Hair Day

2013-04-04 20.20.28

Getting a new hair cut.

It’s like shedding the skin,

Like cutting the raggedy ends of a raggedy life

And pulling up good from the root.

You press it, curl it, flatten it down,

Expand it.

You make it yours, you learn to own it.

You rule the world, or you learn to condone it

My Date with a Fire Hydrant

fire hydrant

He tried to put his hand up my skirt once, but I closed my legs and said, “No!”

He followed me for weeks after. On every corner his red face would pop out and ask me,

“Are you thirsty?”

And then I screamed the no. “No! You sick pervert!”

His cocky curled grin made my heart race.

He never budged as I walked away, so confident that we would cross paths again.

Red was a short bastard, but he was rock solid. It was hard work to be on every corner, always looking out for trouble.

He did his job, so he looked like it. Said he worked with firemen, said he liked poles, said he’d like to work me over a pole, but I said, “No! No! No!”

But, a fever set in. The image of Red seized my sight, until the craving burned and scorched away my flesh the way that only flesh can.

I was on fire, my skin barely contained it.

The smoldering look in my eyes was enough to tip off even the dimmest fire hydrant.

I tried to walk past him, honestly I tried.

“Where ya going?”

My breath caught. “Home,” I mumbled.

I could feel his fingers on my shoulder. He was wet. Why the heck was he wet?

“You’re in a fire zone.”


“You want me to put your fire out?”

I was hot; the air was heavy, the night, humid. I swooned in his steely arms.  

I said,  “Yes.”



Neologism: Simple definition, a made up word.

The most famous utilization of this (that I know of) is in the Jabberwocky poem by Lewis Carrol.

Also, e.e cummings is a poet I adore, who uses several neologisms. My favorite poem is pity this busy monster, manunkind

This is mine.

Underpath: (Noun/Adjective) [un-dur-pah-thuh]

1. The state of being where a person has tricked the collective into believing that they are a normal functioning member of society, when in actuality they are an undercover psychopath. Not to be confused with a sociopath, the underpath is able to blend in because their outbreaks are infrequent and unpredictable. For example, they can blame an outburst on a “bad day.” Most commonly, only two persons can identify an underpath, the underpath themselves, and the person who tries to convince the collective that this person is crazy, generally met with little success.
• Unfortunately the subversive nature an underpath makes it hard for everyone else to see that this person is mental.
• My dear friend Lizzie is an admitted underpath. I was shocked when she turned to me, smiling as always, and slit my throat. It is now Lizzie who lives my life. I am but a ghost.

Allergy to Yellow

I am allergic to yellow.

They used to tease with sunflower seeds this most absurd ailment.

I remember his face, and the vermillion flush that found its way,

crawling up from under my clothing.

His brown eyes that dived beneath my cinnabar skin, and off-white button ups,

and short Barbie pink and auburn skirts,

and shouting.

First starts the sneezing.

Then the watering of the eyes.

The panic as my breath starts to catch, my throat closing.

So I run.

Past the yellow buses, past the wild daisies, into the ultraviolet sky.

The saffron suffused grass and periwinkle pastures,

and the shouting of my name tells me I didn’t run quick enough.

My hand is white. I’m hallucinating. My fingernails bite the lying flesh.

“You shouldn’t do that,” he says.

I turn to see the wheaty curls of yellow cresting like sea foam on his face.

“I’m allergic to yellow,” I say.

“I’m blonde,” he says.

“You’re white,” I say.

“You’re not,” he says.

I sneeze, his hair blowing in the breeze.

I take his hand and stand.