She was as frail and unnoticed as a whisper on the wind, floating beneath her cotton sail of memory, content to ride out the tempest of one last adventure.
A generic Ulysses, she sought out home with the same epic passion.
Only there was no Homer to immortalize her saga, to witness her quest for life’s answers.
Her voyage, her search, her story was destined to fade on the breath of the wind.
Ah, but once…
Copyright 2009
Attending an art reception where a piece of your work is on display and you are so not an artist is a bit like being pushed onstage when you were just wandering around looking for a hot dog.
The only thing going through your mind is “ketchup?” while everyone else is expecting Shakespeare or Fosse.
This is not the time to switch gears and pretend you are Othello with jazz hands.
It’s best to do an about face, grab a skewered chicken oer’doevre, and head on over to the bathroom.
Someone will come to get you when it’s time to go home.
Copyright 2009
I have tasted the forbidden fruit and would rather feast in a disturbing world than starve alone in paradise without you.
If I am to be Eve, you must agree to the bite.
Copyright 2009
Brave larva, be yourself.
Dare to shuck the shackles of binomial nomenclature and evolve into a subspecies rare and unexpected.
I only encourage this metamorphosis because you have chosen a chrysalis shaped like the resplendent letter “y” while the rest of your order goosesteps down the branch and slumps into the conventional “j”.
Dance, eccentric larva.
Wiggle and jiggle to some distant disco beat while the rest of your comrade cocoons deafen themselves to the music.
And when the moment for caterpillar self-actualization occurs, as indeed it eternally does, spring forth in your transvestite showgirl splendor and take center stage.
You are magnificent, you larva coming out to the world as a butterfly.
I literally hold my breath as you burst from your cocoon, arms extended in victorious triumph.
You are bedecked in ultimate drag queen regalia: silvery-antennaed tacky tiara, sequined Halloween-colored gown, over-the-top-under-the bustier fishnet stockings, and makeup makeup makeup.
I am riveted as you flitter and flutter in your catwalk across the sky, the regina of queens, the mother of monarchs.
But alas! You are viewed by others as an ant in drag.
I sigh as a bird of prey swoops down from the heavens and swallows you whole.
I should have known the world would not tolerate one so flashy and unique.
Copyright 2009
I wish I could write like Pollock paints, grabbing fistfuls of language out of the dictionary, squeezing emotion out of the alphabet, drizzling pronunciation onto the page.
Sheets of lined paper would litter the floor while I tarantella’d around them, pouring out liquid words, heedless of connection to any idea.
Balancing precariously on the head of the moment, I would teeter back and forth between past and future.
How envious I am of Pollock’s ability to stand so firmly on the microscopic present as if it were a steel-girdered bridge instead of a freckle.
Maybe I could even randomly include words like “nail” and “cigarette” into the piece.
I wish I could write like Pollock paints, dancing out language and composing with my body, entering into my work and becoming its partner.
I would love to shout “Opa!” at the top of my lungs!
Copyright 2009
Pangea illustrates your gypsy feet while the earth’s rotation gyroscopes your soul.
Does it bother you that your eyes are the color of ancient cultures or that animals sense your presence long before you awaken?
How can you sleep with all the tribal whispers sighing in your dreams?
The urge to migrate is as strong a presence in your being as the pull of gravity.
You cannot stay any more than the moon can keep its shape constant.
And why must you go?
Do you hear the chant of the lunar tide even as we say goodbye?
Dance along if you must, but remember the rhythm of your movement is drummed by the heartbeats of your home, your lodestone.
Watch the moon at midnight to see that those of us left behind have painted your saga in a myth.
One day you will sprout roots but for now soar on the breath of the wind and journey on the magic of your passion.
You are one of the fluid beings in life, more motion than form.
Go then, you who seek the past forever in the future.
Our thoughts will shadow you and act as your talisman.
We cannot keep you here so we celebrate as we let you go.
Copyright 2009
If life is a party, then my friends are confetti, champagne, and balloons.
I, however, am the brown paper bag all glued up and pasted with tissue, glitter, and sequins.
No one would even guess that it was really me inside.
But if I take just the right hit, I will burst with sweet surprise and scatter bits of prose all over the floor.
It is the nature of a pinata to self-destruct for pleasure.
That is why you always see one at a really good party.
Just be careful with the stick.
It could be me inside.
Copyright 2009
The devil went to the dentist last Thursday.
The receptionist there hates him. She doodles horns and a pointy tail around his 10:30 appointment.
The devil knows this and brings her a box of chocolates.
She’s a diabetic.
“The doctor will see you now.” She stares into his maddening poker eyes like Joan of Arc into the flames.
The devil blows her a redhot kiss as he waltzes in.
She hates him with a passion.
“What seems to be the problem today?” The dentist enjoys the power of God right now.
Evil lays prone before him wearing a cheap paper bib.
The mouth of hell is wide open.
“My molars hurt when I grind and gnash them.” Tears almost well up in Satan’s reptilian eyes, but steam leaks out instead. “Can you help me?”
“You’ll have to see a specialist.” (Oh, the omnipotent power).
“I can give you a referral.” (Oh, the benevolent blessing).
“You know, I never see this sort of thing in the saints or martyrs.” (Oh, the irony).
The devil left the dentist last Thursday.
The receptionist there smiled.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Satan, sir, but your insurance doesn’t cover this.”
Copyrigh 2009
I satellite around him like a distant weightless moon, sucked in by the centrifical force of his powerful persona.
If he is Jupiter then I am Callisto, destined to dance in the pull of his orbit, forever locked in his embrace.
But what if I wanted to be my own diva planet, dense with nebulous ideas, heavy with milky emotions?
What if I were to become an omnipotent orb of intense attraction, one that captured lesser moons and held them close?
I need to know.
So I hang my farewell to Jupiter on the handle of The Dipper, writing these words in the dust of the cosmos:
Goodbye and good luck. I have taken the dogstar Sirius and left on a comet.
The world is yours. I’m taking the universe.
Copyright 2009
I grab my lawn chair and ridiculous dog and head down to the river to watch the fireworks.
The detonation of explosives into bursts of color attracts me like some stellar lodestone.
It’s a huge nocturnal art opening with the abstracts of the avant-garde blown into pieces.
I am riveted.
Maybe it’s the crowd. No way it’s the shattering noise. For sure it’s the sight of the toto dog leaping up to catch an incendiary orb.
Maybe it’s even the fact that a fireworks display outdoes its potential and pushes the envelope on kinetic, especially at the end when it lurches into staccato Picasso.
Although it remains constant, the image of an iridescent sphere shattering into hues that rain down over the crowd only to evaporate elates me.
I wish my writing could burst with such amazing images and then disappear into the reader’s mind.
Instead I just seem to ignite the occasional volatile verb, watch it flare into the void, and then pronounce it a dud.
I am a Fourth of July poet stuck in November.
Maybe one day the toto dog and I will at least catch the singed tail of a comet between our teeth.
Copyright 2009
Donna Dakota in Word 