it’s based on a true story, sort of, but none of the characters etc.

Some of the posts on this blog are journal entries, blog posts connected to events in my life.  Others are connected to my website, LiteraryMary.com.  Yet, others are absolute fiction.

I am, for the most part, a poet.  Some of what I write may be based on my life.  But what is based on my life, if it is based on my life at all, can be as little as .01%.  It may be that the only thing in a piece I have actually lived is the color of a house, or a song that was playing in the background.  You get the idea.

If you’re reading this thinking it’s confessional poetry.  It’s not.  All the people in these poems are trained professionals on closed courses.  Do not attempt these stunts at home.

She Never Knew Her Father, But She Loved Her Dad

She never knew her father.
Summer afternoons,
beneath the apple tree
on the farm
where she lived
with her mother
and her step father, whose sailor
tattoos, taut white t-shirts and Old Spice
smell she loved almost as much
as him,
she nevertheless
day dreamed.

He was of Russian heritage
she’d heard
from her aunt
who would talk
when her mother
would not.

She imagined her life
had he not ran
away, created
Omar Sharif in a sable
coat, braving the tundra
to save endangered
belugas, a loud
Russian family, vodka
cheeked around
a wooden table, eating
borscht or piroshky.
She hummed a tune
which would be more beautiful
played on a belailaika.

Until supper time,
announced by her mother
standing in a shirt dress on the porch
voice carried by the same breeze
which pushed a curl
over her eye.
Her mother,
a different woman now
than the one
who had fallen
in love
once
with her real father
wherever he was.

Literary Mary is back…

Call for submissions, until February 28:

Also, LiteraryMary Newsletter issue #28 is available in .pdf. Editor, Sana Rafiq. Articles by Jenifer Wills, Joseph Grant, Lynn Alexander, justin.barrett, Steven Walter, Sana Rafiq and Daniel Luis. Poetry by Steven Walter and Craig Leaf. If interested in writing a column or submitting to the monthly newsletter, contact Sana …Rafiq, aka lostpoem through her private message box at LiteraryMary.com

If you haven’t been in a while, come hang out.

It Was a Different Time

No Dreams of Death. No Dreams at All.

This chair smells like my ex boyfriend’s
dad.  He used to offer me his seat
when I’d be over there eating
and I’d politely decline
becuase I couldn’t eat whatever
his sweet mom fixed, chicken
or some sort of soup
with cabbage
without losing my appetite
and holding back
vomit.

I’ve spent the last two days
trying not to puke,
trying to sleep,
trying to eat,
trying to want
to live.

And the harder I try
the less any
of that shit happens.

The pain
in my head
is like
my brain being beaten
and beaten
and beaten
by Mike Tyson
in his prime.

And when the pain stops
it’s replaced
by post surgery
ache like waking
up in the middle
of the night
after having a c-section
and no pain medication
for hours.

When you open
your eyes
the pain washes
over you
as a reminder
that you are still
fucking
alive.

Wash, Rinse, Repeat

The green cleaner
floods the tile, transforming
the surface
into a sludge
of grey slime with hair
and bits
of things unrecognizable.
The mop sucks
the filthy waste
from the floor.

Afterward, leaning exhausted
against the wall
riding the elevator
to the third floor
to scrub toilets,
I catch myself thinking
about what best cleans
stainless steel
and thinking
about nothing more
than that.

The doors open
just in time
to dissipate the panic
at the emptiness
of my mind.

Just Like Bukowski

i’m sick
of poets
using the word
joint
to describe
the place
they live.

when you and i
both know
how they got there
and who they
had to hurt
to make sure
they would never
make it any
farther
than shit.

I Had Forgotten How Good it Was

for the optimists

is the garbage
can half empty
or half full?

CareOregon

My shoulders are full
of razor blades
and ninja stars,
sharp sticks
and unkind words.

My back is bent
from lack of home,
songs I don’t know
and things
that aren’t mine
and never will be.

I dream of separating
my body
from my soul,
hanging my bones
in the closet
by my clothes
and hovering
weightless, painless
capable and kind,

but awake
every morning
alive.