so much fun playing our own love songs in the Sevens Bistro in Scottsdale last Friday. met some new buds. some came to my book launch at Barnes and Noble the next morn.

hell came to pay home a visit again. the eyes of winter. her crushing burden. that snowed in feeling while the raindrops that tickle my roof, are like someone tiptoeing upstairs.

so what, in the so-now-what-phase? get out of the house. work on book two. it’s written. just needs re-ordering. and, succumb to the need to feel still, to imagine.

sh. a song coming on:


you’ve got to fight for me sweetheart
when the pins are down
you’ve got to fight for me sweetheart
for me to be around


what’s within you
is stronger than what’s in your way
heed the gifts when they come in
& give yourself a break

if you can not change the rain, listen to her rail
if you can not change the wind, readjust your sail

who’d’ve thought a technique could reprocess one’s brain
wherein feelings of negation vanish but memories remain. the strange exchange doth rearrange.

gone but not forgotten

Mac & The Kat fb page and reverberation


meatpiano-at-11  if i dare to put my knee brace on & a foot forward on the pickleball court, the hours spent all alone banging the tennis ball against the side of blueridge school and the fights over tennis matches with my best friend lur, charge through my arms.

if i dare to shove my xmas arse filled with santa’s goodies in a chair at starbucks & play with my new wordpress site, i might drop my media items into your open ears and wide eyes.

if i dare to waltz around apache junction in a florescent orange shirt that says “dink responsibly at the pueblo” cuz’ male anatomy’s become part of our vernacular.

can u feel my fear, my friends? can u see how i fling it into the clouds are music. no more microwaved coffee or used pieces of dental floss clinging to my socks. brussel sprouts are omnivorous, are an indirect threat to global warming.

i’m protective of my oranges. out of the rabbit hole. feel the power. like princess leia. her mother, debbie reynolds, died the day after her passing. maybe it’s orchestrated.  bowie. prince. ken mclaren. jen scott’s dad. & poor george michaels who never wanted to be outed.

you haven’t seen the sky for a few months and i the rain.  the world turned the day after cohen died. he felt like a chained parrot on stage. margo says “it’s like the 1930’s” but we ain’t through yet.

at the stroke of midnight, the cactus girls silenced us. jennifer got on her knees at the new years dance and presented an engagement ring to judy. they held each other, judy cried on jen’s shoulder while women formed a circle around them, singing “love will build a bridge.” tears of light on cheeks.

“look to this day. love’s got a hold of us. o happy new day. this, the narrative of truth. we taek a cup o’ kindness.

(it all tastes like chicken in the end.) they’re laughin’ here down in lesbian la la land, as i ring in the new year, in days of auld lang syne my dears! ya can’t stay down long. over ‘n out

why was my driver’s licence not returned to me at the Peace Arch? how do i draw a border and stop talking when losing my voice? what do i know of crazy? running out of gas at mile 267 in Woodburn, Oregon.

however, a half hour later, BCAA to the rescue eh, and back on the road Kerouac-like roaming the country in search of something greater, (sure hope the road don’t come to own her.) she plays football in the AT&T store with her femme. it only takes six days to get phone service in America. on every corner, flu shots immediately available.

flag floggers. sh. go away. girl bloggers. sh. go away.
all gave some. some gave all.

through Ruby Valley & Jackpot, Nevada, down a dirt road of memory. into a town. smells like pee. picks up coffee in a cafe, cucumber cool.

under neapolitan clouds. raindrops pointillistic and silver streams exercise their freedom to choose on their windshield.

on this day, Daphne Odjig at ninety-seven, dies. Picasso admired her painting at Expo 67. and Kim Kardashian is tied up and robbed at gunpoint by cops.

in Apache Junction, the local yokel cut off a rattler’s head and tail. an hour later, we see it gyrating in the back of their pickup, its nerves firing. o’erhead, a rhetorical owl. (who, who)

i eat a little crow. roll in the hole. in the new bed. next morning, a curved bill thrasher ribbits in the butterfly air. cat stretch, chittering-esque. fixed on bird

“there was a band playing in her head and she felt like getting high.” rattlers. fill her dreams.

a coyote trots down her new street Rosa Parks, in light fantastic. mammoth RV’s slash a path through their homeland and lumber steadily into this, the village we call “Pueblo’.

“stop talking. you are losing your voice, chatty cat.”img_0788

the furies have worked hard to bring about one wild ride down.
held up by US customs officers at Peace Arch Crossing.

“what’s the nature of your relationship?” was the first question. too stunned to speak. avocado on my pants. kath replied “we’re friends.”

flagged by ties and equities. flogged by men in uniform. “we don’t normally detain you for more than a year. (it’s been 4.)

“when did we send you back?”

“back sir?”

“when did we send you back to Canada?”

“you haven’t sir.”

three hours later, pulling into Blaine. finally down the highway of purplehearts. seventy thousand in Washington. a reminder of those who have paid the great price for our freedom to travel. my cousin David, one of them. a kid. in Vietnam, one of the millions of destitute veterans that scour the US. his head in the sky.

starbirds on lamplights. bits of tires rib the roadside.

like snowbirds on snowboards, we fly down the mountain to Beatty. it is easy to be alive today.

stopped by cops.

my girl’s big open smile, her placating “yes sir, no sir.” he lets us go.

in the suicide seat, i peruse Talon’s catalogue. in the 1950’s, the Canadian government relocates reserve Indians to urban centres. tired eyes. tired years. o, where are the trees? unstoried. unspoken. poplars temper a silence.

in claustrophobic air, warming temperatures displace entire ecosystems. i feel like i am swimming under water. sometimes. either that, or hot-flashing.

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