Published in the just-released Autumn issue of Isis-Seshat, whose theme is “Dark Nights of the Soul,” this poem of mine is also something I wanted to share here on my blog.



I disassociated all the way home


Can’t stop shaking


Crazed lion/mausoleum guardian. Photo I took at Forest Home Cemetery, Forest Park, Illinois.

Crazed lion/mausoleum guardian. Photo I took at Forest Home Cemetery, Forest Park, Illinois.



It’s the fault of that pair of Polish girls

with noticeably fake dyed hair,

swishing their wide hips

constrained by denim


a cigarette to the lips

exaggerated gyrations of hips

My Gods, it’s the first time

I’ve craved nicotine


I bet that a cigarette

would stop me from trembling,

would put a halt to the backwards slide

of the moonroof atop my cranium,

threatening to expose

my jangling mangle of medulla

the downward arc of the slicing knife

red from my head

aura of miasma

swiftly blocking out the gestures

and thoughts that could lead me

to calm

then the stoplight turned red, too


I tried to clutch the wheel tighter

as if that

could have somehow prevented

the Exit Stage Left from my body

shift into auto-pilot

the wide-eyed shaking woman

was still able to avoid the

potholes and turn left at the

right intersection


homeward bound

risqué driving

weaving and dreaming of

flattening a man waiting for the bus on Gunnison Ave.

if he only stepped off the curb

violated the threshold between his

world and mine


(News flash: This is a crazy poem)


Shut up, inner critic!

Enough with your syphilitic

deterioration of the

syncopation of sublime sounds

set to symbolic expression

This is how communication

works aggression


(FYI: The woman who wrote this poem is crazy, too. Even if her therapist is currently the only person who’s ascertained this fact.)


My consciousness was hacked


split in two

spit into

by a bubbling effervescence

that hoisted me up the stairs


that my eyes were still as

wide as saucers

and that my cats were relieved

that I’d come home


(I think celebrating the Scorpio Full Moon is a BAD IDEA.)


The tremors still haven’t abated

My arms bounce like they’re pulled

by unseen strings

Strange things

disapproving glances from the wall

yawning floorboards

disheveled curtains jutting like crooked teeth

inform me that there are new

terrors to be absorbed

though the old ones





Omnipresent threat


(Of what? Death?)

Salem Burial Ground


Not quite.

But this is what it feels like to be dismembered.


And the root causes of my

tremors won’t be remembered

won’t be remembered

won’t be remembered


(It’s okay, Anna.

            Everything’s going to be okay—She needs to do this from time to time, you see?

            Just rock back and forth.

            Just rock back and forth.)





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