Journal Prompt- A Conversation

Journaling prompt – take a tidbit from the previous day and write a blurb about it in deep third POV.

When she returned home from walking the dogs, her wooden legs creaked and groaned. Moving across the kitchen floor required a fair amount of resistance to squeamishness. Panko bread crumbs lay underfoot; she knocked into the tray attempting to find counter space for the pork chops, onion, garlic, flour, brown rice, and various breading items. Once, she made pork chops without frying them, and they came out so dry that her son hadn’t been able to help himself from commenting. Most of the time, Robert was the most conscientious person in her life, seamlessly slipping between subjects with guarded emotion, but cooking, or rather, the product of her cooking was the one area he stuck to reckless honesty.

“Hi Mom. Wanna know a fact?”

Her smile spread without thought. From the time her son was in diapers, countless people told her to wait for it. Just wait, they said, you’ll be in for it when he becomes a teenager. It – a two letter word that caused so much consternation, and yet, defied clarity and had never so much as extended a finger for the reach other’s maintained it possessed. No such trouble had commenced, and now, two states North, neighbors, his doctors, and his teachers constantly reiterated how lucky his parents were to have such a even-tempered child. What is it that creates a good natured child?

She nodded her head. “Of course, little prince.”

A bit of hot silliness flashed through her at the endearment; nothing about him was little anymore. Though he still required her hugs several times a day, it was him who wrapped her up in his long, sturdy arms. She picked up the raw pieces of meat, still a bit cold for frying, and opened the warm tap, just to bring them to room temperature before coating them in flour, spices, dipping them in egg wash, and pressing them in panko crumbs. The rogue morsels on the floor embedded themselves into her big toes.

“Did you know that the Chinese Army is creating islands in the South Chinese Sea to increase its military presence in the region?”

She made a small thinking sound while drifting through the BBC news stories she had read in the last few days. “No, I had no idea. What’s the end goal? And what’s that playing on your stereo?”

He lifted a hand to her shoulder. “I don’t have a stereo, Mom. It’s on my computer. It’s WWII music, Chinese national marches. And it’s to increase their military presence, like I said. There’s a lot of disputed territory down there.”

An errant thought diverted her focus. “Do you and your friends talk about WWII?”

He crossed his arms and leaned against the counter. “Nah. Sometimes, they’re not into like I am.”

She had seen that expression on his Father’s face, the tightening in his brow and slightly pressed lips that illustrated his absolute confusion in regards to other children. She remembered this feeling, too, but he had decided to go on.

“I can sum up my middle school in five words. Adidas, Nike, Rap, Looking good, Being fit.”

Technically seven words, but she nodded. “It was much the same when I went to middle school. And you love rap.”

His hands smacked against his legs. “I love old school rap. The kids at my school like new rap. There’s no meaning to the words now.”

“I’m not sure about that.”

How life repeats itself; how many times had she tried to convince her Father that Led Zeppelin was a better band than The Beatles? Or when she clung to seventies Americana – Lynyrd Skynyrd, Heart, James Taylor – and he steadfastly refused to depart from the sixties? It seemed that, no matter where bridges were built, parents and children exist on different islands.

“Well, you’re right about one thing. There really hasn’t been anyone like Tupac since.”

He nodded and grumbled. “I hate that you listen to Nikki Minaj.”

“I’m quite aware. And you like being fit, yes?”

She turned to glance at him out of the corner of her eye. Though he grew thinner with every upward inch, weight remained a tacky issue. As such, he looked at the ground while he answered. “I guess. Not like the other guys. I’m just one of the smart kids that everyone ignores.”

A deep rush of tension rose in her gut, filling her stomach with cement. The notion that everyone ignored him was as frightening as it was hurtful – the proliferation of mass media has turned introversion into a suspicious activity, and unwillingly, that thought brought forth images of trench coats and children jumping out of third story windows.

A teaching moment was required, but how to frame it without lying was the problem. He waited, well acquainted with the time it took her to answer to such serious statements, and as she placed the breaded pork chops into the fryer, she turned and looked at him dead on. “Being intelligent is far more important than being popular. But it can be isolating. Try not to give up on other people.”

His eyes flashed towards the office, where she had spent much of the last six months drafting and redrafting her first novel, but he didn’t say anything about it. “I won’t. I’ve been talking to this Romanian girl in my homeroom.”

She laughed. “Another European, of course you have. You don’t like American girls, do you?”

