Headlines & Poetry

Paper

2011-02-27T01:30:00.000-05:00

Video of the poem posted below.

Have a beautiful day, Michelle B.

Angry tones mix with somber at Sept. 11 memorials

2010-09-11T22:42:00.000-05:00

The bodies fell from the sky.
They were not office chairs
or filing cabinets. Jesus, they were
people.

He was astounded, somewhat
obsessed. Nine years later,
still watching (and not just today).
Watching like it was live TV
unfolding right before his eyes.

“Look at that, that’s a person.”

Then a second black spot on the screen,
“there’s another one, look,
did you see it?”

Another fell,
“see that?”

A prompt after each one, and
had to have lasted five minutes
at the very least.

I choose not to look, it feels
like some kind of violation.
Instead, I watch the paper
flickering down. There’s a
woman on the street picking
pieces up. She lifts them close
to her face, squints her eyes to read.

I think
I would have done that too.

Michelle M. Buchanan 09/11/2010

US May Unleash Microwave Weapon in Afghanistan

2010-06-17T22:15:00.002-05:00

Appliances Are Dangerous

When I was five I had a black kitten. I'll say her
name was Fluffy for the sake of this story. Fluffy
was better than any doll could dream. She was warm,
knew me as mother, and curled up on my chest like a
mink stole. We needed each other. We had each other.
Pretend real family in our own tiny, timeless universe.

One day I put Fluffy in the dryer for a nap, as I did
every afternoon. I suppose I had to take a break
from the demanding task of being a mother, or grab
a snack, and an episode of The Magic Garden.

The door opened and wet clothes were shoved in.
Fluffy bounced and knocked in the hot, steel barrel.
Spin, spin, spinning.
When the load was dry she rolled out,
a lifeless ball of hair tangled into socks and towels.

Our universe dissipated. Dispersed in the humidity of
laundry room air.

Michelle M. Buchanan 06/18/10

Iran: UNSC sanctions history on repeat

2010-06-10T09:20:00.001-05:00

Reoccurring Themes

Dear God,

I'm sorry. I promise I won't do
[this], and [that] again if you

help me just one more time.

Honey, we need milk and bread.

We regret to inform you that we
are unable to accept your

submission at this time.

[insert name here] was caught
on video tape [insert act here].

BREAKING NEWS: America's dependence

on oil causes [chose one or more: war/devastation

on the environment/fuel prices to skyrocket/a
new billionaire].

We have the Democrats
[interchangeable with Republicans]

to thank for that mess.

Lindsey Lohan [insert anything here].

Obama fails to

[insert ridiculous expectation here].

Husband/man suspected of murdering
wife/woman. Body not found. He

says, "I'm innocent."

[product/medication/food] recalled
because [hundreds/thousands] of people
[become sick/develop facial tic/die].

The end of times is here!

Michelle Buchanan 06/10/2010

BP Cuts Pipe

2010-06-03T12:33:00.002-05:00

The Choke

Soft rain,
rainbow swirl, rain-blow.
A day much like fall, but not
fall. It’s the opposite season.

A Luna moth is grounded
on my deck. Oceans
collect on warped boards.
Wings, grass and trees
make minuscule jerks as
slow drips break
the silence.

He’s drowning beneath the green
tent. This death will take longer
than the clouds that brought it
will take to pass.

It all looks clean now. It looks
clean.

Michelle Buchanan 06/03/2010

Winter Storms Spread Across Nation

2008-12-16T11:08:00.003-05:00

Winter Advisory

Dogs huddle near fire--
warm commas,
pausing in and out
of sleepy day.

Twitching feet
run miles along
black and white
drifting dreams.

Michelle M. Buchanan 12/16/2008

The Night Before Election, 2008

2008-11-03T19:51:00.004-05:00

There is a certain quietness
in small spaces. Breath bounces
off corners. Trajectory.
Lever, closing curtain
slow click. clicking
like a roller coaster
catching the chain up.

The lever opens and
closes. Starts, stops, emergency
breaks. It keeps the assembly
line moving, locks the rolling bed
into position.

Curtains hide backsides,
insides of living rooms, and
puppets before the show. The bland one,
light blue and bigger than the sea
hide the dying when they need
to be cleaned up.

Switches make decisions. On, off.
The lights, a toy, the electric
utility box.
When to stay, or let go.

Some have the audacity to hang
on to life, like a loose thread on the
underarm of freshly pressed shirt.
Gasping for air, a
flipped fish from the tank.
While we watch.

Every now and then
the curtain sways, air of
strangers walking by.
Keep one hand on the lever,
feel the switches with the other,
let ridges and smooth surfaces
burn fingertips

as your breath
bounces off the corners of
small spaces.

Michelle M. Buchanan November 4, 2008

Invasion

2008-04-21T19:33:00.004-05:00

Clay Sculptures
April 08

OCHO #15 Guest Edited by Francisco Aragon

2008-03-03T23:05:00.008-05:00

Compliments of Mipoesias magazine, I received OCHO #15, guest edited by Francisco Aragon in the mail today. I knew I’d be out and about driving my daughter around this evening so I made a date with myself (hot) and stuck the book in my bag for later. I dropped her off at 7 and , with 2 hours to kill, decided the coffee shop would be my romantic getaway with my copy of OCHO tonight. I’m sitting here at the table getting annoyed at the girl with the cackling laugh in the adjoining room and the waitress who thinks it’s okay to run the little vacuum while customers are in the room (no doubt she has a REAL date and wants to get done early), and did I mention the baby that is meowing?

But as I start to read the book it all seems to dissipate into the air. The background noises, dishes clanging, people talking...it all disappears as I delve deeper into the works of some really good poets.

Some have names I've never heard of. Like Xochiquetzal Candelaria, whose outstanding poem Esta Palabra blew me away. She writes:

At night, the pepper sweet oil
Triggering sweat glands filling

Thousands of tiny tubs in the hollows
Of my neck, how the wave of its one

Brown syllable grows like debt
Spans weeks, then years

Before it breaks
& slides back to blue.

I looked through the window of the café at the snow on the ground outside. The bench that just months ago was covered with leaves, and months before that held a place for young couples sitting in the warm sun. Then I turned back to the book, as if looking into another window. A window quite the contrast from what’s outside right now. One full of color and warmth. Full human struggle, love, relationships.

Then there's Octavio R. Gonzalez, who I have heard of. He's actually a friend on Facebook that I don't really know and haven't read before. After reading his poem Blacksister I definitely know I'll be searching for more of his work. He starts the poem with a quote from Sylvia Plath then he writes:

The dark funnel,
time, sucks away

your face, blacksister.
Silhouetted, telephoned, she

suffers my bellow
with calm, psychological

palms upraised to God;
erects a place of family,

encircling her
sums and son;

blacksister I
am crying ever some.

It was poems like this that were strung throughout the entire issue, that kept me reading. Kept me peeking though these windows into private lives. Like a voyeur hiding in the bushes I couldn't stop quietly watching and waiting for the next scenario. Francisco Aragon did a fabulous job choosing the poems and poets for this issue.

And, as if time and space eluded me I find myself back home sitting in my studio posting a blog. When I finish this I'm going to read it again. It was that good.

OCHO #12

2007-09-15T21:09:00.000-05:00

Disclaimer: This isn't a review.
I'm not trying tosell you a clapping activated
light fixture. The voices in my head are not
telling me to do this.

I just finished OCHO #12, guest edited by
Grace Cavalieri and, well, uh, wow.
This book was good enough to get me out of that
dark corner I've been hiding in and back over to
my computer to to send fifteen requests for
passwords that I have long forgotten just so I
could get back here and write about it. It was
good enough to make me say
"Shit, I need to go and write poetry, too."

