Fat Bottom Girl Said What

When my ass talks, people listen.

Archive for the month “April, 2016”

Sowing The Seeds Of Love

you sow the seeds

but you only grow weeds

in your little garden you planted with her

fertilized with bitter words

showered with yelling like the squawking of a crow

“I love her, but I have my doubts it will work”

you told me

(and I wondered why you were bothering trying again)

ever the scarecrow

you don the overalls and the floppy hat

but even you can’t stop the foraging

your previous crop with her had failed

withered on the vine

you were different gardeners

both of you

afraid to throw in the trowel

so to speak

you can’t seem to take the sage advice

of the farmer’s almanac

about cultivating a healthy  harvest

you reap what you sow you know

you have weevils


pests eating at the roots

nibbling away at the foundation

chop it all down

compost the crap

let go

and let it return to the earth

maybe then

you will find someone

who can help you bring in a crop





Specter of Self

I doubt my existence in this life

everything is rote


I’m unsure how I get to work

I sniff my armpit to make sure I put my deodorant on

food tastes bland and boring

my breathing is shallow

my blood feels like syrup in my veins

my hands have no grip

and I can’t feel the bottoms of my feet

color blind

I see nothing but various shades of gray

I am not among the living


depression has made me a ghost again




It’s The Little Things

Posted originally on The Fat Bottom Bard.

The Fat Bottom Bard

Coffee cups stained from daily use
and the passage of time
minute cracks of the porcelain surface allowing the
infiltration of the smoky dark liquid

So much meaningless discourse meaning everything,
shared while clutching these cups
now warming arthritic fingers, tangled by tasks and touches
and years which have slipped by, often without notice

How many more times
will we fill the cups before one morning
One shall remain empty

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I sawed

and I chopped off

pieces of myself

trying to fit into the box

you made for me

tossing away

and shedding

all of those things

which made me


I rearranged


and deconstructed

the only me

I had ever known

and still

there was never enough room

in your heart-shaped box

for all the space

that I encompass

for all that I am



I’m sure you know that person.

All of us know at least one.

You know, that person that always has to one-up you, regardless of what the topic of discussion is.

One of my co-workers, whom I have befittingly deemed Hypochondria, does this with health issues. She constantly has something or other wrong with her, and how dare anyone else be sicker than she is.

Yesterday I was down in the back.

Well, more down in the back than usual. I’ve had neck and back issues for years, and am at the point now where I don’t recall what a day free of back or neck pain is like, but I try not to complain about it, because what’s the point?  It’s a constant, and it’s most likely never going away.

Anyway, yesterday was worse than most, as the pain had kept me awake for a couple of hours during the night, and I made the mistake of telling her I was going to leave early to go to the chiropractor to see if that would help.

And that’s when it started.

“Oh, I know, I have a pain here, and it shoots down my leg, and I’m going to have to go to the doctor too, and it’s probably a UTI and a yeast infection, and my neck is all messed up and I should probably ask the doctor about that too, plus I need to go get a massage again, because chiropractic never helps me, and my ADD and my nose and my . . . . .”

For fuck’s sake.

I bit my tongue, willed myself to hold back the “SHUT THE FUCK UP!” that I wanted to scream.

Say instead, “Yeah, maybe you better go get that checked”, as she hit the speed dial button for her doctor’s office.

Seriously, what would she do if she ever had an actual medical condition?  You know, one that rivaled all the made up ones she has?

Oh sorry, gotta run, she has another list of her white girl problems to tell me about.





Mute Button

I love the sound you make when you’re shutting the fuck up

well that’s no way to talk to someone you supposedly love I replied


did you hear that


well if you’d shut your fucking gob hole you might

no one else can get a word in edgewise when you’re around

and you’re such a goddamn negative Nancy all the time

can’t you ever be positive

and talk nice

I think I’ve forgotten how she said

well you know the old saying

if you don’t have something nice to say, then don’t say anything at all

oh christ on a cracker, now you sound like my mother

can’t you just give it a break already

take a rest

a siesta

a nap

I wish I could, I’ve almost forgotten how to sleep

I’ve become a zombie, the walking dead

eyes glazed over

feelings dulled

but in my mind I still hear you

you never fucking shut up

you’re a goddamn broken record

so zip your mouth

button your lip

lock it up and throw away the fucking key already

give me the silent treatment

because I love the sound you make when you’re shutting the fuck up


Bird Song

The cardinal visits me in my backyard
I know he’s my grandma, reincarnated
he sings his tune, but they are her words
calling me Stephie
wishing me Happy Birthday
we talk about recipes
and peanut butter and pickle sandwiches
and the popcorn made in an Atom Pop,
washed down with grape juice mixed with 7-Up
we speak of my son,
who she never met,
and how he’s taller than grandpa already,
at only 15
I smell her talcum powder,
and the earthy scent of the geraniums she grew on the glassed-in side porch
I remember the picnic lunches packed in the hamper
and tell her I bought one just like it at an auction
and how I like to look at all her little glass bottles of extracts in her pantry, hoping I would have the same one day
and we laugh over her frustration at my inability to learn crocheting after numerous lessons
and I tell her I miss her and wish
I had spent more time with her
when she was still here in human form
‘I love you’ I tell her
and she says the same as she flies away
but I know she’ll be back to visit me again

Barren Ground



I pour the words out on the page

hoping to arrange them in some sort of order

to make my feelings known to you

and understand them myself

but it’s all just so much claptrap and drivel

you wouldn’t notice anyway because you don’t pause to read it

“Ugh, it’s poetry”, you think

“Don’t waste my time with that bullshit”

but it’s not merely my words you disregard

it’s me

you pay me no mind

even though you are all I can think about

show me who you really are

so I can stop this idol worship

and return my heart to its former state of hollowness

where butterfly wings fail to flutter

and no hope grows



Apprentice Pyromaniac

the acrid smoke

of the burning Flint Hills

creeps in

through my cracked office window

soon I shall start my own blaze


I’m not usually one to burn bridges

ever extending my hand

only to get rapped

on the metaphorical knuckles

with your metaphorical ruler

like you’re some damn nun



married only to god

when we both know you’re closer to Mary Magdalene

than you care to admit

I don’t mind living among the whores

I’m quite comfortable here

they don’t judge like you do

and there’s booze


I gather my accelerant

and pick up my strike on box only matches

ready to burn this bitch down

because I don’t need you

or your judgment

If only I’d known

years ago

how good it feels to be a pyro





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