Excalib-her

The story of King Arthur, girls,

Is almost surely true.

He’s kind and just and valiant,

But I’m here to tell you

What caused his reputation

Wasn’t his kingly word,

His legend spread both far and near

About how he used his magic “sword.”

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Strolling Not Scrolling

I turned off my media 

For the past few days

And all I missed

Was Hugh Hefner dying

And the government is overspending 

(Still)

Someone non-remarkable is pregnant

And on Instagram. 

My neighborhood isn’t safe

For people out at 3am

And someone is on twitter, 

Saying something idiotic

(Probably a politician).
What I didn’t miss 

Was sleeping with my daughter

Who scared herself by talking 

About Halloween.

I didn’t miss

Cutting the olives for 

Our homemade pizza

And chatting about friendship, 

Boys, 

Makeup, 

And the female heroines 

Of our favorite books. 

I didn’t miss the fact that 

It’s still hot outside, 

But the fog covered Orion’s belt 

When I walked the dog at 5am. 

I didn’t miss the spiders in the lights

Or the sound of the cars 

On the nearby freeway, 

Lulling me to sleep like the ocean would.

I wonder where they’re going 

All times of day and night. 

Because they’re headed 

To the beach.

It only goes that way. 

I didn’t miss 

The thoughts of 

My dear companion writers

On page and screen, 

Longing and looking and losing

Themselves, again and again. 
I didn’t actually miss anything

At all

Because life isn’t lived 

In the flesh

At the ends 

Of my fingers.

I Want Off Of The Magical Mystery Tour Bus, Please

Optimistic

As I am,

I don’t think

That to solve

The world’s problems,

And yours and mine,

Dear,

All we need is love.
Rather,

The one thing

That might just

Revolutionize

This whole

Negotiation process

(Because I rarely see it

Tried)

Is that we actually

Listen

To one another,

Without judgement

Or agenda.

Instead of seeking

To be understood,

We finally

Try to understand.

gitana or Llore Llore Tu Guitarra, No Mia

Flamenco

Listening to Paco de Lucia

while I wash dishes on a Tuesday.

Cleaning the pan: Ole! 

Clapping and stomping

toward bedtime: arranque!

My hair slicked back

and no call from my lover: duende! 

Going to bed with

Jack Kerouac, again: cabal!

In my dreams,

we’re something more than

Arrabaleros, 

but that’s a new world thing,

where my true heart is,

not the Granada in my veins,

but the tango

in my feet.

Adelante, adelante, siempre adelante!!

Locked eyes,

only knowing what’s next

by feeling it.

 

 

More of a Katharine, Less of an Audrey or Revising My Tinder Account

Anais

Edie

Gala

Dora

Frida

Camille

Simone

Fanny

Zelda

Lee

Patty

Yoko

Brigitte

Jane

I’d rather be the Georgia to your Alfred,

Your Immortal Beloved

for just one week,

than an Audrey (Hepburn, that is),

put into a box, with appliances

and a 401k.

That surely is every little girl’s dream

but not this girl’s.

And I’ll write about you,

until my fingers bleed,

and inspire you

to write great symphonies,

at least until December,

when you decide the light

is better

elsewhere.