I don't order books online very often. Maybe it
was the fact that Grace C. was the guest editor,
I've long been huge fan of her podcasts and her
work. Or maybe it was the cover art, which
reminded me of my favorite pop icon,
Madonna (with a twist of Warhol). It's true,
I'm just shallow enough to buy a book for
the cover. Whatever the reason, I'm glad I did.
It's going to stick to my ribs for a long time.

In the introduction Grace writes:
"...Ocho #12 presents poets who create
complexities of culture, made revelatory.
What is a poem but individual revelation?
Here are self made dreams.They open us up
-- dispelling the idea that we make art
because life is not enough."

I'll be perfectly honest when I say I only
recognized the names of two poets, Billy
Collins & Ted Kooser when I first saw the issue.
I know both by name but have never
read large quantities of their work. But,
it was mostly the poets whom I've never read
that really made this book fly for me.

There are poems that will push you in the
chest. There are clever moments that will
make you stop reading long enough to think
a new way. There are poems that will make
you cry. There are poems that will make you
wish you wrote them.

I loved this issue of OCHO.
Congratulations Grace Cavalieri,
job well done.

One on One with Michelle Buchanan

2007-05-30T07:21:00.001-05:00

Looks like I need to update my blogs & links. In the meantime, take
a listen to the new show.

Please join me at Rodeo Bill's Cowboy Saloon where I meet up with
Edward Nudelman for some great poetry & fun. You don't want to
miss it! Also, special musical guest, the very talented Rachel Proctor.

Thanks everyone.

NEW ONE ON ONE WITH SPECIAL GUEST EDWARD NUDELMAN

To learn more about my special guest, go on over to Facebook and
look up Edward.

Visit the fantastic musical talent of Rachel Proctor at
Myspace: rachel proctor

One on One Show

2007-04-15T18:18:00.000-05:00

Please join me at the park where I am meeting my special guest,

Didi Menendez for the new episode of One on One. Also, musical guest

John Amen.Thanks everyone!

http://media.libsyn.com/media/miporadio/

OneOnOne_didimenendezFULLSHOW.mp3

On itunes:
Listen on my itunes channel here:

http://www.miporadio.net/MICHELLE_BUCHANAN/

Rock The Blogs

2007-04-11T06:28:00.000-05:00

Michael Parker sent me an email this morning
reminding me to nominate my favorite blogger
for Poet Laureate Of The Blogosphere 2007

Go ahead, you know you want to. You can even
nominate yourself. Here's my campaign:

John Korn Rocks The House

2007-03-19T08:29:00.000-05:00

Special guest John Korn

Listen on my itunes channel here:
http://www.miporadio.net/MICHELLE_BUCHANAN/

OR on Odeo:
http://odeo.com/audio/10027303/view

Thanks & enjoy

Michelle

The Cafe Cafe One On One Show

2007-01-21T08:14:00.000-05:00

The Goodnight Show went to bed, for good. I'm
very proud and honored to have featured the
work of so many great poets.

Now I introduce you to Cafe Cafe's One On One.

Same shenanigans, new format. This time I
feature one poet each show with a selection
of their work and some fun, of course.

The first show was a blast. Have a listen
to the work of Diego Quiros, I think
you'll enjoy it.

ON ODEO

On itunes

A special thanks to Diego for coming on.
I'd also like to thank Didi Menendez for
giving me the opportunity to be involved
in the MiPO community.

And a huge thank you to everyone that
listens in.

MiPOesias-The Asian-American Issue 2007

2007-01-15T09:21:00.000-05:00

The Asian-American Issue
Guest Edited by
Nick Carbo

The new issue of MiPOesias is out. It's
fantastic. First I want to mention the
design. The cover is outstanding and the
colors are vibrant and full of life. I
think it compliments the issue perfectly
because the same can be said about the
poetry. Vibrant and full of life.

I hesitate to mention favorites because
the entire issue front to back ROCKED.
But some highlights for me were:

Neil Aitken - All The Names Of Children And
Homes We May Never Know

Michelle Bautista - 15 Days Of Seeking A Filipina

Victoria Chang - Anonymous self portrait on "the lot"

Lee Herrick - Truths

Joseph O. Legaspi - Little Blackbird

Fu-Chung Wong - You Will Never Understand

Ed Bok Lee - String Theory

I have been googling Ed Bok Lee for days trying to find
more of his work online.

Take the time to read this issue, you won't be
disappointed.

About Me

2007-01-01T12:28:00.001-05:00

I like art, a lot.

Vietnam Traveling Wall

2006-08-26T21:25:00.000-05:00

Dead Man Flags or
Mourning The Loss Of Babyhood

This morning I woke up to coffee
and you, a shirt-tugging three today.
We sat on the couch eating different
breakfasts, thinking apart. Wasn't it
just yesterday I held you horizontal,
soft head in the bend of my arm? And
last week when I went to reach for a
glass, you asked about the boo-boo's
that I explained were there from when
you grew inside my tummy.
-Way out to here I showed with a
rounded hand as you ran your fingers
up the shiny marks.

Will they get better? you asked.

Somewhere between Chuckie Cheese and
birthday cake we ended up in a field
of 10,000 dead man flags. You ran
faster than we could walk, pulling
us into your wonder.

Bit lip of country, my secrets,
right here. Mourning the loss
of your babyhood, the fading of
needs. Comprehension.

Of men who in generations from
now may not have anyone that
cares enough to
carry their names on a wall
from state to state.

I can't explain why I brought
you here today or what this
even is. Maybe never.

The meaning of life, death
and anything worth giving
a shit about is coming,

in the breath
of your mouth
to flame of the candles.

Michelle M. Buchanan August 26, 2006

Eldridge Park
Vietnam Memorial
August 26, 2006

About time.....

2006-07-31T00:32:00.000-05:00

A New GOODNIGHT SHOW
is up.

It's been over 2 months
since my last show.
Finally, I had the chance
to do a new one.
I just don't have a lot
of time to work on
them right now,
as much fun as it is.
BUT Didi's keeping it
going with luc, Julie
and Bob M. - so please
keep listening in.

Bloggers As Babies

2006-07-30T10:50:00.000-05:00

From my Bloggers As Babies
Series

"Didi Menendez"
Oil On Canvas

Eggs

2006-07-27T12:19:00.000-05:00

Would you like a poem
with your eggs?

I asked
my daughter.

The bacon is crispy,
watch the pan.

How about creamy yokes
to dip, or
scrambled? Poached
and peppered?

Fried on french bread
with cheese?

Would you like a poem
with your eggs?

I asked
my daughter as
she scraped her fork
in patterned sound,
staring at herself on
the plate.

I'll light a candle
to check for blood
spots while
you decide.

Michelle M. Buchanan July 27, 2006

Operation Poem

2006-06-28T21:34:00.000-05:00

Three years ago when Nick
Berg was beheaded, I watched
it. I don't know why. To this
day I feel horribly guilty
for violating him that way.

Oddly, I also feel close to
him. Connected to him.

This leads me to Operation
Poem. The idea is that
we will write one poem
for every serviceman or woman
that has lost their life
in the war in Iraq. Yes,
I said "we" and "write", that
means hopefully you and every
poet on the planet you know will
write a new poem.

Please, if you feel you can
do this email me your poem.

Please remember this is a
poem to honor a life. To
remember. It doesn't have
to be about anything, but
keep in mind a persons
family could eventually
read it someday.

Video 'shows US man beheaded'

2006-06-27T22:25:00.000-05:00

Nick

I saw you, last night
in a dream. Holding
a clipboard and wagging
your pen at me.

Back and forth,
a pendulum, tick
tock, tick tock.

It never stops.

I could have loved
you. I did. I do.

Michelle M. Buchanan June 27, 2006

The Goodnight Show

2006-06-24T21:40:00.000-05:00

A new show is up. It's full
of fantastic poetry AND a
very hip, very cool new
PJ, Bob Marcacci.

