, 2009


White, smooth, weather polished stones.
My grandmother and I collected them in the park
behind my house. Or rather she watched me
as I chose each one, somehow instinctively,
and placed it in my pocket.
I’m not sure on what merits I made my choices,
which to leave by the gnarled oak tree
and which to plant on each side of me.
I felt sorry for all the orphan rocks and wanted to take them all.
But choosing one means leaving another,
and perhaps they chose me anyway.
Some were tiny like bird eggs.
Some were larger like the cobblestones
used as ballast before paving the downtown streets.

With these, I would fill my pockets until I could hardly move,
almost doubling my weight with rubble.
I would sway with the weight of the mounds.

I have kept these stones since that day,
lining my pockets with their heavy affection.
Sometimes they have kept me from floating away.
Sometimes they have caused me to drown.