He smiled and wandered away a few steps. “There are a lot of Eastern European girls at my school, and they’re more interesting than the ones who just want to be property.”

She listened with drawn brows as he stated his opinion. The Russian, Romanian, and Ukrainian girls were quiet, they didn’t make him feel bad or laugh at him when he was unsure of an answer, and they liked to discuss history with him, that being the solidifying factor for his preference.

When the fryer dinged, she plated the food, but had to know. “What do you mean, girls that want to be property?”

He held his plate in his hand, fully intent on retreating to his Chinese national marches and his WWII strategy game. After smiling, he spoke with an air of someone providing an explanation to a child. “The girls who just want a boyfriend. They don’t care about each other, they just want…to look good. Don’t worry. I’ll wait for college.”

She broke into more laughter. “Thank the universe for small favors.”


Snail Woman/Made of Sand

f7fad00178064806e7d9dd94461b5882Atwood said woman made of sand, I say snail woman
She carried her world strapped tumpline canvas thick
So heavy her brow wore down and now it’s feathered

The snail woman packs her things tight and tidy
In coconut shells and acorn caps and a bowled hand
Yes, they tip but glued they shake like ground seed

The snail woman moves faster than you’d expect
Across the sidewalk and yard and men and years
You never know where a shoe might crash down

The snail woman bops under her diaphanous shell
She stuffed pillows and blankets and cobwebs inside
There’s but a sliver of her body left in the mishmash

The snail woman reached the fence the other day
No pockmarks or marble holes to ooze through
The shell frayed like sand, Atwood knows best after all.

Banana Liquor in Mentone

Write about the first time you danced with someone you loved –

Right where his wings should have been
Hair traipsed, blond feathers brushed
My fingers tickled against football shoulders
Hills of bulk flattened as he laughed

Pinked words flew by steel train tracks
Such physical creatures are the young
Fluttered lashes and nothing of my mind
A cosmic joke, perhaps, for bodies to sing

Under the kitchen lights when outdoors
Authority looks on, ice-eyed and weary
While lovers sway, chest to chest, hearts
Aligned in shallow waters like tadpoles

Perhaps a cosmic protection, instead
Life preservers to the blade of experience
The moon bright enough to cut a path
And our eyes swathed in its silver smoke

Hope is balance in love as we age, for that night
My being leapt out as an unleashed spirit
And perfumed the kitchen with desperation
Which he consumed like a starving child.


32, Lost at Sea



It’s hard to say
The beauty here
Does not thaw me out
I try new things
Pry open my mouth
Stutter words
I’m still frozen
I’m still pushing
Through bramble
and sapped pine
Listening to
the seachilled wind
Stood at the sound
For something
To live for
than others

End of Summer


Inhale deep before you answer the phone
Unless you’d like them to see the pitch
black fog that surrounds your shaking chest ,
a voiceless hallow grove in winter

Drink an energy drink to peel your
numb body from the couch, and pray
that there is enough daylight to
carry you through your tasks

Link your arms around your heart
and pump your ribcage so that you
remain the red-headed walking dead
goddess who laughs at despair

New Years Day

Every New Years is cleaning day.
As the sun rises
She wakes to the pines and iced windows
A woman pained
Parts her eyes and stretches a swan’s throat
Eyes deadly sharp
Prepares coffees the partner never remembers
A nighttime decision
She drinks deeply and will ignore the dust.
To fill deep waters
The littered counters and clogged sink will wait.
Float in her mind
Energy percolates as she faces the mirror
Choices rendered
The screws are right under her parted skin
Logical progressions
It doesn’t hurt to remove them, the nerves
Exercise employed
might be dead. The screws lay in her palm,
Therapy completed
The head comes off, lefty-loosey, a child proof
Prescription Written
med bottle. Now she’s backward, and must note
Medicine bags held
righty-tighty. A minute or two is all it takes,
attempt to be happy
cleaning day is swift when bleach is employed.


I read all the Bukowski’s. He, impossibly, he
She is a fly on his back, waiting to uproot joy
Wishing not to relate so to his murky stream
Filthy accusations, a broken bottle to her
Large breasts, she, impossible, she notices
He was beat with a strop, I remember, I
We share pockmarks on our pasts, We
California Oranges, split love, Drinking, Us
We share a common History, Left Behind
Betting on the horses, dive bars, Dirty Streets
Haze in smog smog smog. There is no
Happy ever after, only lingering nothingness