GARDEN GNOMES, JESUS, AND PINK FLAMINGOS

white pants/ white shirt/ white shoes/ white male

Monochromatic man on a Monday mission

green light/ green car/ green grass/ greener pastures

driving along with WHY bobbing on my dashboard

looking for a one-way street to somewhere else

man with the plan with a sidewalk walking tan

does the sign of the cross in full open view

Jesus in the garden’s always looking down

this one’s blessing the azaleas with paint chips

slow down.. watch the parade.. see the color fade away

pink flowers shaded by the Son in the sun

the sinner in the station wagon suppresses scorn

watches from slits behind supreme stunner shades

while Mary in the bathtub protects the red roses

pink clouds/ pink azaleas/ plastic pink flamingos

Bless the garden gnomes and the gaudy gazing balls

He loves the lawn jockeys and the big-butted ladies

Jesus’s in the garden and Mary’s in the next front yard

the man on a mission genuflects and dirties his knees

read more....

ASSEMBLY LINE

I push you away to keep you safe

in my head you’re dead

in my mouth you’re closed off

partitioned and encapsulated

if you knew what I thought

as your pre-cum becomes

post nasal drip

you would wrap your hand

around your manhood

more often in private

and just now, you would

take it from inside me

and move away without packing

There is a Miller in my mind

grinding sheaves into dust

harvesting before the seeds takes root

pulverized and rendered useless

no vessel is safe here

no casing is impervious

to the carnage I heave

onto ever present conveyor belts

every time you touch my hand...

and place it

THERE.

I have envisioned killing you

these visions are clearest when you are

at your most vulnerable

fixated on your rising manhood

there is a fine line you straddle

like an apocalyptic horse

willingly giving over control

(this is a man I love

who won’t look at a map

or change his hairstyle

or throw away a receipt)

I am addicted to your loss of self

your willingness to become willing

to die small deaths in my mouth

the little offspring mutating

changing form

as I swallow them whole

while your eyes roll back

and close like a shark

in a bloody swimming pool

I wish sometimes they would never open again.

I watch movies in my mind

as I cater to your needs

more my needs than yours now

but how do I tell you

that flowers and candles don’t cut it anymore?

Wire, taut and unyielding

would cut it

I have seen your head fall to the side

and topple to the floor

and it is me

not a stand in or an understudy

who wields the weapon

and comes at the mere

mind projection of it

When you get up to

relieve yourself and have a smoke

I imagine myself sometimes

in the final scene

alone in our marital bed

accepting calls of condolence

waiting the acceptable six months or more

winding the sheets around my naked body

tossing and turning, unable to sleep

I know I would love you more

in the end

after the monogrammed towels are thrown away

and your taste has left my mouth

THE UNCHOSEN

Abort the initialization process

click "yes" and it's done

suction devices

broken baby bones

in plastic pails

arms flail

as they're spiraling down

and ears are wrenched from skulls

moments before the piped-in

music hits

that steadies the doctor's hands

And it's oh so proper

to delete

and so indelicate to assume

caution saves the day

(it's not our way)

drugged almost- mothers

claim their rights

to bleed out on the sheets

delete

Absolution at the hands of a monster

medical madmen on milking stools

with power tools

eyes over masks incanting,

" Are you alright, dear"

so you can't hear

silence

where there should be

sounds

and your gown

(not fit for a princess anymore)

is tied in the back

by a hack

( with a billing statement
soon to follow)

And it will never stop

cries of anguish

through the night

an unrelenting hunger

helpless to self-soothe

pacing the floor

with empty arms

full of choices

unchosen

ETHIOPIANS GONE WILD

Fighting for freedom
ripe for prime time
spot on Night Line

Freedom of speech
Freedom to die
Freedom to live
Freedom to starve

We want to free up your mind
be all democraticly kind
pipe peace straight into your soul
watch you eat dry rice in a bowl
stumble over homeless child
(caught on film by
Christians with cameras,
new reality show:
"Ethiopians Gone Wild")

Lift up your tattered shirt
show us how bad it hurts
turn to your wounded pride
stick out your chest
no, the other side
matches the distention
now scream for attention

Zoom up to the empty cup
single tear on mud-streaked face

sue Nancy Grace
crying babies/ cue OLD NAVY
COMMERCIAL BREAK!

for god's sake.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Linda J. Washington is a  nurse currently working as a teacher.  She lives in New England with her husband and four children.  Like many writers, she has been writing recreationally since childhood.  She says that even back then, her work always had some kind of message beyond her own scope of existence, and she was labeled "very intelligent but rather odd" early on. In college she took a basic English class and was told by a professor that she should try to have some of her essays published.  She ended up being a guest editorialist for the local newspaper in her early 20's. Last year she found MySpace and poetry groups and says she did indeed feel like an "Outside Writer".  She prefers to refer to herself as a "word channeler" as she explains, “I honestly think the stuff I write comes from elsewhere, truly "outside" of this writer.”

You can contact Linda at This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it .

Last update : 10-12-2007 04:38

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