Check it out.

Facing Feminism: The Feminists I Know

2006-05-30T20:32:00.000-05:00

I was invited by Christine
to participate in
this project.

It's interesting to look
through the galleries of
submissions. I had a really
hard time thinking of
something to do.

Here is mine:

(I liked it better with no
text- it spoke for itself,
but part of the
project was a message
on the photo.)

Proud Mamma 2

2006-05-27T07:29:00.000-05:00

This is the work of
my 10 yr old son.
We did a fundraiser
in our PTO called
Original Artworks.
Each student draws
something, takes it
home with an order
form and parents can
get their childs
masterpiece on a
mouse pad, coffee cup,
t-shirt, etc.

I chose the apron. I
intended to use it
for painting but
now I'm not sure I want
to get anything on it!

Proud Mamma

2006-05-21T06:51:00.000-05:00

I'm catching up on backpacks
and blogs this morning after
a stressful week with a very
sick babe (she's doing great now).

I found this drawing in my
12 yr old daughters bag.

What can I say, I think
it's brilliant.

The End

2006-05-08T21:04:00.000-05:00

All things must come
to an end.

Yes. End.

Final, gone, dissolved.
All things, everything and
what was nothing to you
but something to her or
everything to him.

This poem
will come to end. He
will, she will, they will.
It will.

End. Yes.

The sentence ends. This
thought, this breath.

All that will be left
is a memory, maybe.
Possibly. Or it may
dissappear.

Completely and forever. End.

His eyes are different. They
look at me through wet rubber.
Rubber is an unusal word. I like
it, but that will end by tomorrow.
His chest is not like rubber at
all. It's full and hard, things
feel cold and different.

This will end, that will end
it will all end. This moment
has already ended.

And ended again.

I end and I end and I end.

I. End. Again.

I can stop at anytime, end.
But I'd rather tell you
a story about this one
time I

Michelle M. Buchanan May 8, 2006

Ghosts

2006-04-22T22:53:00.000-05:00

Death: Another Day

I lost my father to cancer
when I was 19, well I didn't
lose him, he passed away. He
didn't really pass away, he
died. He didn't really die,
he was murdered in a vicious,

slow-torturing,
painful manner.

It wasn't really a
manner, it was a process.
No, not a process,
a plan, a 2 year
plan. But more like
a plan roughly drafted.
In pencil.

With red slashes,
scribbles. Torn
pages.

I drew a picture of
him in the plan, but
ripped it out

you can see it
though, indented
on the next page.

Michelle M. Buchanan April 23, 2006

because of Eileen Tabios's The Chatelaine's Poetics
who reminded me

$853,492 Powerball Ticket Expires USA Today

2006-04-18T22:28:00.000-05:00

On My Way Home

For a split second

or maybe minute

I couldn't remember

where

I was going

or coming

from

there was just

a rectangle,

an upside-down

triangle

and the knuckles

of a stranger

with no direction.

Michelle M. Buchanan April 18, 2006

The Goodnight Show

2006-04-15T07:43:00.000-05:00

The new show is up!
Thanks to all the
contributors.

Please tune in.
Keep posting great
poetry on your blog
and be ready to record
your poem!

THE GOODNIGHT SHOW

2006-04-06T21:25:00.000-05:00

The new show is up. Some great
poetry this week. Thanks
everyone for the support &
I hope you're enjoying the
podcasts.

Didi does a fantastic job.
I'm getting a little more
comfortable recording, so
keep listening they'll
get better!

Hook, Line & Sinker

2006-04-03T18:43:00.000-05:00

I have a new email address!

You can now email me at: sengchengbanker101@yahoo.com

Dear friend,

I am Mr. Chu Sengchen , Branch Manager. I have urgent and very confidential business proposition for you.

On November 6, 1999, a British Oil consultant/contractor with the Chinese Solid Minerals Corporation, Made a numbered time (Fixed) Deposit for twelve calendar months, valued at US$30,000,000.00 (Thirty Million Dollars) in my branch. Upon maturity, I sent a routine notification to his forwarding address but got no reply.

After a month, we sent a reminder and finally we discovered from his contract employers, the Chinese Solid Minerals Corporation that he died from an automobile accident. On further investigation, I found out that he died without making a WILL, and all attempts to trace his next of kin was fruitless.

I therefore made further investigation and discovered that he did not declare any kin or relations in all his official documents, including his Bank Deposit paperwork in my Bank. This sum of US$30,000,000.00 is still sitting in my Bank and the interest is being rolled over with the principal sum at the end of each year.

No one will ever come forward to claim it. According to Laws of Republic of China, at the expiration of 6 (six) years, the money will revert to the ownership of the Chinese Government if nobody applies to claim the fund.

Consequently, my proposal is that I will like you as a foreigner to stand in as the next of kin to the man so that the fruits of this old man's labor will not get into the hands of some corrupt government officials. This is simple, I will like you to provide immediately your full names and address so that the attorney will prepare the necessary documents and affidavits that will put you in place as the next of kin.

We shall employ the services of an attorney for drafting and authorization of the WILL and to obtain the necessary documents and letter of probate/administration in your favor for the transfer. A bank account in any part of the world that you will provide will then facilitate the transfer of this money to you as the beneficiary/next of kin. The money will be paid into your account for us to share in the ratio of 80% for me and 20% for you.

There is no risk at all as all the paperwork for this transaction will be done by the attorney and my position as the Branch Manager guarantees the successful execution of this transaction. If you are interested, please reply immediately via the private email address above.

Upon your response, I shall then provide you with more details and relevant documents that will help you understand the transaction. Please send me your confidential telephone and fax numbers for easy communication.

Please observe utmost confidentiality, and rest assured that this transaction would be most profitable for both of us because I shall require your assistance to invest my share in your country.

Thanks and regards.

Mr. Chu Sengchen

- chu sengcheng

My response:

Dear Mr. Sengchen,

I cannot believe this, a dream come true!
I am in the middle of moves right now,
so please email me what I need to do.

Oh my, I wished something great like this
would happen, and it came true.

I will do good things with this money.
Poets will be rich, artists will benefit,
sick people will get healthcare, poor
people will eat. You'll see.

Truly,

Michelle

Lucille

2006-04-01T10:20:00.000-05:00

My shirt is tight,
too tight for a warm
day in March,
in NY.

Lucille's entire life was
layed out in rooms
everything priced with
white tape.

People waited in
line to rape her
possessions, grab
what they could.

They found her paintings
in the attic a month before
and galleried them out in
the basement. How could
she have been unknown?

I don't know.

I ran my finger along
the edges of tables
jewelry boxes and
old books.

Somewhere in that house
she was looking through
a hole drilled in the wall,
just an eye shifting back
and forth.

I could hear her laughing
at my shirt. I know I've
outgrown it, Lucille.
I know.

I took a silver necklace,
a bird in flight. For me.
To remember someone I never
knew.

The rest is for sale,
including this shirt.

Michelle M. Buchanan April 1, 2006

The Goodnight Show

2006-03-30T21:21:00.000-05:00

It's up. Check it out if
you get a chance. I am
trying to download it so
I can listen to the show all
together w/ the music and
the recordings but if anyone
besides me still lives on
earth with a dial up
connection you know how
long it's going to take!

I had so much fun
recording this, really
looking forward to doing
more.

I'm still awestruck at
the poetry I'm finding
while doing this.

You guys ROCK.

THE GOODNIGHT SHOW

2006-03-25T11:08:00.000-05:00

Yes!

Abu Ghraib Dog Handler Sentenced -AP

2006-03-22T20:39:00.000-05:00

Amada tinue al jamit rah

Understand? No, you cannot
understand.

