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I have a large flowering tree
More than I can count
Pink blossoms, thin and bursting,
Centers dark as poppy hearts
They drop to the ground
Pretty clichés
I’m disappointed in their ordinary deaths
Until I see the blooming petals
Fall onto a smoldering pile of dog shit
It’s then I think maybe life is good after all
I went back to read your words
But they aren’t there
They aren’t to be found
The website says
Nothing here
There’s nothing there
Was there ever?
If I can’t read the words
I can’t be sure I ever knew you
You always knew I was of flightly, flimsy flesh
So why take the words from me
Why is there nothing there?
This poem was inspired by another bindo conversation….Purely in jest and more than a little gross, but I’m grieving…such things are excused.
there will be no licking of my dead toes
I hope
I have the exact opposite of a foot fetish
and would prefer socked or brown house-shoed feet
unless I’ve recently had a pedicure
but still please no licking
if that’s alright with you
I’d be happy to be dead and gloomy for all eternity with you, dearest dark one
though I hope there’s a smoke-free section in hell
since I have terrible allergies
Not even two weeks ago, Leigh Binder (aka Bindo) died. It was sudden and has left me heavy – hearted and revisiting our past conversations, wondering why I wasn’t better at keeping in touch. Bindo was a brooding, ridiculously sarcastic writer. I’m not sure if he’s really left us or not but I feel a great loss.
I’m posting this conversation again because I think it sums up our rapport and the heyday of this blog. We were golden…tarnished but fucking happy.
MedicatedLady: who let the dogs out, bindo?
Bindo: I love dogs and sunshine and butterflies. I welcomed the sun’s light this morning and rejoiced in the sound of birds’ singing.
ML: What? Are you okay?
B: I love puppies!
ML: You’re using exclamations points these days?
B: For the sake of puppies, yes! You have a right pretty Poppy-dog.
ML: Thanks. Are you planning to murder puppies?
ML: Come down from the roof, bindo. You don’t need to do this.
B: Don’t make me do it because I will.
ML: Just calm down.
B: You drove me to it. Fine, here goes, I’ll say it. I’m a reasonable facsimile of happiness.
ML: You disgust me.
That’s the hardest part
Picking through the rubble to find scraps of once-yellow note pad paper written and abruptly, rudely, ended:
Toilet paper
Apples
Erasers
8 batteries
Trash bags
Birthday card for —
The hardest heart catches itself before it does what it made to do: lie or die. (And flower and a cake for –)
Again with the ending. Before the card, there was snow. Glowing snow but the ice was better. You’d sprayed painted it gold and silver and a tie dye of the other primary colors , which ran and pooled at our feet. The flakes and shards died a hued death.
Still the ending.standing at the top of a great mound that once was not a welcome to the White Ones.
They welcome you. The hardest part, you accept.
When the petals died and the stem drooped,
I slept
Sleeping beauty sleep
I awoke to gold
Light too bright
You offered me a dim corner
When you drooped and died,
Gold was gilded with light
There is no sleeping beauty sleep now
Ramblings of a Medicated Lady: Words of Woe by Loria Taylor 
Your Sympathies: