Friday, August 19, 2016

The Red Couch - Postcard for Scott - Poem: The Cheese Omelet of Jackson Pollock

Next-door boyfriend Scott got my thank-you postcard yesterday. Took two days to get next door.

You're all familiar with my red couch - there's two of em - from Gamburg's in Hatboro, PA.

Many a therapy client has sat there.

I mentioned the Red Couch when I was talking to fellow therapist Judy D last night who lives in Niwot, CO, where all the women wear dangling earrings and have cats.

Oh, she said, when Hunter died he was on his red couch and fell off. His daughter found him dead on the floor.

What? I said. Hunter died?

She'd never told me.

This is what happens in long-distance relationships.

And this is what happens with the aging foot

Truthfully?  It feels like it's gonna explode. The left foot. Very painful to walk on. Will have to write an Ode to Painful Foot.

My daughter Sarah told me to read a book on hemorrhoids by a crime fiction writer. It was to teach me how to write about pain and have others feel your pain.

Well, just imagine your own foot is filled with tiny pebbles that will explode in 20 minutes, which is when you're gonna stand up.

Every morning I slip into my newly painted kitchen.

Yesterday - which, by the bye - is the single most recorded song - I sat at upstairs computer 'submitting' to Bella Online.

Gave me the opportunity to write a couple of new non-fictions and a poem about Inspector Morse and Nilla Wafers.

Thing is, I did not know that yesterday was the deadline for the Autumn issue.

My tush was killing me, even tho it has its own insulating material made with adipose tissue.


Pollock's okay
but I much prefer
staring at my
omelet and making
of it a thing of

I will not burden you by
saying what the co-chair
of my master's program
said. All modern art
is psychotic.

Look at the translucent
zucchin! Shining like
the crescent moon.

Or the scissors-cut-up
baby spinach stiched inside
like a patchwork quilt

Nearing the finish
the baby bella shrooms
twinge like a cochlear

The phone rings now
I pretend not to hear it
the last taste in my
mouth is the flavor
of your kiss.

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