Rita James was a vixen
dressed in khaki slacks
and a cotton neckline that
snuggled up to her chin,
but only at the office.

She'd been kept at home
for an eternity,
or so it seemed
to her.
She kept her nails tidy
and her posture aligned,
but when the children
were away, it was Rita's
time to play.

Friday nights were hers.
High heels and push up bras
with hips that caught all
of the men off guard,
and some of the ladies too.

Rita James had legs,
and she knew just how
to use them.

Once, while sipping a
fruity Long Island tea
she slinked a leg over
to her best friend's husband
who had sat unknowingly
next to her at the bar.

He never strayed far,
except to the back seat
of Rita's car where he
was immediately deflowered
in ways that
would have made
a sailor blush.
"Hush hush" she smiled,
and he willingly obliged.

There is something to
be said,
about visits from the dead.
Time does not pass
for the dearly departed
as it does for those
who count down the
seconds, with coffee, gadget or children in hand.
Oh no.

The time of the dead
is suspended,
thin, and cracked in all
of the mirrored places
that the breathing
take for granted.

There is something
to be said,
about visits from the dead.

They are fleeting,
and egregious to grasp.
But the breathing can
feel the splinters.

How dare I say,
ravens have made their way
down into your moist and fleshy bits.
A morsel, a meal, a sinful steal
to peck away at your humanity!
Beaks, all taught and hungry,
talons all black and grungy
gouging and scratching
a flogging, a thrashing
till your bones cry out for mercy!
Keep watch for the crows,
for theys knows where you are going!
Haunting your every step,
cooped and crouched
toiled and slouched
on the gutters and eaves
like night bird thieves
coming to take your soul!
No deal with the devil, you say?
No Lucifer to come and play?
How dare I cackle?
Blood-spit and Spackle
Hi-jinx and hi-Jekyll
Your dreams shall not end tonight!

The night settled
in pieces.
Tiny dark particles pasted
together
that brought unsettled
retribution on its heels.
The parts and pieces
fluidly cloaked and
choked her
while it chuckled
and mocked at her existence.
The night forced her
to her knees and yanked
at her hair.
It penetrated all
of the places she held sacred.
Limbs were scraped,
cheek bones - bruised.
The nightscape had done
what it came to do.
But the darkened bits,
in purple-bluish hues,
scattered like cockroaches
when she
s h i n e d
her   light 
s q u a r e
into   its  truth.

I can be fat
and fabulous
in my own backyard.
Don't like it?
Then don't look so hard.
I can be fat
and fabulous
in my own backyard.

I can or won't wear
whatever I do or don't want,
in my own backyard.

That's my space
to trapse around
in tutus and thongs,
forest green frilly sweaters
and purple polka dotted sarongs.
In flip flops with wet towels
wrapped about my frock
like a just don't give a fock.

Cause I don't,
it's my damn backyard.
I can be fat,
and fabulous
in my damn backyard.

I don't have to be accepted
by anyone's crappy moral
judgements,
and I don't have to hide
my backside in some corporate
suit that sucks to wear.
Hell, I don't even have to
brush my hair in my own
damn backyard.

I can eat Cheetos
unabashedly,
without fear of snears
and societal pose
in my own damn backyard.
I can eat milkyways
coated in caramel
and stare at the stars
while smudging all
of the bad karma away...
Nekkid as the day I was born,
in my own god damn backyard.

A turd is a turd
No matter how it's pinched.
Dead weight is heavy
No matter how it's winched.
A fish is fuckin slimy
No matter how it's caught.
And lies can't be returned
after they've been bought.

                 Her hands quivered, with the fear of a thousand battered souls. Her mother’s favorite saucepan became weighted, as though she held an ancient anchor lodged in the deep Barrier Reef. Her fingers released it, and she felt the warm splatters as the pan thudded on the mushy Berber. She grabbed hold of the counter as her legs gave way and knocked the rest of the pans to the floor. With every thud of the Martha Stewart set, came another splat.

                She struggled to breathe as the silence followed; a dead nothingness that had swallowed her whole, or wrapped around her like a sudden cocoon. For minutes, all she heard was her own jagged breaths.  Then her phone rang and the angelic twang of Tammy Wynette’s Stand by Your Man cleaved though the nothingness. She pulled the phone from her pants pocket with hands that no longer shook, it was 2:23 and she still had time.

                “Hi Honey” she answered; all at once composed.

“Hey babe, I can’t get to the school on time, we’ve been called in for a meeting. Can you skip your appointment and pick her up?” He sounded sincere, she thought, but he always did. He had always been so believable.

                “Sure hon, no problem.”

“Thanks, I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

                “I know.”  She hung up and slipped the phone back into her pocket. Her shoulders shuddered as though a rogue wave had washed up from that anchored reef and pummeled right through her. It felt righteous, and good.

                She looked down at her mother’s saucepan that lay in the soupy Berber mess and remembered how her mother used to stir the spaghetti sauce nice and slow. She almost tasted the sweet basil as she conjured up quick snippets, flashes of her mom standing in the kitchen, stirring slowly over the stove. That pan had been a good choice; it was a strong stainless steel with a sturdy copper bottom. 

                “I stirred it up real good this time, Ma.” She said aloud, into the nothingness.

                Three quick beeps alerted her to another phone, blinking on the counter. She picked it up, took off her glove and gave it a quick swipe. On my way, it read. She wiped the screen with her sweater cuff and chucked it into the messy pile that was the Martha Stewart collection.

                “It’s for you, dear.” She said as she stepped over the lifeless pile. “He’s on his way.”

*************

                “How was your day at school, dear?” She reached over and tousled her daughter’s blond curls.

“It was fine. Lunch was stupid.” The girl glanced down and kicked at the blacktop. Then, she looked up at her mother inquisitively, “What’s on your legs, Mom? Were you painting?”

                “Oh, that’s nothing, honey.  I must have spilled some sauce, that’s all. Let’s get on home now, I’ll get cleaned up and we can make a nice dinner for dad, I’m sure he’s had a long day at the office.” She sounded sincere, and believable as the little girl skipped to the car.

Rippling green
embers of Summer
cascade into the dusk
of torrential flame.
Spindles of red,
ligaments of blazing
orange invading
Summer's veins.
Suffocating life,
shoving lily-white petals
down into the labyrinth.
The soiled Chambers
of September
we'll remember...as we
warm our bones
and bits by the
roaring fire.