My Dear Prudence,

Please come for a visit.
We shall go for a nice ride in the country, and I will listen to you.
Oh wouldn't that be nice!
Won't it be?

I shall heed your dear voice sir, and I will live my life by your code.
Oh, for the sake of Prudence!

If only I had you by my side when the seas of life were tempests, then perhaps, then I could live my life happily, like the clam I know you are, dear sir!

Is this fictitious?
Not really. But you live in books and in old songs from British mouths. saliva.

It collects in your mouth and swishes unpleasantly like snot against your tongue.

But Prudence, won't you help me? If only my heart would remember you dear. Like a dog I want to be fond of, but cannot seem to find the heart to be so, I cannot seem to heed you. Oh, the tragedy of man's soul!

Alas?

I am not part of that sex. A different species one might say.

But what say you, Prudence? Dripping from a dead dog’s eye.
Dear dear Prudence.

Growing up I was not taught to pray to Mary, but to pray to my father. We would say, “Dear heavenly Father, in Jesus’ name, Amen.” On the way home we would sing the devil's music and ask Prudence to come out and play with us like John would.

From the mouths of shot dead cleverness.

fedexed

all i know about myself is

i like cold coffee. my bangs look nice right now, because i blow dried them from curling and banging up against my forehead in queer angles.
i check the mirror and they are still in place. my eyebrows are even too.

but i don't know what to do with myself. i am my own puzzlement.
there are too many boxes in our brains. post boxes, mail boxes, blog and thought boxes, and wires dangling in between the gray-green brainy mush, each reminding us of all the things we should've said to someone or wanted to say, but we were alone instead. with those technologies that are supposed to keep us more connected.

is this too much? post boxes.

sylvia plath was depressed and so she killed herself.
what did she think would happen to her babies? one and two crawling on the floor with out her.

sheryl used to be a man. but now she is a woman.
when her children were little, she was their father. but now she is married to a man with bulky muscles and her kids have a new dad since she isn't their dad anymore. what did her babies think?

they are not so old yet. neither am i.

i am stuck in my own box tonight. did you place duct tape on top of it? shipments go out in the morning.

jon's bird

it is late, and there is a bird on my computer.
a bird.

he is looking at me with eyes like a fiercely blue and green bird. he has a small small beak watching me, dead on. i blink. he does not flinch or move a muscle. he is omnipotent in his world. he does not know mine though.

he is beautiful like seamless dresses with couch flower prints are beautiful.
do you know what this means?

he is the most beautiful creature i have ever seen. i am in love with him. aren't you? can you not be? is it possible?

his tail is longer than my forearm. it curls and curves, dyed teal with God's oil paints. the bird's breast is scarlet. wings, a blending Matisse of greens and aquas and deep blues. the hues bleed into one another.

his head has spiny feathers like wire shocked into vivid green color with a volt of electricity. his eyes are wide. so are mine.