The name says it all.



Bloody beauty takes

all a modern girl can give–

what dignity? what self-esteem?

Petite yellow girls unwrap

hideous, reeking Lotus flowers–

what beauty? what pain?

Jimmy Choo stilettos also

require tribute; metal rods pin toes–

three inches? four inches?

Silicon breasts and behinds

are a la mode as Ferraris–

what curves? what body?


explanatory notes: 

Lotus flowers refer to a fashion among Chinese girls in the Song dynasty, who bound their feet to keep them from growing. This would force their feet into a ‘Lotus flower’ shape, and many medical difficulties resulted because of this.

Recently, I read about Jimmy Choo stilettos in the Smithsonian magazine–apparently, some NYC women are getting metal pins inserted into their feet to make their feet 3-4 inches long, just so they can wear those shoes.

youth & death (iambic pentameter #2)

These are the years of fragrant youth and death–

With scarcely any time to catch a breath,

We gallop ‘round, cavorting straight to doom;

Unknowingly erecting our own tombs.


~farewells~ (iambic pentameter #1)


She paces ‘neath the starry skies and weeps–

He tosses, turns; and fails to fall asleep.

Yet sleep evades and love is not dispelled–

Regret persists without a true farewell.



I hate not having closure. The apologies I should’ve made, the good-byes I should’ve said.

Writing in iambic pentameter is hard if you’ve never tried it before. Hopefully, my skill level will increase over time :p




tempus fugit

Life is so brief

& time a thief.

The hourglass sands

slip through our hands.


I Hate Beautiful People

I hate beautiful people.

People who are effortlessly suave–who are casual social butterflies, flittering gaily from one person to another, taking a sip of nectar here and there, but always loved and admired. Always debonair, polished, refined. Always knowing the proper thing to say and the proper time to say it. The right compliments to pay. The right people to ingratiate themselves to.

People who have none of my awkward clumsy moments–who somehow dance through life with nary a spill or public passing-wind episodes. Or people who can turn clumsy moments into something hilarious.

People who sleep at 3 am yet manage to wake up looking perfectly pristine. Who can pull their hair into breezy messy buns that somehow look so sexy. Who rock baggy sweatpants and oversized hoodies and even distasteful overalls. Who could pull off the Kate Moss look without looking like a complete crackhead.

People who get perfect grades yet manage to juggle other activities, like cheerleading and soccer and community service club and volunteering at the animal shelter and Friday night dates with about twenty different guys all at once.

People who can spew the funniest jokes and sarcastic comments and get away with it.

People who keep on top of all the latest trends and songs and movies.

Classy people.

People who are noticed, esteemed, and worshipped.

People who are not me.


Hilarious, succinct redux of ‘The Raven’ by Edgar Allen Poe.


Recycled for Halloween 2012


One of my all-time favorite poems is Poe’s The Raven, but let’s face it, at 1086 words it is way too long.  In today’s frenetic world, who has the time to read such things. So, in the interest of making it more accessible to the schedule-impaired, and with all due respect to the original, I have undertaken a slight edit.  Here is my 68 word version of the classic.


Lonely dude about to snore

Hears a knock upon his door

What is there? A talking bird!

All it knows is one damn word

Conversation is a bore

All it says is “nevermore”

Asks about his long lost flame

Lenore, the lovely lady’s name

Bird provides no help at all

“Nevermore,” it’s single call

Lonely dude goes raving mad

Bird just sits there.  Bird is bad

Linked to One Shot Wednesday.

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Liquid honey seeps through my veins,

Ghostly moths on faery reins

flutter ’round, lulling me to sleep;

Morpheus calls–‘Tis time to leap.


corn maze

hay bales piled ’round blazing bonfires;

children shrieking with delight and sucking at their burnt fingers —

toasted marshmallows are miniature torches.

their cloud-like sweetness does not affect me, however;

rather, i stroll aimlessly into the maw of the corn maze —

darkness envelopes me warmly like an old friend.

out of the darkness springs a masked man wielding a chainsaw;

do not think me brave for laughing in his face —

horror movies have long shielded me ‘gainst Halloween frights.



You are my no-friend,

my friend and yet not my friend;

you might be a godsend,

yet you are surely my no-friend.

You are my no-friend,

and sometimes we argue as though it’s the end;

you might wish to make amends,

yet you are most certainly my no-friend.

You are my no-friend,

for my tolerance level you transcend;

I don’t wish to offend,

yet you are definitely my no-friend.




She was dressed like a hot dog

and he was dressed like a hamburger, to match her.

She laughed as she painted a red line down her body

and he joked that someone might try to lick the paint, it looked so much like ketchup.

She adjusted the lettuce attached to his waist

and he thought that he’d accept wearing her younger sister’s tutu, if only to please her.

She handed him a glowing pumpkin light

and he assured her that he’d avoid the scary houses in their neighborhood

She almost forgot the pillow sacks to hold the candy with

but he spotted them lying on the counter and snatched them up before they left

She exploited their elderly neighbor’s generosity and took five Snicker bars

but when she wasn’t looking, he gave three of them back

She let out a scream of fright when she saw three corpses walking around

and was only pacified when he pointed out corpses didn’t listen to their iPods

She was disappointed when only a few houses were giving out candy

and even his comments about the bad economy didn’t seem to help

She went to bed early with streaks of red still tinting her pale flesh

and while she slept, he poured all of his candy into her pillowsack.