Wading in a Rocky Scream of Consciousness

On the occasion of going to dine

at Crys’s mom’s……refined



the wine

on time

Saw a Neanderthal in a pinafore…

Twice a year my nose gets outta joint

Th Roly Poly Poet…I get no further than that, you see, after so grand a title…

Dead Ends

You poets out there know I’m sure

how sneaky words can pose a lure

in order to make you think you’re on the brink…

But some poems are dead ends–never see

the light of joyful welcome.  Sigh,  we know it’s we who have failed them.

Other poems just don’t have it, only

lie on the dock smelling fishy,,.

They do it about once a year now–

my words. They want to play with me.

They jump in the dirt and roll…and

expect me to crawl in the mud after them–(which I do)

If I say thunder rattled the window pane

where does your mind go next?

I wrote a depressed poem called Down in the Mouth

and it was so bad I wrote “Lighten Up,”

both blessedly missing from this diatribe.


For shame, Alphonse, was my response

when he suggested a rendezvous–

just we two. I got mad, then sad

for though he was my sisater’s beau

I always thought him cute, you know?




About Nan Mykel

I used to think I would be a child prodigy, but then I got old. Formerly I had fantasies of rubbing elbows with cultural and academic leaders but that did not come to pass because I did not become a cultural or academic leader or any other kind of leader, for that matter. I am not even an "Alpha Dog," a term learned from a friend who had to become "Alpha Dog" in order to influence her own pet. (When gazes lock, she never looks away.) For years I expected to become a published author, but in passing I could not avoid the fact that I had little to contribute to the world's bulging dumpsters. I'm embarrassed to report that I also considered my primary process artistic productions powerful, rather than mildly neurotic. Which is not to say that I disrespect myself, only that I am beginning to doubt my potential for making a mark on the world. If I focus on strict self discipline I may be able to keep my garbage removed on a weekly basis, to keep the kitty box changed, the clothes cleaned, the dog watered, fed and walked, but that just catches me up to the starting mark again. When writing I physically grapple with words, wrestling them from their indifference into attempted chunks of awareness. I sit heavily on my chair; I breathe in artificially cooled air; my ear drums note the tap tap of the keyboard and the steady uninterrupted sound of the air conditioner, What is that sound? The roar of the ocean from 30 yards away...Inside, my thoughts are are balls in an electronic game machine, bouncing hither and yon from lever to lever. I am a little grim and intent until I recall a dream related by a black man in the prison where I once worked. He said that when he was a small boy, back home, he dreamed he was standing on his front porch pissing, and that he suddenly found himself pissing stars...
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