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The Best Revenge (For All Your Critic's Critiques)

Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home

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Not For The Bloom of Tears Cultivated These Last 100 Years

All Too Clearly Now

Informed Through Pain

Sometimes In Losing I Have Gained A Lot

A Man Of The Clouds

The Birds Are Such Un-numbering Creatures of Distant Hitchcockian Past



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The Dreaming Life ( A Series Of Dream Vignettes)

Cuba Libre

If This Is Any Art For Which You Care

Max on the max

The Little Bird Said

Your Next New Dying Black Swan

The Factory of Resentments

When My Blues Are Gone

Expect Yourself



Silver-Tongued Devil

Within The Green Wind Becomes The Fall

Think On This--IF YOU WOULD

Open Lines

You Got Your Lilly Back

I Write This To Remember


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On That Fateful Day

the bean burrito steamed
the boy waited for it to cool

while his Mother ignored them both

busily she was reading her own cue cards
for life

all the poor have is their tales
all the very rich have is their money
and their children

or so they think
but they ignore them

the cues, the clues
are all like bread crumb trails

both the piles of money
and the children
eventually may

the rich know nothing of mindfulness
they don't have their stories
remember that part

the boy studied his dirty nails
and pulled at the trailing seam of his
torn shorts

his Mother drum-rolled her
well-manicured nails
across the table
as her crossed leg
punted the air
beneath her Pucci dress

the bean burrito lay
cold between them
the congealed cheese a kind of
symbolic barrier

nudging the neglected burrito
towards him in disgust
she answered to the loud ringtones of
"The Andrea True Connection"
and turned her back to her son

the boy found himself near the window
there he watched a grey haired woman in a rain poncho
with a three-legged yellow dog
on a hand-made leash

its close, a summer-warm day outside
the dog looks thirsty
(unconsciously the boy licks his lips)
the old woman has a kind lop-sided, reassuring smile
he's not quite sure but
the dog looks like it might be smiling too

his Mother is still talking while
she's sorting out Greek olives
from her pale limp salad as she
punctuates her anger with her salad fork

its warm, like the closing of an envelope, outside
the boy brings a large glass of cool water
an offering for the thirsty yellow dog

as he pries open the door the outside warmth fills him
the three-legged dog limps over to him grinning
its braided leash trailing behind him

"M'aam, would your dog like some water?"
the boy asks wanting to be helpful

"oh, thank you sonny, that's  mighty kind
of you...say, are you here all by your

the boy glances through the double-paned glass
taking in a final glimpse of his Mother
caught for a moment in the inertia of indecison
and the bitterness of of feeling invisible

"yes," he pauses, then waiting only slightly,
"I believe I am..."

Copyright June 7, 2016 All Rights Are Reserved By This Author
Meloo Melissa A Howells Tilt-a-World
all ideas/rants/poetry/prose are the
expressed legal property of this writer
writing based on observations, not a true story

Andrea True Connection...Disco song in the 70's. words were,
more, more, more, how do you like it, how do you like it?


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