It's that small ball of air
trapped in a bubble laced
thick in dripping saliva

that falls from the
canines of canines,
men and monsters.
It lives only moments, is born
in places unspeakable
where blood rains,
flesh flies like volcanic ash
only to die in a dry-crack slide
from tips of shoes,
under the soles of the
unthinkable.

You cannot grasp it,
don't say another word.

Even the mouth it
falls from will
never understand.

Michelle M. Buchanan March 22, 2006

China drops case against Times man - CNN

2006-03-17T15:00:00.000-05:00

The life of a writer

is extraordinarily
complex, so much so
it can barely be
articulated with words
or understood

unless for a writer.

Michelle M. Buchanan March 17, 2006

Lawyer Thrust Into Spotlight After Misstep in Terror Case - NY Times

2006-03-15T13:03:00.000-05:00

Sidewalks

Concrete, asphalt
slate, crumled stone.

Under ball bearings,
three plastic wheels, two rubber tires
eight rolling circles

thunk     ennnnnnnnnnmm
thunk     ennnnnnnnnnmm
thunk     ennnnnnnnnnmm

bare feet jump
hot pavement,
smooth slate
slants broken in half
stub toes, skin knees.

Dirty, rough
free, happy
hopscotch.

Once even belly down
warm chin
and licked it

maybe twice.

You can't do
that with grass.

Michelle M. Buchanan March 15, 2006

The Sopranos & Polygamy

2006-03-12T23:23:00.000-05:00

Yes, finally! The season premiere
of Sopranos was on tonight. HBO
made me wait forever. It was a
great opening episode and I have
to say, worth the wait. Curiously,
a new premiere of a show called
"Big Love". It's about a man with
three wives. Why I say curiously,
is that a week or so ago I saw
a news article about polygamy
which sparked an interest to
research it more. No, please don't
email me to be your 10th wife,
I'm already happily married and not
interested in that way. I'm
not knocking it (to each his/her
own). It just interests me, in a
fascinating way.

I can see the benefits as a family.
I can see the benefits for a man
definitely. But women on average
are emotional beings (physical being
secondary) where men tend to be more
physical beings (emotional secondary).
Not trying to stereotype here, but
I believe that's true. 7 women
could satisfy a man, but can one
man satisfy 7 women? Emotionally
I am talking.

Luke

Martha gets your hand today,
Betty the other,

Sara has your feet and
Lisa needs your knees,

Deidra wants your cheeks,
a warm chest

Carol will take your
belly and tuck you in

And I, I just want
one ear.

Michelle M. Buchanan March 12, 2006

Cheers to HBO for their original
programming. I think they have
the best writers on the planet.
Six Feet Under, Deadwood, Carnivale,
The Sopranos, Taxicab Confessions,
Autopsy, America Undercover.

The list goes on.

"23 Bodies Discovered in Baghdad"

2006-03-08T10:14:00.000-05:00

Bodies

When a life becomes
a body it's just
a picture, the news.

I didn't ask for that,
mister. You flip them
out like playing cards
flat, stiff, like it's
n o t h i n g.

and just when did all
this happen? In my
lifetime, I know.
It wasn't that long
ago I saw a video
of a young man being
beheaded. I didn't
mean to look. The slow
brutal cutting changed
my wiring forever.

My son, he watched
the bodies
of Katrina never blinking
they were trees

and they are trees
to your son and your son
and your son

and your son too.

Michelle M. Buchanan March 8, 2006

Linh Dinh On My Ipod

2006-03-05T01:03:00.000-05:00

Linh Dinh
lin lin
din din

it must be a sin
to roll words out
like that, man

the way you
say burning

burning burning

burningh

linh, it spins
right through me
sinks into the thin
skin of my eardrums

dinh

I wish I could
just hold that
warm silver bullet
you carry in your
pocket, catch it in mid
air when it comes
from the base of your
throat, over your tongue
to my ear

cup it in my hand-

but I can only
keep hitting the
double arrowed
repeat button.

Michelle M. Buchanan March 4, 2006

Random

2006-02-28T11:55:00.000-05:00

1872 Victoria Woodhull
became (the first woman
and last since) a candidate for
President of the United States.

132 years ago

1789 Our first President,
George Washington
was sworn into office.

217 years ago

217 years

When my daughter was in
third grade she came
home with a book shaped
like a fan, on each slat
a president.

She said "Mom, there's
no girls here"

"I know, but I promise
there will be a girl
president in your lifetime,
even you, if you want that"

We spent the afternoon with
a permanent marker making
our own history
as every other man
was scribbled into a woman.

John became Jo Adams
James into Jessica Madison
Theodore, Leonore Roosevelt

We put on hats, sat in the lawn
drinking sweet tea from
dainty china cups with blue
flowers and gold trim

talked in pretend southern accents
about all the ways we
were going to change the world

and took turns
fanning our faces with the
book.

Michelle M Buchanan February 28, 2006

Once Upon A Time

2006-02-21T14:04:00.000-05:00

Once upon a time there was

a blonde haired / blue eyed
brown haired / brown eyed
red haired / brown eyed
silver haired / green eyed

young girl
middle aged woman
older lady
elderly woman

who traveled the countryside
the city
the suburbs
rural routes

looking for the perfect
ham sandwich.

For years she searched until
one day she stumbled across
this cute little deli on the
northside of town.

The ham was real, not processed
not sliced too thick, or thin.
Bread from a french loaf, freshly
baked that morning, and the most
delicious spicy mustard she had
ever tasted. Golden heaven. It was
the perfect ham sandwich.

She sat in window seat slowly
eating her perfect sandwich, licking
her fingers between bites. She took her
time eating, watching people walk by,
cars zoom down the street and birds come
and go from the tree in front of the
window. What a beautiful day, she thought
as she dabbed the crumbs with her
fingers to get every last morsel,
not caring what anyone might think.

She carefully folded her papers up
in her napkin, threw it away and
walked out of the deli, down the
street, whistling
never to return again.

Michelle M Buchanan February 21, 2006

Rufus Wins Best In Show

2006-02-15T23:12:00.000-05:00

Well he's cute as can be.
But, is it just me, or does
he look like he was
bred by Pixar Animation
Studios?

Hearts, Flowers, Candy . . . & All That Gushy Sweet Stuff

2006-02-14T08:00:00.000-05:00

My Heart

does not
break ache crush
skip beats when you come
within so many feet of me.

does not
know think feel
long, become sad
or sing. It has no brain
of its own.

My heart is not empty,
or full

my hard, hardy heart

it pumps blood

sustains my skin, warm
so your lips

can keep me alive.

Michelle M. Buchanan Feb 14, 2006

Click The Magic Green Button

2006-02-11T09:39:00.000-05:00

MiPOesias Magazine All Ladies Issue

I'm more than honored to be a part
of this issue. I am simply stunned
to have my writing mingling with
writers (I admire) like:

DENISE DUHAMEL, BIRDIE JAWORSKI
LORNA DEE CERVANTES, MAXINE CHERNOFF
SAWAKO NAKAYASU, PRIS CAMPBELL
JENNY BOULLY, AMY KING, KARI EDWARDS
LYN LIFSHIN, GRACE CAVALIERI
LAUREL K. DODGE, BECCA KLAVER
LAUREL SNYDER, JILL CHAN
BARBRA NIGHTINGALE, SHEILA MURPHY
EILEEN TABIOS, EVIE SHOCKLEY
HAYA POMRENZE, APRIL LINDNER
ADRIENNE SU, STEPHANIE WOOLLEY-LARREA
JULIA COHEN, REB LIVINGSTON
ANNMARIE ELDON, AMY GERSTLER
RITA MARIA MARTINEZ

Columns by: MICHAEL PARKER,
DAVID NEED, STACY HARWOOD

Interviews by: JENNI RUSSELL,
MARCUS SLEASE

Check it out!

