stay

it is seven a.m. and the house is gray
the rooms are gray and the ceiling
is gray, and when I look outside
the sky is gray

it does not look bright
or gay–today
in my head
it is dark like my coffee
but I am tranquil

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Didn’t we die, bit by bit

4 leaf clover

(redux)

I walked around
the disease
adding up the slights
I heard talk of gangrene
waiting for that four-leaf clover
since ten
(holy shit)
that seems foolhardy

each night
something new tossed into the stew
with the carrots and red potatoes
the gravy and its
discontent
covering everything

wasn’t that sweet
following with cheesecake
and café au lait
each measured step
on rose petals
to silk bliss
the decay forgotten
for hours

Photo by Joe Papp, Wikipedia

going green

 

Mall.jpg

are we being recycled?
tossed into the bin today
will I be found tomorrow
on a rack at Salvation Army
sold as ‘like new’
re-purposed for someone
looking for a bargain

the last of me seen
Sunday night, late
looking like something the cat dragged in
covered in a coat of exhaustion; I
sat down on on the pile with a loud sigh
grateful to be done with all of it–
I could use a change

now you can find me down at the outlet mall
looking so chic
a mannequin wearing a wanton sweater
just clearing the mid-drift
in a casual pose–pointing at
Starbucks
with a faraway look

dame in a red dress

I could be anyone in a red dress walking into Clark’s. Anyone in a ripped, red, satin dress walking up to the bartender without looking at him; hearing him mutter, ‘that’s original’ when I order my whiskey neat. I chase it with the Schlitz he slides in front of me, and finally look up at him and then past him to the reflection in the bar mirror after two more. They don’t see me. I am just part of the furniture here, where dames in red dresses get a raw deal seven nights a week. We get tiresome, I know. But, give me time. I might grow on you.

you get no more of my heart
your stark, bleak revelations
of purity and righteousness
are dirty as menstrual rags
and your claims to freedom
no more than cymbals
clanging in an open
empty building
all this to say
you get no more of my heart

Burning question: technology

Hello! This is an old feature from my first blog that I am reprising here tonight, with this first burning question of the new year. It is in regards to being technology-challenged, and needing to be less so, and quickly.

I don’t use a cell phone. There. I said it.

I have a new project that involves my interviewing someone, and I would really like to have a full, recorded log of all our conversations. This person does have a good phone, so they would have access to all the helpful apps. Will it be a complicated thing for that person to record, then send me the voice files? Would there be a file size limit issue as there is in my normal e-mail, also when I use my mic and try to save files–

I understand there are good voice apps for dictation. I also heard that one could have the conversations transcribed so they can be typed out.

I would appreciate anyone who can provide imput and suggestions as to good apps to use and how I might go about this in the most efficient way.

Thank you! Your opinion is requested–

–Rose

2 days, no sleep

pile_of_pillows

I tore up my fingers on that ring
grasping at what was not mine–
but I stole it–because it was his
and I wanted her not to have it

The late night snacking takes a toll
a lack of sleep notwithstanding
the gremlins that come out only at night
have found a niche under my skin
painful and soothing all at once

Over-thinking also has its price
this bat and ball are nothing to me now
I never did take to diamonds that well
but one time, there was an emerald
that caught my eye

I would have sold all I had for it
until I owned only that and none else
but that won’t feed anyone
and it won’t transport, or shower;
what once were needs are now desires

The tree top seemed out of reach
until waking up to fog I remembered
we must bend and stretch, and
no one gets a free ride
of government cheese for always

but with a little perseverance
I could have every dream fulfilled
if I only dream of mediocrity
and if I am not that hungry