Archive for September, 2009

In Case You Were Wondering

how I feel today:


that’s a head.  And it’s exploding.


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“I tell ya, I remember a time when I was about – I was little, I don’t know – 4, 5 something like that. We had this old dog that had a litter of puppies.  And I walked in the bathroom one day and my mother was standing there, kneeling down… dog had a litter of about 8, and my mother was bending over killing each one of these little puppies in the bathtub. I remember I said, ‘why?‘  She said, ‘I’m just killing what I can’t take care of.’ Then my momma said to me, she looked at me and she said, ‘I wish I could do that to you’.  Maybe she, maybe she shoulda.”

~Mickey Rourke as The Cook in Spun

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It’s the meds, I swear

I told someone my daughter was ten. Then I told this person my daughter was nine, very sure of this.

My daughter informed me, “mommy, I’m not nine, I’m eight”. She gave me the crazy eye.

I forgot to bring tip money for the nice asian girl who does our toenails. I embarrassingly put away my polish color as the two dollars in cash I had stashed away in my purse covered only Angelina’s tip for her toenails to look cute.

I entered my vehicle on the wrong side. I sat there for almost a minute before it donned on me that I was sitting in the passenger’s seat instead of the driver’s seat. Meanwhile, my ten, NO, nine, NO, EIGHT year old daughter is laughing hysterically in the back seat. I’m in a daze and would fly home on a broom if I could.

I said frack it and went to Blockbuster and brought home nine movies. NINE. Wanna know why? Because I shouldn’t be allowed to leave the house.

In other news: angelina’s soccer team ran all over the opposing team yesterday. In other more exciting news: angelina is the best goal keeper ever. I don’t care. I said it. My kid is the best.

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Friday Poem

Ascension by Cathy Smith Bowers

After the hardware salesman,
I fell in love with a man who wanted
to ascend. All moondrift and solar, washed

shore and the nimbused bones of fish, his hands
a God-knead, tendering my body’s own brilliant
language of grief. Getting my light body,

he explained, when I spoke of his thinning
arms and legs, his frame an anorexic girl’s
on top of mine, the slight waist, sinewy chest

paled to the vegetable hues
of iceberg and romaine, his face
and shoulders draped in the tofu-shroud

of his flesh. But I needed evidence
of that rumored other life, so took him in.
Grunewald’s most famous Christ

stepped down from his altar
into the world again. Jesus on the
lam and me, failed atheist,

ready to be washed in the blood of
anything. I learned, finally,
what it was like all those years,

my husband under the house alone,
knocking at pipes, securing the joists
and studs, the mundanities

of this life–out of my lover’s
holy precinct–relegated now to me.
Battles with the shell-shocked

landlord as the floor began to sink
and the roof continued its slow leak
through the ceiling above our bed.

One night I awoke to find him
in the flung doors of the balcony.
he had taken the gauze curtains

from their rods and draped them across
his shoulders, his arms spread against
the moon’s soft rising like the wings

of some angel or bat. Next morning
he was gone, transmorphosed to that place
of peace and light he’d feared my own bereft

and unenlightened soul would never know.
Ascended, I assumed, until leaving
for work I saw beyond the back door’s

freshly-painted-white–now splattered
in red–the four muddy ruts of his retreads
and knew he had taken the truck instead.

Copyright 2009 Cathy Smith Bowers
From the book: Traveling in Time of Danger (Iris Press)

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Dearest Pittsburgh,

I know you and I have had some rough times together. You are the hometown I love and hate at the same time. But today, Pittsburgh, I really effing heart you.

March on.

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Ahhh, Pittsburgh.

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Sweet Tea

that’s it and that’s all.


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