"Tough U.S. Steps in Hunger Strike at Camp in Cuba"

2006-02-09T22:07:00.000-05:00

What morbid fear could
could stiffen you so,
hands pressed hard
heads to chests. You
spit, you kick, you
throw, you refute her
for yourself, as equal.

Alice the brave,
the strong. You
starve, starved

full trays
of dignity
empty mouth
chose to speak
not eat

contracting
you contract

and even tied
to chair, tube
thrust to gut
stanch

expanding
we expand

Michelle M. Buchanan Feb 9, 2006

Alice Paul

itunes

2006-02-06T20:18:00.000-05:00

My new itunes address for MiPOradio is
HERE. I have two poems there, am
working on recording more right now.

Thanks to Didi Menendez, who puts so
much work, time and effort to creating brilliant
publications to showcase poets and artists from all
over. Something you may or may not know about her -
she's a GREAT poet and artist. She recently recorded
one of my favorite poems of hers Listen to it here.

The lobsters

2006-02-05T15:33:00.000-05:00

The Lobsters

Every week at the grocery store
we hang out near the fish tank
that holds the lobsters. I can't
think of what's over there or
the reason why we end up in that
corner of the store. It's not
intentional though.

One time we were standing there
my son spotted the tank and said

"oh look at those mom, why are
they in there?"

I said "people eat them"

"Ewwww that's gross" he said.
"awwwww" my daughter added.

"you want to know what's really
gross? You get a big pot, fill
it with water and let it come
to a boil. You take the rubber
bands off their claws, try not
to look at those beady black
eyes staring at you and throw
them in the pot. While they're
still alive and the water is
boiling. They scream, you
can hear them scream while
they boil to death. Imagine
that, boiling to death."

They just looked at me like
I was telling lies.

I could have been a good mom
and told them they were there
for decoration. Instead I
added

"you don't even want to know
about the cows"

They were quiet the rest of
the way through the store.

Michelle M. Buchanan February 5, 2006

Fat

2006-01-31T20:57:00.000-05:00

My daughter is fat.
She is fat,
her thighs are big,
her stomach, her face,
her fingers.
She is FAT.
She wears baby phat
sneakers encrusted
with diamonds.
His wallet is fat.
The cat is fat.
The bacon is full of fat.

My daughter says
I am fat,
I am fat,
fat, fat, fat.
I am fat.
I am fat.

The mirror is bowed
can't you see?

Do not believe a thing
you hear, or half of
what you see, see?

No. No.
I AM fat.

I'm ready to shove
a ham down Kate Moss,
fill Jessica Simpson's
mouth with mashed
potatoes until her cheeks
bloat out like a chipmunks,
ask abortion clinic
bombers to save the real
children and hit the
plastic surgeons instead.

I'm ready to eat five
pizzas a day for the
rest of my life until
my ass grows over
chairs and hangs to
the floor so I can stand
next to her and make
her feel real.

Feel skinny-whole.
Whole, skinny.

I'm ready to call
ghostbusters and ask
them what the fuck is
going on. Tell them I'm
seeing things behind gloss
and screens. 911 them over
here to see the giant
twinkie in the sky
threatening to crush us all,
and they can explode it
into millions and millions
of little fat
beautiful, sparkling
baby twinkies

so we can all

just
eat.

Michelle M. Buchanan January 31, 2006

;

2006-01-30T12:16:00.000-05:00

I repeatedly typed a comma,
yet a semicolon appeared
instead

like when I write god
and the word processing
gods decide
it should be God and
that I need to capitalize
the beginning of every
line

I backspace, highlight
delete, type again until
it sticks. The know-it-all
spell check will just
remind me later of my lack
in skill

but this semicolon won't
go away and I lose
my train of thought
forget what I was writing

stare at the monitor for a
few minutes and see

that's no semicolon at all
it's half comma, half
a speck of yesterdays breakfast
stuck to the screen.

Michelle M Buchanan January 30, 2006

Nobody Ever Wants To Get On Vietnam

2006-01-30T10:53:00.000-05:00

For Jim C., the only man
I've met who could talk about it

One time I worked for this guy
and he took me out to lunch
on secretaries day.

Anyway, somehow we got
on vietnam. I always get
on vietnam. Nobody ever
wants to get on vietnam.

Suddenly my butternut squash
soup turned to mud. The parsley
on my plate grew into jungle bush
and I wanted to put my bare feet
in the bowl of rice. The clanking
from the kitchen wasn't dishes,
it was gunfire. I was sure some
little kid was hiding under our
table with a grenade. All I could
do was sit there quietly hiding
behind the loaf of bread that now
was a fallen tree trunk, and drink my
iced water from a wine glass and try
not to piss my pants.

The whole place rumbled like an
earthquake -and it was over.

I quickly brushed the little
creamer cups, dirty napkins
and butter wrappers into a
pile and got the waitress
to take them away.

I wasn't taking the chance
that those people waiting
in line for a table would
pelt me on our way out
and stain my pretty new blouse.

Michelle M. Buchanan January 30, 2006

I know a lot of what I've been putting
out here lately is very prosy, maybe
not even prose, just thoughts.

He said.

2006-01-27T21:35:00.000-05:00

You never it give it
much thought. Until that
minute arrives and it just
hits you as if driving your
car into a sudden fog or
when you get a call to turn
the tv on. So you do, and you
see planes hitting buildings
and surreal things that make
you turn to other channels to
make sure it's real. You'd like
to say "I knew that was going
to happen" but you can't
honestly claim that.

He said "It's got to go"
like it was some stray
dog you let in when your
parents were still at work.
Feeding it bologna and wishing
so hard to keep him forever.

And he cried. They left the
room to cry out there.

He said "it's got to go"
like it was a child, a son dying of
cancer and the doctor's had tried
to save him but couldn't and now
was the day he had to let hope go.

And I said "I can come tomorrow
with my camera if you want me
to" like it was a soul, a
piece of the man that is so
much more than bone and flesh
and missing toes.

Michelle M. Buchanan January 27, 2006

2006-01-26T13:49:00.000-05:00

Mentoring From A
Two Year Old Poet

Page 1: When encountering
someone (stubborn) engaged in
a fit of half-breath crying,
who has the sheer will to carry
on for 45 minutes, proceed with
the utmost of caution. Be
patient, never give up. Know
that the breaking point is
most likely 46. Never use
metaphors, they will do you
no good at all. However,
changing words to well-known
lyrics and singing them is
recommended. Examples to
follow:

Hush little baby, don't you
fart, mamma's gonna buy you
a big ole shopping cart.

Baa baa black sheep, have you
any turds, yes sir, yes sir
three bags full. One for the
diaper, one for the pal,
one for the pretty potty
down on the floor.

Making noises is suggested.

Never, ever get the attitude
that you are to mature for this.

Page 1: (continued) When it
is over and you claim your
victory with hugs & forgiveness
and your opponent shouts with
excitement I HAD A BATH!
Understand that you really can
bathe in your own tears.

Page 5: If the coffee pot
is brewing and your mentor says
"What's that, Salem?
I hear the keycat" you will
learn a new sound association,
possibly a new phrase to use
in your next poem:

The coffee pot purred.....

Page 8: The order of numbers in
any given situation isn't important,
unless you're counting M & M's.

Michelle M. Buchanan January 26, 2006

Tom Beckett and his zombies

2006-01-25T18:41:00.000-05:00

Tom Beckett's
Little Book Of Zombies
will be HERE til
January 30th.

It's oh so
fab-you-lo-so!

So go read it
already.

"Nominee Gets Nod From Senate Panel"

2006-01-24T22:59:00.000-05:00

Square Dancing Supreme Court Style

clap, clap, clap
come on now, clap those hands!

Grab yer pardner!
Dosado!

