The Flying Toilet


I live in a house with two toilets.

Some places in Africa, I’ve learned today in the New York Times (November 28th edition), have Flying Toilets.

The people there use a plastic bag for their “bathroom”; tie up the bag, and throw it, spinning out into the air.

Awareness of the lack of proper toilets exists—I read in Twitter that funding exists to install more toilets into countries that don’t have them.

I just wonder—how could their governments have so great an oversight on such an obvious need? Of course, the situation undoubtedly stems from more than governmental help. Nevertheless, I wish everyone could have two toilets in their home, wherever that may be.

**Picture courtesy of free Google images


Opaque vs transparent


In writing poems for this blog I have been purposely opaque. A strange word to use, but it seems the only one that truly describes my writing at this time. I write around issues of my life in an effort to minimize those very issues.

However, I am inspired by Jenny Lawson, the Bloggess, who shares her problems and yet is still very likable. I have read some of Furiously Happy (not done yet, I’m taking it in small doses).

I have not laughed til I cried in so long when reading a book, yet I did twice, so far (hence the small doses) while reading Furiously Happy.

I am very impressed that she writes, with all the many problems she faces.

I do not tend to want to share the deepest details of my life, unlike her.

I like having poems that challenge me to write better, edit a lot, and push my abilities.

However, I feel I could take a cue from Jenny Lawson, too.

So if you happen to stumble across this blog and find me actually sharing more deeply from my life, you may be surprised as me!

**Picture courtesy Pinterest

Citizen: an interpretation of a work


A clerical start
A studious ending
Bookends to a life
In pursuit of answers

As questions burgeoned

Why does Claudia Rankine’s work
Haunt me?

I cannot capture the bookends
Of these lives she paints

Citizen: an American Lyric

To exist in the wrong place at the wrong time?

I do not know
Will never claim to know

But that I am haunted
By the feeling that
Have been there

In some way in some time

Have we all?

I didn’t sense a claim to universality, in fact a specificity
Colored the work.

Nevertheless, I would humbly wonder

We all get the starts and the ends; be they
Studious, clerical, or none of the above.

It’s just the middle. Such diverse differences amongst us.

Wordle of thought



A frantic flurry
Of grandiloquent flaunted verbosity

Reaching the root
Continuing to feel fraught
With the aspect of what grandiloquence creates: which is nothing

The fluency of: naught

While basking in the flood
The torrent

Of the world’s words that make up my understanding

The word belies ripples
And attacks

People die

As do I

And yet I will always
Rack myself with the reek
Of love for such as words

where is the water?

Gray matter like a flotilla


Gray matter like a flotilla
Embers in the brain

Subtle is the language of the night

The vines can choke
While tossing you
From thought to thought

Gray matter floating like ash
Smelling like burning leaves

Autumn ends

The flotilla? It tends a
New, cold, muse

Flying on icicles
In the snow

Where does the tenderness go
It remains an
Alter ego to the harsh interior

Ending ending



The skin of the orange

At times hard

And almost unpeelable

At times soft,


The skin I taste on

Black beans

Succulent nourishing

The skin of the grapes

Breaks open in my mouth

So many skins to


Appreciate, taste and enjoy


My orange was


It was tough to

Peel, but

The payoff was great

As orange juice dripped

From my mouth, and the

Sweet tang overwhelmed me.