LiteraryMary is Back

There are a lot of really cool things going on this month, too.

First off is the premier of ‘Don’t Call Me Plath – Twelve Outstanding Women of the Small Press‘.

Our Ping Pong for the month is between Father Luke and Jenifer.

Another important announcement is our second call for submissions.

Lastly, LiteraryMary has a new Facebook page.

Enjoy!

Leave the Why to the Philsophers

it is not the job of the poet
to tell you why
when you place
a box of stuff
on the curb
marked free
in permanent black ink
nobody wants what’s inside.
But if you mark
the same box
five dollars
it will be gone
in fifteen minutes.

.

A Year and Some Change

you smell like sand
i think
as i lay my cheek
on your arm.

we grow farther apart
the more
we know
so that i miss you most
when i’m with you.

Remembering My Mom

Last night I dreamed of my mom. Those of you who know me, know my mom passed about eleven years ago, when she was only fifty.

In the dream she was cooking a large dinner for what appeared to be a dinner party, or a holiday. As the dinner was being presented, the people being served were complaining about this or that. I grew concerned about whether or not she was okay and went into the kitchen to see if I could help.

There she was. My mom. Exactly as my mom should be. Her curly hair was a little disheveled, her beautiful, soft skin, her eyebrows so perfectly plucked. I said to her, ‘Don’t you just get a burning livid feeling in your stomach?’ She said, as if so happy someone understood, ‘Yes!’ And she moved to embrace me. And she embraced me and it felt so good. And I thought, of course I understand now Mom, I understand so many things I never did before I had four children. And she was my friend.

People ask me if it was hard to lose her at such a young age. She was fifty and I was twenty five. Yes, yes of course it was. It was terrible to lose her. It was terrible to get the telephone call from my sister telling me she had finally passed away. I said that stupid thing people always say, ‘Oh, but I just talked to her yesterday.’ You’d think, as a writer, I could come up with something better.

She was no longer suffering, but my suffering had just begun.

There are the things I miss now. I miss being able to call her on the telephone and just talk. I miss listening to her crank up the television at the beginning of every Blazers game when they were introducing the players as she clapped and cheered. I miss the softness of her hair. I miss her laugh and the way she would take the rings off my fingers when I would visit and slip them on her own, keeping them for herself. I miss that I cannot call someone and say, ‘Mom, when I was a kid did I do this or that?’ because one of my kids is doing this or that. I miss being able to ask for her advice, and the infuriating way she would always play devil’s advocate. I miss my mom. I miss the person I could always fall back on, could always trust. I miss the one person in the world who would never, no way, abandon me or give up on me. I miss the one person in the world who could always find the good in me.

Maybe those are selfish reasons for missing someone. But I’ve never gotten over the fact that she was taken too young. That someone else could have been taken in her place. That here was a woman who was entirely good and fiercely loving.

My mom was the glue to our family. She was the sun that the four of her children orbited.

I look at us all now, and we’re just sort of drifting, looking for someone to replace her.

The problem is, she is irreplaceable.

Regarding Genocide

Genocide is defined by dictionary.com as:

–noun

the deliberate and systematic extermination of a national, racial, political, or cultural group.

When many people think if genocide, the first thing that comes to mind is the holocaust. However, what many people don’t know is that there is still genocide going on in the world today, right now, as I type this.

I encourage my friends and anyone who ends up reading this blog to visit this site, educate yourself and do what you can to let world leaders know you do not support an attitude of tolerance regarding genocide:

Genocide Intervention Network

Looking For the Right Thing Among All the Other Things

The cheese grater, a stiff
slice of Parmesan.  The hand
rolled cigarette.  The knobs
on the stove all turned
to off.  The bottle of Budweiser,
its label corner
peeled.  Your dirty
fingernails.  Pistachios
in a cellophane bag, the shells
in the ashtray
overflowing.  The blackening
lung. The beginning
of your end.
The ruffled skirt, the wristwatch,
and the glass mustard jar
with a butter knife stuck
in it. The Bicycle playing
cards and the yet to be
sliced baguette.

http://tearoomartists.com/

As my friend Jocelyne would say, ‘Catch hot piss.’

Blue Devils

I called you on the telephone
and while the phone rang
I imagined
you out walking
at night.  Your feet
in cream colored Converse,
crunch the gravel
at the side of the road.
There’s a ditch to your left.
Traffic passes intermittently
to the right.
I watch the headlights approach
through your eyes.
Night traffic
has its own sounds.

You walk by
Slurpee cups and their
dirty red straws, a Budweiser
bottle, a black sock
and about a billion
cigarette butts.

At home
your phone is ringing.
Your cat glances up.
You won’t answer.

Neither will
he.

A New Haircut Can Make You Feel Pretty Again

My friend Lans Nelson gives the best  haircut and color ever.  Ever.  Especially if your hair is really curly like mine.  You should have her cut your hair too.

Even the Breeze Has Weight

Tell it to the wind.
Tell it to the night.
Tell it to the cieling fan
circling above your head
where you are alone
because you chose
to be.

You’re safest
in life
when no one
can answer
honestly.