Swing to the right
Oh!
swing to the left

Slip the clutch
Now box the gnat
That's right!

Wheel and deal
Extend, extend
Alamo ring formation!

Chase right
Flip back
Ah so!

Shakedown
Squeeze and squeeze
Tally ho!

Circle by
Twist the line
Regroup

Now swing to the right
swing to the right!

Michelle M. Buchanan January 24, 2006

*actual square dance calls.

What's REALLY going on.....

2006-01-23T08:23:00.000-05:00

President Of Google: Listen up
everyone. If we turn those
records over everybody and
their mother will know what we
really do all day here.

Wiretapping Agent: Damn Bud,
this is boring as hell. Maybe
we'll get lucky and hear some
phone sex today.

Bush (speaking to the
Loyal Order of Water Buffaloes
Lodge No. 26.): Okay gentleman,
I told you my plan would work.
We are close to compiling the perfect
list of top 20 FREE porn sites.
Let's celebrate Texas style! Yee-haw!

Osama Bin Laden: Come on fella's,
a truce? I want in on the action.
Pretty please? With suga on top?

Tom DeLay: Porn is evil. But just
in case I change my mind, I'll have
anonymous ISP log on privilege in
federal prison. It's all good.

Michelle M Buchanan January 23, 2006

The Plums Are Brown

2006-01-22T19:15:00.000-05:00

My dad is dying

The plants are wilting

My dog is dying

The leaves are wilting

My TV is quitting

The stems are brown

My UP is quitting

The plums are brown

Michelle M. Buchanan January 22, 2006

Hospital

2006-01-22T11:23:00.000-05:00

I went to the hospital
to see you today. Third floor,
just like they said. You were
nowhere to be found. I checked
every floor, walking down hallways,
in and out of elevators -passing
pockets of smells that nearly brought
me to my knees. Passing people in
wheelchairs, floor cleaners, people in
blue, in pink and a few in white. At
each floor I was directed back to where
they originally said you were. 3-C bed 2
and get this, the tag on the door even
had your name on it. Obviously by some
nurse in a hurried mistake, and I suspect
she could be the cause of all this
confusion. When I walked in, there
were two men in the room. The man by
the window smiled at me. I think he
wanted company. I could have been a
decent person and visited with him for a
few minutes but by this time I was tired
from all that walking. I just really
wanted to see you.

The other man, in bed 2, was sleeping.
He was dreaming. I could tell because
his eyes were moving under skin
-eyebrows going up and down.

I imagine he longed for that nap, leapt
right out of that old boned body into
his young-self again as he fell into
a deep sleep. I imagine he was running
down a dirt road chasing girls named
Ann, Mary or Rita as they were
laughing and finding trees to hide
behind. He stopped to tie his shoe
then played dead to get them to
come back. He was strong and handsome
and had soft fingers. Under those shoes
he could wiggle every single toe he
was born with. He had pretty lips
like young boys do.

I imagine he didn't want to wake up.

But these men in this room, on this
floor, in this hospital were old.

I cannot
find you.

Michelle M. Buchanan January 21, 2006

"Living at an Epicenter of Diabetes, Defiance and Despair"

2006-01-22T11:19:00.000-05:00

Delinquent

You are late: with your payment/taxes/homework/
for the appointment/funeral/job interview/meeting/
waking/going to bed/responding/corresponding

You missed: the point/deadline/boat/
plane/bus/your calling/your period

You misbehave: at school/weddings/book stores/parties
bars/poetry readings/coffee shops/cemetaries/houses

You neglect: your duties/responsibilities/fish-ies/
sick people/friends/promises

You upset: your mother/daughter/god/lover
grandma/teacher/dead people/the universe

You should: get it together/get with it/turn over
a new leaf/straighten up/shape up/ship out

Fun With The Keyboard

* leave work *
! unlock door ! } forget keys {
^ pick up ^   (unload)   [reload]
# wood #    % start fire %
/ open fridge - close $ pay bills $
[      look out window      ]
O feed animals O
@ fold clothes @
/ open fridge - insert head ?
& start dinner &
: start fire again :
< love myself/hate >
+ content +  -  restless -
~  levitate  ~

Michelle M Buchanan January 21, 2006

Julain (s)

2006-01-22T10:05:00.000-05:00

Julie Carter posted a link
to me today for the Julains.
Thanks Julie!

If you haven't tried them
TRY IT, they are fun to
write. She has instructions
here on how to submit them.

Go ahead, you have nothing
to lose.

Verse Libre Quarterly

2006-01-18T22:30:00.000-05:00

The new issue of VLQ is
now available:

SEE IT HERE

It's amazing. Great art,
excellent poetry. I'm very
proud to be a part of it
and have my work featured
with such great poets.

Julain (s)

2006-01-18T18:42:00.000-05:00

Julian, Julain

Julian, Julain!
Wherefore art thou? Though.
Oh so pretty in my salad bowl.

Thallium

His wife ordered spoonfuls of thallium,
swallowed straight to chest.
I imagine. That's not real easy to digest.

Textsexual

Of all things considered, this was
not. Merely textsexual?
Surely, she concurred, it must be consensual.

Green

No matter how hard you press, blue
ink on yellow paper will not make green.
Know what I mean?

Julie Carter is doing this
contest, check it out.
I hate form, but had fun
doing these. So, they suck
I don't care, I can finally
say I conformed to something!

"New Orleans Mayor Apologizes for Remarks"

2006-01-18T13:00:00.000-05:00

Okay, I'm sorry too.

And More God Is Mad

2006-01-17T16:41:00.000-05:00

Okay, I'll shut up after
this one....

NEWS ALERT!
This just in. If you live
in Alaska please stop having
premarital sex right now.
You are causing volcanic
eruptions.

Michelle M. Buchanan January 17, 2006

"God Is Mad at America, Says New Orleans Mayor" AP

2006-01-17T11:10:00.000-05:00

God Is Mad

God is mad at the sinners

mad at the saints

mad at the abortion clinics and

the Hitler haters

God is mad at the doctors and nurses

at the dancers

at the teachers

at the druggies and the dealers

God is mad at the Maxx Factors

the Trojans, Orthos

the Bill Gates, their mothers and

the Tampaxs

God is mad at the children

sexuals, senile and sick

mentally retarded, terrorists

The UN, government, ice cream scoopers

and wall street brokers too

God is mad at everyone

yes, even you.

Michelle M Buchanan January 17, 2006

"Leave Iraq Now Cronkite Says" AP

2006-01-16T09:00:00.000-05:00

Agent Orange still runs
through jungle veins

severs toes then feet
eventually legs
-one by one

it's just getting

light

breaks through
thick vegetation,
ghosts hide in
the rain smoke

we all have the sun
in common

and the desert, like any jungle
land - fifty or a hundred years
again

can drive a man mad

New Issue Of MiPO

2006-01-06T20:08:00.000-05:00

The new issue of MiPOesias Magazine
is now online. It's absolutely
fabulous!

Congrats Michael Parker -
another excellent article and
fantastic poetry by Pris Campbell,
Lee Herrick, Lyle Daggett, John Korn,
Ron Androla, Diego Quiros and
many, many more.

CLICK HERE to check it out.

I've gotten so many rejections
lately I backed off on submitting,
then you see a publication
like this and not only is it put
together brilliantly, the content
ROCKS, and then I think oh who
cares - if I get rejected I get
rejected. It's worth the small chance
of getting in and being a part of
something like this. There are a
lot of great mags out there too.
Someday I'll post a list of my
favorites. But for now all eyes
on MiPO -check it out!

re-defining re-defining

2006-01-06T00:26:00.000-05:00

"re-defining motherhood"

2006-01-05T09:46:00.000-05:00

Jennifer Nicole Lee, Miss Bikini America

She is pretty. I'm married to a man and
even I enjoyed looking at the pictures.
But what does she have to do with
motherhood? She's being featured on
The Early Show series "Cool Moms".

