Six Word Saturday

Once Again, Ron.’s In Deep Water

deep water

Issue #5 of Deep Water Literary Journal will be published early next week and I’m very happy that my poem, Eurydice, will be included. It’s a dark poem for a journal that generally features just exactly that kind of work.

This will be my second appearance in DWLJ.  They published my poem Seeing Margot (did I mention ‘dark’?) late last year.  I’m sure Eurydice, a poem about one of my former loves—a blackout Cuervo addict—will fit right in.

Link to follow, when available.  Until then, think happy thoughts.


Call Me Cate can cheer you up at: SHOW MY FACE


Day Planner

Behind the bar at Positive Pie,
large decanters display citrus
vodka, jalapeno tequila, and
vanilla bourbon. None of the
Tuesday afternoon regulars
give them a second look.

It’s almost the end of July.
Let out—at long last—from
summer school, an hour’s drive
from home, and with no one
waiting there to celebrate
his return, he stops in for
a couple slices of pepperoni
and a Switchback or two (or
three) to wash them down.

It’s cool inside and dark, and
even at the bar’s quieter end
things are hopping: a brisk
trade in pies-to-go, two mute
screens tuned to sports and
news and weather, the jukebox,
(blasting, whether anyone listens
or not) and three off-duty barmaids
haggling loudly over who will get
the Saturday evening shift.

He tries to make a weekend plan
himself, but all he can come up with
is citrus vodka screwdrivers, a fiery
tequila sunrise, and maybe a nightcap:
bourbon, vanilla, on the rocks.

Thursday Thirteen

13 Near-Miss Desserts

1. Blubbery Flan
2. Banana Spit
3. Strawberry Cheapskate
4. Choke-A-Lot Eye Scream
5. Punk In Pie
6. (a la mold)
7. Hot Sludge Sundae
8. Butt or Scotch Pudding
9. Pee Can Pie
10. Glazed Dognuts
11. Garrote Cake
12. Peach Clobber
13. Razzberry Moose


More delectable lists at: The New Thursday 13


Early To Rise

If I should jump or fall from this high place
so late at night and close to these chaotic waves
would I, like gull or osprey are, be borne aloft
on winds I neither know nor see; be born again
to soar toward light that rises but does not shine
or would the fall and fog-enveloped night be all?

I dare not sit too long and contemplate the odds.
Instead, I try to find a little light and ink enough
to weigh the possibilities; afraid of bed, afraid
that in the morning I’ll forget the words and lines
and breaks, afraid to take what fragile little peace
there is in knowing what I cannot ever truly know.