Prometheus has a mistress

yet it is not
that few people know this

nobody cares
this time
it’s hot in
the desert
she is sick
of wasting time

the mistress must
each day
him to come
home from
workprometheus hurts

AH, Prometheus
I could love you
better than
moulder of mankind from clay
tortured by Zeus, reborn every day?

accelerated then degenerate
as is
the ancients way

The last days of January

I came back to cottage # 43 to take a nap but instead polished off the Glenfiddich 17 (or possibly 12, I can’t recall because the bottle has already been taken to the recycling bin) and went through the box of cards I found in my father’s closet. You see, he is an amazing artist, despite having become a medical doctor because his own parents thought his dreams of becoming a wildlife manager were not going to provide him with enough God-almighty dollars, and so he has over 6,000 (at least) photographs loaded on his iMac which I have been wrestling with the past week to get his iPad set up so he can look at butterflies.

He perks up when he hears a birdsong and we tried to play the identify this song game but of course apple wanted someone’s credit card number for the free app, so I gave them mine which is always dubious as I can’t seem to live off the edge for more than a year or two at most (having decided to do exactly what my grandparents warned against–pursuing my first love, well actually more like third, and choosing a ‘career’ in film and television. (The first two are poetry and photography, with a hint of horses, the ocean and little creatures in there as sub-categories).

Back to the day at hand. My father keeps his room at 90 degrees or more. I am now wearing a t-shirt in Ohio after 8 inches of snow fell. This from a girl who does well in hot, humid climates, but loves snow because I never get to see it living in Los Angeles and now I guess I love snow because I guess you could call these pre-hot flashes for my pre-menopausal state, which I have self-diagnosed being too poor for even Obamacare.

My grammar and syntax are not up to par, and for that I apologize to all my English teachers and professors, but not to Bukowski, Henry Miller or T.S. Eliot, my favorite writers. This is all their fault.

That’s the worst-written preamble to a confession I’ve written in a while.


I sit down to go through my dad’s cards that he has made (photographs of birds, butterflies and petroglyphs) because I want to send thank you cards to all my friends who have rallied to send me here to see him for what could or could not be our last time seeing each other in the physical realm. I love my dad for many reasons — not the least of which being he is actually my adopted father, and for some reason, we have always just ‘got’ one another from the watermelon seed spitting contests, to playing poker for M&Ms to today when he flipped off the nurse (who I ‘luckily’ met later and agreed) with a gesture I can replicate but not explain and we laughed the way that Walkers laugh. She is a bitch, this nurse. I have let her know with my body language and explanation of how I clean his urinals because they stink of piss.

I apologize in advance, retroactively and from afar, so bear with me, there’s a story here in this roasted chestnut and for those of you who say you don’t understand me, well yes, you could hire me an editor or just leave me the fuck alone.

I sit down on the ‘love seat’ in his cottage and start going through the box of cards (one thing that did not have blood on it from his ‘recent’ ambien-induced sleep-walking fete that took him into his closet and left him bloody–thanks Cleveland Clinic best heart doctors in the world jerk-offs for not caring about your patients, even the ones who were residents and interns at your esteemed medical establishment, and me, I was born there–go figure) — and I start looking at the cards and choosing which one goes to Ashley, and Val, and Virginia, and the lovely high school friends who have so kindly helped me in a time of need that I don’t like one bit — and I started to cry as I have been doing lately, and I am not a crier. I hate crying. I am the person you can cry to. I am the strong one. I am the one who has nothing to lose while you have everything, and I can always make you feel better (emotionally that is, let’s not go to that other place right now)…

Because — well I don’t know why, to tell you the truth. I am crying right now.

It’s like when I would drive down Kahuna Road on Kaua’i at a certain stage of my life and when I would hear “Rocky Raccoon” on my White Album maxell tape, I would start crying. ROCKY RACCOON? Yes, it used to make me cry when I would hit this one turn in the road where I could see the Pacific ocean just perfectly as I passed Kapaa High School.

My Dad’s current girlfriend (he left my mom after 38 years of marriage, our family pretty much imploded and with it any hope of me believing in marriage–I have remained UNMARRIED despite having common law status relationships with 2 men in my 49 years, who I ultimately don’t trust) told me that my father said to her — he wouldn’t do a thing differently in his life.

We’re like that–I never regret. I don’t believe in it.

Thank you for putting up with this stream of consciousness…

Now, I must wipe away those aggravating tears and prepare to meet the grandkids of a dear friend of my Dad’s who want to go into FILM as a profession. And you know what? I don’t discourage kids from that–I just try to save them some pain.