So you might think I am jealous. I am
not. I am a PEAR. Besides anyone can look
like this, haven't you ever seen that
show The Swan?

Said the Pear to The Apple

"I'm going to kick your ass apple,
you're giving us pears a bad name."

to which the apple responded

"Oh pear, you're just jealous because
you're all squishy and bruised, and I'm
so red delicious, yum yum yummy. I'm hard
and shiny and wanted by all."

"well yeah....but I bet you can't tip
ME over" said the pear.

But on a more serious note....

Do we need to re-define motherhood?

I can't tell you how many times
another mother has asked me
How do you stay small like that after
three children?

When they should be asking
How do you stay sane like that
with three children? or How
do manage your time with three
children? etc.

I don't think motherhood needs to
be re-defined.

Our perception of beauty does.

My Daughter Is In Love

2006-01-01T14:48:00.000-05:00

My daughter is in love.
My daughter is in love.
My daughter is in love.

I danced with my baby girl
on New Year's Day. Her laugh
sunk into my skin deep as I dipped
her low. I saw her face
in her face and thought of
dancing a decade ago.

Her turtle shell chest,
now breasts soft and new.
Boys then men will touch
them. Fat baby cheeks gone
now hold quiet secrets.

Terrorists are hiding all
around us. This is urgent.
Do not open the door, keep
your eyes open. Insurgents
wait.

I remember life before September
11th. We danced ignorant. I
am happy being ignorant.
I want to go back as bad as
a mother wants to run back
into a burning house to
save her baby.

I want to run, run back
and dance her around
the living room
on a Tuesday afternoon.

Michelle M. Buchanan Jan 1, 2006

I am a bean

2005-12-30T10:02:00.000-05:00

I am a bean, a kidney bean
to be exact
on the kitchen floor
being kicked and spun
with ham-fisted slippers
and reckless toes
spiraling off into the
glossy wood abyss

what do I remind you of:
an unborn fetus, a boomerang
a pasty organ?

For christs sake pick me up
do something with me.
Glue me to paper and hang
me on the fridge,
string me into a necklace
with green and orange pasta wheels,
wipe me off and make chili
or throw me in the garbage-
anything

but if I have to spend another
night with my back up against
a chairleg in the company of
styrofoam balls, bread crumbs
and dog hair balled with dust

I'll split, break into
bits, stick to your heels
and drive you crazy.

Michelle M. Buchanan December 30, 2005

IQ Test

2005-12-29T10:19:00.000-05:00

1. If some Wergles are Floopers, and some
Floopers are Poets, then some Wergles are
definitely Poets. The statement is:

True False Neither

2. You are trapped in a revolving door. It will
spin 300,000 times before it lets you out. How
many turns will it take before the skin breaks
on your heels?

a.) 10
b.) around 200
c.) None of the above

3. If Billy looks into a mirror and touches his
penis with his right hand, Billy's image seems
to be writing in its journal with a pen in its left
hand.

True False

4. If the word, "FOAM," is written under the word,
"PLAY," and the word, "BEET," is written under
"FOAM," and the word TENT under the word "BEET"
- then a real "POET," is formed diagonally.

True False

5. Junie has 9 dollars. He can buy a loaf of bread,
some butter and a pack of smokes. But instead he
buys Joe Massey's chapbook "Bramble". Will Junie
eat or smoke the book when he finishes reading it?

6. The word "Brilliant" can be spelled by using the
first letters of the words in this sentence:
"Beautiful railroads in lavish liquid ignite ants
napping tamely"

True False

7. Poem is to Teapot as Word is to:

a.) Paper
b.) Kitchenaid Mixer
c.) Finger

8. The word ART spelled backwards
is TRA. The word BRA spelled
backwards is ARB. With this you
can conclude that bras can be art
and art can be made from bras.

True False I'm not sure

9. The word Chapbook
backwards spells the name
of a famous deceased
rap artist?

True False

10. Sara spent 100.00 on
entry fees for writing contests.
She entered 4 contests. How
much did she spend on each?

a.) More then she should have
b.) Too much
c.) All of her grocery money

Michelle M. Buchanan December 29, 2005

"AIDS expert has theory on vaccine's delay"

2005-12-28T08:30:00.000-05:00

Come slow, come soft.
Come fast and hard.

Black moths with velvet wings
fly clumsy in lungs.
Midnight leeches come quietly
in sleep, leaving gifts of death
on skin that shimmer in the
morning light.

The morning light, the morning
light washes in -
as an unexpected house guest
arrives at the doorstep
with an overnight bag.
A stranger.

Skin cracks, eye lashes
crystallize. It all shimmers,
it sparkles and glistens

waits for the stranger to leave
again, walk into the night.

A single, escaped moth hits
soft walls with a wet head,
a newborn baby glistens
flies through teeth to the freedom
of the window sill.
Spreads his velvet wings out
to curtain the panes.

Don't you dare show pity.
Don't you dare.

Michelle M. Buchanan December 28, 2005

"The Night of Broken Glass" November 8, 1938 Part 7

2005-12-21T12:43:00.000-05:00

Deny

There are no trees
no stones,
this is not grass,
not ice or snow
beneath bare feet.

Not wood,
not metal,
not brick or crumbled mortar.
This is not burlap
to lie under.

That is not a pile
of burning bodies,
not flesh on the wall,
not hair. That is not a
baby dead.

They are not dead
or alive. They do not
have tongues or teeth.
We do not. These are
not eyes, not bones,
not dried blood under
fingernails.

This white smoke
in the air is not breath
or heat of any kind. No
ashes, no whispers,
no screams at noon.
None of this
exists.

None of this exists,

none, but this beautiful
sky
waiting to
be fallen into.

Michelle M. Buchanan December 21, 2005

Attn: / Re:

2005-12-15T22:21:00.000-05:00

ATTN:     God
Re:            Heaven

ATTN:    Editor
Re:           Poetry submission

ATTN:    Poet
Re:           Your poetry submission

*

ATTN:    Trees
Re:           The leaves you left in my lawn

ATTN:    Sky
Re:           Rain again?

ATTN:    Sun
Re:           Long time no see

ATTN:    Moon
Re:           Was it good for you?

*

ATTN:    Mr. Rogers
Re:           King Friday stole my sweater

ATTN:    Shari
Re:           My missing socks

ATTN:    Carole & Paula
Re:           How to plant giggling daisies

ATTN:    Bert & Ernie
Re:           Crackers in bed

*

ATTN:    Mr. President
Re:           Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes

ATTN:    Dick Cheney
Re:           Are you ok dude?

ATTN:    Rebublicans
Re:           Democrats

ATTN:    The world
Re:           I'd like to apologize for the way I behaved last night

*

ATTN:    Men
Re:           Urgent, open immediately

ATTN:    Women
Re:           Congratulations! You've been pre-approved

ATTN:    Jews
Re:           Your manuscript has been selected

ATTN:    Blacks
Re:           Let's be friends

ATTN:    White men
Re:           Return to sender, no such address

ATTN:    All others
Re:           You will receive a response within 7 business days

*

ATTN:    Santa
Re:           Damage to roof, Insurance claim #1225

ATTN:    Easter Bunny
Re:            Angry chickens to file class action suit

ATTN:    Tooth Fairy
Re:            Looking to refinance your mortgage?

