sad sad sad sad sad sad sad sad sad sad sad sad sad

13s are symbolic,

The Greeks or some other dead people said so,


Maybe it was just rhetoric from the OMEN

It is not Halloween: it is not make-believe


there are no promises that can be kept
by gift we live by right we die
grace is optional
except when it’s not

the grace to bear grief
is sometimes always never
the only prayer there is

in these hot, breathless last days, it’d do us to get on with the praying
sooner than later

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.

Ramblings of a Medicated Lady

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

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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.

Ramblings of a Medicated Lady

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.

View original post

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



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

Nine Pedals of Poppy

I saw you today, my love

I turned my face to the sun

And for a moment, I was surrounded by the gift of your love

For a moment, I remembered only your life and not my grief

Only sweetness, like a field of poppies

Wild and true

I don’t have to wonder much bout the answer to life’s questions or the ones that haunt me in my head. That’s because all the answers have been told to me in detail as a result of Dhyan’s (Guy Traiber) new book, “The Zen Pocket Book of Irrelevant Answers.”

As of today, I have everything I need to be happy. Important answers follow.

What’s the purpose my life? I close my eyes and flip the pages of this compact written mecca of meaning. Page 53: “night time.” YES! That’s what I’ve been trying to say for years.

Which way is the nearest discount store? Flip. “Before he was five.” Yes!

What’s my sweet dog Lucy thinking about? Page 22, “black.” And what of my Emmie’s thoughts? Page 23, “not black.” Yes, Jesus.

I’m so very blessed with this book and you should be, too, dear reader. While you’re at it, support a writer’s work. It’s hard as hell.

SOB with me

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