Wonderbra

she looked like a lump of dough

soft & white

not rising but inflating

at rest

waiting to be punched and rolled over

She rarely looked up

her chin pointing down to her overflowing bra

the upper line clearly visible through the worn white men's undershirt

a Wonderbra gift from her daughter

who's insatiability

caused her mother's sagging

We are what we make?

[Click the title above for the entree to this entry] What about art? If we are evil, will our art be evil? If we are good, will we necessarily make good art? I definitely think that we are what we create, but isn't there a step in the logic missing? What about our imaginations? Surely actors can portray evil people with out being evil themselves, right? Isn't there a step between thought and creation where the creation leaves us and becomes its' own thing?

Where, oh where has my little [cat] gone? Oh where, oh where can he be?

Sadly, I lost my kitty, Merlin Monday night. The last couple days have been hell. I started writing a post and then couldn't finish. I promise to finish it today so I can post it soon.

This poem was inspired by true events.

"Managed Care"

Blinding light
Binding plight
Doctor's waiting room

Heart a flight
Wait all night
Prostrate on the floor

Linoleum tile
Magazine pile
In a different room

Cold steel bench
Disinfectant stench
Staring at the door

Dr. Important arrives
Downcast eyes
Tell me why you're here

Pages flutter
Did the Patient mutter?
What, I didn't hear