When you are surrounded…

Continue reading “When you are surrounded…”

Of course, I know this

Walking around the Quaker place you go to die in the snow and answering calls about meltdowns that occur in sunny places, and I wanted to start a chronicle of days, but the focus I had three minutes ago has been absolved by the lack of focus now, whether it’s mental or emotional or a mix-thereof, I can’t say, but I don’t feel like formulating the most articulate of thoughts at the moment, and I am not in the mood to take undue criticism, whether it’s due or not, and I keep thinking I should go for a swim.

Like the vultures

They came

She passed right by

Pretending it was not her flesh they ripped from her bones

Her heart a carcass to trample with proxy
Dame damage done

You didn’t have to compliment incessantly

what Mae makes malleable

You knew I thought
That one night the fever broke
Those different time zones
Who’s here
And what would have happened with
A terse geography
You said
It wasn’t everything
Then you
Said it’s nothing
Listen here
You always know
Or you wouldn’t say
Such sweet things
To a woman discussing
Sylvia Plath with you
For some reasons not worth
Bothering with the
Curiosity of you
Like a good girl
But you know there
Are things we will
Never explain

But that doesn’t mean they
Don’t exist somewhere
Unfinished business
Of showers of ghosts

You sought
What I’m not sure
I only know
My heart is

for this world

A love story in slight return
Which means the love came out through the song
It’s a sad tale in most ancient cultures
And when it happens today
It is even more confusing
When visceral gets in the way
You are in the doorway
Of my very thought

So tethered

Your move
Slight return


How To Ruin Your Life (Without Even Noticing That You Are)

“You ruin your life by choosing the wrong person…words will stick…and nothing will be able to breach that judgement.
“You ruin your life by desensitizing it…”

Which is exactly what the Kahuna right down the road from me in Wailua Houselots said–sensitive? That was a good thing, meant you were hearing the universe, closer to whatever notion of god was palatable to you — once you had achieved some modicum of these five cornerstones: 1-observe the principle (get outside your emotional reaction as you can and see the PRINCIPLE of what if going on in your life; 2) AWARENESS (maybe that was first but I seem to recall it being hard to be aware as much as he was, this spiritual man of Hawaiian kahuna descent, his grandmother went in through the windows not the doors — ancient kahuna magic super secret world knowledge but you could feel it in the wind at miloli’i sometimes…

And onto 3) PRESENCE–which comes from 4) ALIGNMENT of the first two (I know I am getting all this out of order, sorry Abraham, or Kahu as he was called by Kim and Jimmy, art farm made-for-each-other-who-knew duo. And lastly: MAGNITUDE, which I think comes in waves, at least for a lay-man (layperson sounds worse to me for some reason, like I am lying down dead in the middle of the street in a cross walk like abbey road–the beatles are walking over me…)

Hear the Joke.
Feel the Joke (not easy, can be painful)

And 3 more I obviously need to work on since I can’t remember them — about how the joke is the universe’s control over all this spirit matter and god wasn’t almighty against those forces (those cosmic realms that Stephen Hawking investigates in the reaches of a mind that can conceive of infinity as a mathematical equation. I cannot. I can conceive of it as poetry, as a certain scientific version of the craft, how T.S. Eliot is the perfect poet, to me, with Yeats and Auden so close behind. As in the longer form but not too long–Larkin is another. And the women take a different tack but I always loved Gwendolyn Brooks, she spoke to me, I saw no color due to my bizarre upbringing on ALL fronts…

MAYBE don’t BE SENSITIVE (because of trolls and bullies slowing you down) but also don’t be DE-SENSITIZED and NUMB. (easier said that done when your heart’s been ripped out by a few rough handlers and then along comes this surprise that tragically could never work out–due to time, years in between, why is that, who cares? we’ll see.

“Caring is not synonymous with crazy.” — Yes, all my prior CWs who talked shit about me behind my back saying I was ‘crazy’ — that’s actually not cool nor probably legal since I have all my wits about me and I am more emotionally intelligent than you not to mention mentally light years ahead of you. What I don’t get is I was purposely sweet because I believe in kindness-==that must have been perceived as a weakness. The crazy? from having to work 80 hours a week (because they take advantage of you from all sides) doing their job, cleaning up their messes, coz in the end it’s less time-consuming at that point than trying to get through to them that it’s a process outside the limits of their intelligence and ego.

Neither here nor there, but this matters.

Listen UP:


I love this person….

THANK YOU FOR WRITING THIS. I hope you’re okay with my re-posting and riffing off the ideas in my usual Henry Miller meets Hunter S. Thomson with an Anne Sexton undertone style.


Delusions of Gladness for Spectacular Sadness

I cannot explain why this song makes me want to cry (or has in the past, now I slightly choke up before the next item on my to do list, storage full warning, why is there popcorn stuck to my bread, and why did I just call it my bread?)

I have to check the laundry. The room is a mess. I can only deduce this is part of my ‘process.’ I wanna write a punk song called, “Just Ask Tony Robbins.”

There’s always a reason to feel not good enough

-sarah mclachlan