Passion Play

"Their souls entwined," the poem read,

and to the azure skies they sped.

A poem's no good unless it's spent

on passion, pain and lovers rent

from others' arms before its time,

all penned in verse, both free and rhyme.

I don't remember poems like this

in English class, all filled with bliss.

Our poems were writ on roads and mice

all forked and timorous (and filled with lice).

These sexy poems are more my ken

all wet and slippery, skin to skin.

Where brown is never brown, but bouillion

and blue is nothing if not cerulean.

And life is heightened by degree.

All senses more... sensitivity?

So you touch me and I'll touch you,

And 'ere you know it we're all through.

And smoking cigarettes and spent.

If only poems could pay the rent.

~ Elodie Pritchartt

First poem I ever wrote, circa 1994

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

Suicide Note

 So.  Time for bed.

Two Xanaxes, three Unisoms and

almost a fifth of Maker's Mark

will guarantee 

a dreamless, thoughtless sleep.

If I don't happen to wake tomorrow,

please know that it's okay.

I wasn't that thrilled with 

waking anyway.

I didn't do it on purpose 

but I didn't do it by accident

either.

Just know that I really did

love you so much more

than you realized,

and I'm really, really sorry 

for the pain I've caused.

I'm so, so sorry.

Go.  Live your life.

Grab every taste of it.

And know that I am here

where I want to be

in the good times 

of your memory.

I love you.  

I do.

But I couldn't love you enough

to keep living in such

a painful place.

And who's to say we won't see each other in 

the ever after where

all is forgiven and all is forgotten?

Editor's Note:  Please don't take this as an actual suicide note.  It's not.  I have no plan to end my existence on this mortal coil. But it HAS occurred to me on more than one occasion.  It does run in the family.  I just want to put this out into the universe in case something should happen and I can't take it back.  It's in my genes.  And it is the ultimate end.  I will never see any of you again, although I hope that you remember that I loved you more than I can say.

In the meantime, I'll see you tomorrow.

Catfish, 1976

 Okay, so....I can't remember if I've told y'all this. Or if I SHOULD tell y'all this. But....

Way back when I was at Ole Miss I lived in the Roundhouse Apartments. They were these one- and two-story apartments that were round. The nicest thing about them was that they were situated in a beautiful, wooded area close to campus.

I and my two roommates had the incredible luck of getting a one-story roundhouse in the very back of the development, nestled right in the woods.

At night when the weather was nice, I would open my window to sleep among the sounds of the night creatures. Every morning, I would wake up to find about four or five feral cats in bed with me. The minute I moved, they'd freak out and jump back out the window, never to be seen again until the next morning when it would happen all over again.

Anyway, one day a really sweet ginger tabby showed up with a collar. I started feeding it and petting it and letting it make itself at home. Then he'd disappear for a day or two. One day, he returned and I noticed something wrapped around his collar. It was a note:

In a very sweet, rounded, female hand, it said, "Whoever is taking care of my kitty, thank you so much. I would love to meet you." She dotted her i's with little hearts. It was so cute.

So, naturally, being the evil, wicked person I am, I wrote a note back, and wrapped it around his collar. In very masculine, blocky, all-caps writing, I wrote. "Yeah. Hey. I've been taking care of your cat. He's cool.'

We went back and forth, she wanting to get to know me better, and I telling her I was ex-Marine and working my way through school. Needless to say, the notes got kinda personal.

Then one night, little long-haired, blonde feminine me was at a party and started talking to some girl who informed me she lived at the roundhouse apartments. I can't remember how, but she told me about this ginger cat she had.

After awhile, I figured it out and told her I was the ex-Marine who'd been taking care of her cat. Then I started giggling uncontrollably.

You never saw such a hissy fit in your life! It was like Catfish before the internet. Now, I don't know if that makes me evil or just funny, but I thought it was hilarious. I couldn't understand why she didn't think it was as funny as I did.

So. Whatever. Be careful with your cat. That's all I can say. I still miss that little ginger bastard.

Time to Go

Everything dies,

Even you. 

But he knew 

he only had to touch

one, anyone, to send it 

away. To make it

die.

It's what he did

as though it couldn't

be helped.

It was written

in his DNA.

Twisted lines of 

data, always

twisting more, the more

he cared.

The world burns,  

Hate. Anger.

Grief.

His own light

is growing dim.

He longs for

release but

too stubborn to

recognize when

it's time to say goodbye.

So it twists 

and in its twisting

wishes for a 

better place

to be.

Meanwhile

There is sleep.

~ September 17, 2020

Everyday Tragedies

 Effortless,

they smile,
they laugh, They talk.

Something breaks.
The dam crumbles.

The truth pours out.

Tears. Everyday tragedies.

Still they laugh.

Still they smile.

So easy to ignore.
So hard to forget.

How long
will it take
For pain to right itself?

For others to forget?

Sleep.

Sleep until the silence
Contains it all,

until all is right in

your sleep world

Every tragedy
is just another day.

~ Sept 14, 2016

A Dog's Life

If I had my druthers, I'd like to come back as my dog in my next life. I've never seen anyone so eager to get a bite to eat. When it's dinnertime, she tells me by dancing around the room singing, "Woo-woo! Woo-Woo!"

Oh, to be able to eat with such joy and abandon, making little grunting sounds and licking the plate clean. She just finished my breakfast burrito, devouring the whole thing while expertly managing to leave the jalapeños, then climbing up onto the sofa to say thank you while bathing the air with  unembarrassed poots containing the unfiltered stink of happiness.

Every bite I eat is fraught with guilt. I wear clothes designed to disguise the evidence of my appetite while she waggles her little fat bottom proudly and happily.

What a life that would be. What a world.

Unbearable Happiness

So here we are, all cozy warm
and wrapped in secret dread
that this might work
and now instead
of rejection's shiny hook
on which to hang our failed
potential we must face
the possibility that this
isn't what we wanted, after all.

Happiness, that angry bear
stomps down the hall to maul
our expectations, fling our
sorry asses out the door
and make us look at what
we've done and haven't done before.

It's not too late to muck this up
if angst is what you crave.
Just save yourself and run.
The bear has only just begun
to tear your shattered life.
The wives who left you
crying on the floor can
stay, replay your failures one by one
and give you what you need.

Just say the word, I'll bleed,
but tell me now before
I've bled too much. My life
is such a clean, blank page.
Come help me fill it, if you want.
I'm here; I'm near, but time
is running short.

And bears are wild things,
quick and fleet, can disappear
before you've glimpsed
them, hairy, hoary, clumsy, big
and scary like first days of school.

They learn to dance between
the aisles and listen for the bees,
delicate and fragile in their way.
Just say if this is what you want
and I will watch the bees.
The bear is yours today.

13 Jan 08