Fat Bottom Girl Said What

When my ass talks, people listen.

A Wake

I am too rough around the edges and would cut your soft heart

leaving you to bleed out among the detritus

empty bottles

plastic shopping bags

in the road side ditch


But my heart is kind so I would feel bad

and run back to apply pressure to your wound

but it would be too late because my words are too sharp and piercing


So I have no choice but to walk away

and leave your carrion for the vultures

who will feast on the tenderness of your kindness and respect

which my self-hatred would not allow me to stomach






An Aperture to Love

if you died today

my eulogy for you would merely be me listing all the reasons I loved your lips


the way the spoke with kindness and respect

the way they curved up at the edges with laughter

the way they kissed with passion

the way they emitted sighs of contentment


but your lips were merely a figment of my imagination and the stuff dreams are made of




Incendiary Devices

I piled your platitudes in the middle of  the floor

and set fire to them

It’s surprising how well words burn

when laced with lies

Incendiary devices meant to ignite passion

burnt to ash with the strike of a match

You were merely another flash in the pan

and I’m left scalded



Bored Games

you think you’re hiding from the world

but in reality you’re hiding from yourself

self-deception is the worst kind of deceit

sleight of hand as you try to trick me with your cups and your balls

don’t you know that secrets keep you sick

but the Romantics said they hear your secrets when you’re talking in your sleep

and liars gonna lie down with dogs

and get up with blood sucking fleas

and a case of the gonorrhea guilts

and keep a low profile when you’re sipping suds

because loose liquored up lips sink ships

and now everyone knows it was you in the conservatory fucking over Mrs. Peacock

so be careful to never make promises you can’t keep

and falsely think this means no disappointment can be had

just because there were no expectations

or supposition or presumption or conjecture

because I can surmise that you’ve done this before and you’ll do it again

and it will still be someone else’s fault

because you’re proficient at the blame game

and since the arrow never lands on your number

and because I know how to keep my mouth shut

you will come out smelling like a rose in the middle of a shit sandwich

and you think you’re #winning at this game called Life

and I’m left holding the crusts I cut off for you

because I’m always proficient at Sorry, and not the game, but the apologizing

and I should learn that you’ll never learn

and that I just need to stick with men who only play board games

and not bored games

because I was merely a pawn who filled your time





My heart is gathering dust

and my lips are gathering cobwebs

and I need you to come and sweep them away

with your kiss

My fingers have become stiff with rigor mortis

as love always dies a slow death

and I no longer recall how it feels

to intertwine hands with another

Have I relegated myself to a mausoleum of my own making

or has the universe decided I am not worthy

of things which come so easily to others

Return me to the earth

and let the dirt quell my heart of what it seems

are otherworldly longings



Wilma knew exactly what to do with that GD toilet her lazy ass husband Harold still hadn’t hauled out of the back yard.  “When life gives you lemons. . .”, she thought, as she dumped the potting soil in the tank and bowl, and proceeded to plant the flowers she’d bought at the Piggly Wiggly earlier.  She was so pleased with her idea, she hadn’t even bothered to take the curlers out of her hair that morning before running to the market, and just tied a scarf over her head, and slapped on a little coral lipstick. She couldn’t wait to be sitting in the lawn chair with a cold beer in her hand when Harold pulled up after work, so she could see the look on his face when he saw her new planter.



The name’s Edna.  I smoke Pall Malls and I love to play the bingo.  Wednesday evenings and Sunday afternoons I play the bingo at the Catholic Church hall.  Their pots are okay, but they never serve alcoholic beverages, and bingo just isn’t as fun without my beverages.   That’s why I play at the VFW on Thursday and Friday evenings, so I can suck down a few cold ones while using my lucky dobber and puffing on a Pall Mall.  Last year I took one of those bus tour things to Nashville with my winnings.  I got to see the Grand Ole Opry, and not that new-fangled one, but the original one at the Ryman.  I got to sit my butt on a bench and look up at the stage where it all started.  Because there’s nothing I love more than country music.  Except an ice cold PBR. And a Pall Mall.  And bingo.

Gone Astray

I close my eyes

and try to recall what happy felt like

and wonder where it went

it’s lost

amid the noise of the world

and other people’s opinion of my worth

and bad hair days

and tight pants

and the sound of the neighbor’s leaf blower

and rantings of fear and hate on social media

and all I want

is the serenity of nature

and sun in my face

and sand between my toes

and the pop and crack of a bonfire

with the lull of waves lapping at the shore





Hunter of Hearts



You do this to my heart

though not as beautiful

not nearly as beautiful

because you rip it open

jagged edges

rivers of blood flowing

no kind words from your lips

to stanch the bleeding

only more


of your bowie knife

until you stand victorious

my last pulse of life

throbbing in your hand

arm outstretched over your head

ever the hunter

and me lying


merely another trophy

to be mounted

above your bar


Iced Confections

I imagine. . .

that some day

someone will start a fire in my heart again

it will be like the hearth in an igloo

warming me from the inside

while I remain outwardly icy

He will chip away

at my frozen exterior

saving the shavings in a paper cone

for one day when we will drizzle sugared syrup over it

and celebrate the melting

of me, the polar ice cap

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