Itchy Fingers on the Keyboard

Goodbye so soon, since I believe I’m going to join the November NaNoWriMo (sp?), with a goal of writing 50,000 words during the Thanksgiving month. At least I’ll have a good excuse for not roasting turkey.


He was curled up to himself like a babe,

the remains we found  around the bend

beside the brook, as we perambulated

without a care until this old fellow

came into view.  Poor, by his looks, and

quite dead and cold.  Who did he belong to,

who had his heart?



It’s difficult to work a jigsaw puzzle

without the big picture, and we don’t

get to see that until the end.




it sits there with its three sets

of horns and a mirror,  over

the hinged seat for galoshes,

upon four curved legs, its

century-old veneer  now


When I think of the dear faces

it has reflected I grow restive.

Are traces of  grandma not

in there behind the glass, nor Larry

who died as a child?

Did it not absorb anything it

reflected, not even grandmama who

never had to brush her own hair,

nor the slave who did?



Canes are such fun to use!

You can hobble so much faster,

even use them for swatting,

while my old heart fibrillates

at your touch.

(I reckon you know I’m pulling

your good leg.  Did you guess?)



If my calico cat is a male,

he’s transgender.

Did you know?



Are there really any flat earth people left?

How about Holocaust deniers?

Or UFO deniers?


If Free Will exists, as I’m told,

I will my verse to unfold.

Right here and now I direct,

and I WILL that it be perfect.


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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1 Response to Itchy Fingers on the Keyboard

  1. These are all just wonderful Nan! The first one I thought the best but all of them are good. My cat, ginger with a white chest, usually male is a female! Nothing trans about her either I can tell you.


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