Today, we read that the low-slung dark nightmare on the lake
might be replaced by a cone-shaped white funhouse on the lake.
Still, something on the lake where there should be nothing–
I wish Burnham would come back from the dead, read everyone
a scrap of his plan as he scrapes off so many ticky-tacky barnacles
that belong not to the people but to certain people. I have a theory
that Rahm Emanuel wants me gone, is trying to force me out
by making life here untenable. If you walk three minutes
down certain alleys in my neighborhood, you can still find
an alternate universe of riding toys and barbecue grills,
even clotheslines and people talking to each other.
On the sidewalk outside Cholie’s, under the Metra tracks
(the viaduct, we say here), I once saw two or three pigeons
squabbling over one subpar slice of sausage pizza. This was
not far from where just the other day, someone walked up
and shot into someone’s car and then ran away. Gunshots–
these used to occur just outside the invisible borders of our
island, and lately they happen within them. We all
tell each other about them and ask ourselves
just what the hell is going on. Postcards of our city
still show those sailboats, valiant as anything
mythological, and the lake, still standing there
as always–glassy and stupid, believing it’s a sea.

Prompts: Poetic Asides (a poem about a restaurant/food place), NaPoWriMo (a lengthy list that results in a snapshot of some location), and Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (remains).

She had a tooth made of paper, she said–
she could not afford to be lavish. The tooth,
I know, was ochre, dun, or ivory. She said
she had it dyed to match the others,
a bright white tooth among dull neighbors
would be gaudy (a word she used often,
usually to describe me, my velvet coat).
On the flat of her hand, she balanced
a ring; it bounced on a blood vessel as
she breathed in dusty air, breathed out
whatever fire still remained in her,
whatever fire she had left.

Hey, friends, I need a time out from all this
scar tissue in my left calf, and now in my right,
a headache at the base of my skull, and all my other
ailments. I want to go back to when things were
simple and babies loved me as baseballs bounced
over summer fields while I thought that I knew
everything, or at least one thing really well, or two.

Prompt: Poetic Asides (time out).

insane my wall
my name in letters
7 feet high

my flowers that are not
flowers

insane my hedges
my battlements

whiter than white

Prompt: Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (a poem based on a photo posted there — if you click over, I bet you can guess which one).

Cheese scalloped asparagus and noodles with salmon
chiffon cake. Angel wings, singed, freezing. Eating
hearts in cream, preparing for salad pan-fried
with eggs. Measuring types of sheets, easy
lovelight barracuda cupcakes. How to use ground
heart: minute or cube stroganoff. Butter dips
Iris’ old-fashioned Southern stir-n-roll sweet milk.
Typical midnight: quick, elegant, streamlined.

Prompt: NaPoWriMo (write a poem using the index of a book). Imaginary Garden with Real Toads had a free day.

The gases rose before I could stop them
or even notice, and then I forgot where I was
or what glorious fatherland I was serving
or what my name was, or anything.
For some reason, I thought of pebbles
in the creek when I was a girl, how I
picked them up, tasted them, slid them
under my tongue and ran, with never
the faintest idea that I could choke.

Prompt: Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (a Soviet sci-fi poster).

I could tell you more tales of the city, how I once
had Roman fever and other stories. I wish I were
an animal that was unaware of its powers, or
its presence in the Old Farmer’s Almanac 2015
as a predictor of weather, now long past, though
word seek puzzles from March 2015 still persist,
riding their two different banana-seat bikes
heedlessly, headlong into the tempest.

Prompts: NaPoWriMo (a book spine poem using titles from your shelf), Poetic Asides (an emotion as the title of your poem), and Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (incorporate titles from three of your past poems).

Every morning, I wake up filled with dread,
secure in the knowledge that my teeth
are going to fall out, my jawbones eroding,
dementia sliding into my head, my heart,
because I hide from needles, from expense,
from the shame of If only you came to see me
six months ago, a year, or five, or even ten.
I wish I were an animal that was unaware
of death and decay, decline and its prevention
or, at least, delay. There are no dentists for
river otters, say — I would tuck my head,
paddle in the shale, and no one would say
I should have known better; if only I had.

Prompts: NaPoWriMo (a line that you’re afraid to write — or in my poem’s case, those first four lines), Poetic Asides (hiding out), and Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (the natural world).

While I was busy with other things
for 18 years or 21 or 36,
my mother was steadily bending

like the stem of a tulip

toward whatever source of light
she could find
and still remain in her vase.

Prompts: NaPoWriMo (a flower), Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (women, women’s rights, women’s freedom), and Poetic Asides (a doodle — if you’re curious, ask me in the comments and I’ll tell you how I think this qualifies).

I wish I could tell you a thing about cities,
how red taillights are like beads on a string
or each square in the sidewalk is like a charm
or a link binding neighbor to neighbor.
I wish I could give you the excitement of cities,
a defense against green lawns and isolation,
a song of new urbanism and vibrant community.
But I’m tired, and the bracelet is tarnished.
Maybe just for today — but I can’t wish it away.

Prompts: Poetic Asides (Urban _____) and Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (a bracelet).