*

ATTN:    Attention
Re:            Span

Michelle M. Buchanan December 15, 2005

Searching For J.W. Wilcox

2005-12-09T22:08:00.000-05:00

From left to right:
John W. Wilcox
Lee E. Weaver
Robert E. Parker
James Yacano
Char. W. Townsend

Goldsboro, NC 12-13-42

Several years ago I grabbed a pocket folder full of old photos at
a yard sale. I love yard sales and find myself buying things
connected to people. Mostly stuff I have no use for but I get a
feeling from. The woman at the yard sale said she had no idea
where they came from, it wasn't her family or anyone she knew.
Every year for some reason I come across them. Every year
I pick up the phone book and start calling strangers trying to
find the owners. Tonight I was moving back into my studio and
ran into them again. I decided I would post them here, write
about them and share them. Over the years I have grown to almost
know this family. I've traveled into these photos so many times.
Christmas, Easter, summertime, reunions, love, children, etc.
Lives live in these photos, stories are told.

I can't find the family or anyone that knows the names on the
photos. Maybe by chance someone will find them here, I hope.
Maybe they will go forever undiscovered. Maybe I will be the
only one to care about them, to dream about a lifetime that I
wasn't a part of.

Nobody's life should end up in box at a yard sale being picked
over by strangers. Their lives were important and special, even
if just to me.

So I've decided I am going to write the story.

Caption on the back: Came to visit. Sorry you weren't available.
Call sometime.

My Picture

Now you have my picture
easy, you can have me too.
Mother says I'll be an old maid
if I don't find a man, soon.

I know we agreed things
changed, it was time to go,
but we're both free again.
We could have a house and
a family. I could love you
again. Do you still love me?

Remember last summer,
the picnic at the pond.
Just us, you ran your finger up
my neck then softly pinched
my chin and told me
I was your only girl.

Remember how the sun, as
it set, poured gold down
on the water and us
as we made love in
golden skins on golden
grass. You, with your golden
hands.

Today it's cold, the sun
pours down a lonely
white film. My lips are
lost in white. I wish you
were here.

You have my picture.
Easy, you can have me
too.

Michelle M. Buchanan December 9, 2005

"40 Million Worldwide Have HIV/AIDS"

2005-12-01T17:21:00.000-05:00

Bag Of Blood

My skin is thick and whole
my hair grows, I process air
chew my food and my eyes
see the same world
as yours

I love and laugh, see stars
on purple-black nights
close my eyes to face the sun
in daylight hours
I dream dreams so beautiful
they cannot be captured

I am a bag of blood
waiting
for rupture

Death comes to call for me
I cannot go back and change
this visitation or the history
that lines these lips, so thick

I can't make you
lose that look, or want
to know me

Michelle M. Buchanan / December 1st, 2005

World AIDS Day site.

Jenny's Prayer

2005-11-27T14:01:00.000-05:00

I burned a candle today
and as the room filled
with a soapy smell, clean
I remembered you. Your
smooth chocolate chocolate
chip milkshake skin, ribbon
candy nails and neatly pressed
dresses with pockets bigger
than my chest.

Hot soapy washcloths
at your bathroom sink.
You showed me, told me
wash behind your ears,
clean before dinner.

      Now I lay me down to sleep

At your table I sat, small
before an empty plate, yellow plastic cup.
Watching you through the door
careful and exact in the kitchen,
brown beans and rice
sliced long fried bananas
in the pan. The back of your
dress swayed like love as you went from
counter to stove, stove to counter,
in between wiping your hands on
a dish towel tucked to your waist.

      I give the lord my soul to keep

Your couch was wrapped in plastic.
I wanted to take it off, feel the fabric
underneath, it looked like gold, but you
reminded me how we take care of things.
How we take off our shoes at the door
and fold the washcloths drape them over
the side of the sink. But it was cold on the back
of my legs, and I never lost the facination
of wanting to feel the fabric on
my skin or following zipper tracks to
see where it where began.

      If I should die before I wake

Clean before bed, warm soap, brush
your teeth. You taught me to kneel
in front of the bed, fold my hands and close
my eyes. Learn words I didn't understand.
Then tucked me in and said goodnight.

      I give the lord my soul to take

I was safe as your temporary
child with this permanent skin
of mine. I was clean vanilla. You
were indifferent.

Michelle M. Buchanan Nov 27, 2005

Tom Beckett, you rock

2005-11-23T18:04:00.000-05:00

I just received Tom Beckett's
Vanishing Points of Resemblance.
I'm going to wait till the house
is quiet, make some tea and curl
up to read and digest every last
delicious word of it. BUT I was
so excited (okay I never get anything
good in the mail plus I think Tom
is brilliant) I had to peek a
little. I opened it up to a
page and read "A poem looms
like a drink of water. I'm so
fucking thirsty all the time"
and I will not share another word
of it with you, sorry!

TOM YOU ROCK!!

On another level Tom Beckett
is poetically important to me
because he is the first editor
to ever chose my work for a
publication. He didn't know me or
anything of me. That's important
to me because I don't want to
be published for my connections
I'd rather an editor chose my
work soley for my work. So
thanks Tom for that. He is
also now the first poet
I have a chapbook of.

Cheers to firsts.

Thanks.

Visit Tom

Panda Scanner Art

2005-11-21T15:02:00.000-05:00

Scanner Art, a term coined (at
least I never heard of it) by the
one of kind artist, poet, video
extraordinaire John Korn. (check
the link on the right column to
see his stuff). Thanks John. Who
knew scanners were that much fun.

Today I found some old poetry
that made me blush,

growth is good.

Dreams

2005-11-14T17:35:00.000-05:00

I pass by this old church on my way
home from work. It's for sale, it has
been for years. Sometimes I circle
the block over and over. Other times
I pull over and park to sit there
for a while. I think it's beautiful
and I think it's sad that it sits
alone. I think of what I want to
do with it.

It would be an art gallery & studio.
Poetry readings would flow and echo
from cathedral ceilings on Saturday
nights. Light from the arched
windows (I would open them back up)
would illuminate rooms of paintings
hanging on walls. Sculptures would
lead paths throughout the rooms.

Poetry classes, art classes and
pottery classes would be taught
by local artists. Connections
would be made. History would be
made, with mouths and hands in
small steps. Maybe even big ones.
People would come and go. Some
lingering longer than others.
Everybody is welcome.

Walls would eavesdrop again,
floors be tickled by feet and
the ceilings would laugh.

Miracles would happen here again,
by the god of Creativity.

"Prisoner sues God"

2005-11-11T10:02:00.000-05:00

Forgive me

god     god         god         GOD

hey, are you listening?

Send me a sign,
mighty keeper of
compliant souls. Let
tears flow from
my Working Mom Barbie.

Let the holy waters
rain down from holy places
and break through my skins,
my sins, wake
me up to bloody
palms.   Strike me
sideways through the ear
with lightning so I can hear
the hooded white-winged
saviors

sing.
Or,     call me.

Jesus christ,
superstar of
random acts.

God damn
me, I, them
he, she
it.

Forgive my holy
whole tailbone
and the phantom
toes protruding
from the insides
of my feet.

Forgive me,
        forgive the constant sinners.

Michelle M. Buchanan Nov 11,2005

(this next one has been revised pretty heavily
but I can't get my hands on it right now,
I will post revisions later)

Poets & Scientists

poets are like scientists
searching for the facts,
the numbers, sequences
what's real

scanning for words,
the right element
pecking information
sifting for the logical
answer, solution

periodic tables and
dictionaries
legends of the written
word of which they go by
but try to break through
and the good ones, out do

the scientist searches
for a break in the clouds
uses a telescope to find
heavens which are written
in texts and spoken of in churches
but are not there
he dismisses the claim
for lack of proof

the poet can imagine it
looks up in the sky
only to see, just the sky
notes the colors,
shapes of clouds and
even the heaviness of the air
on his skin
then searches for just the right
word, line break
but knows myth from truth
and understands why that
poem will never be good
he dismisses the claim
for lack of real words

Poets, like scientists
mostly atheists
still up at 3 am
searching for the facts,
the numbers, sequences
what's real.

Michelle M Buchanan March 25, 2005

"Thousands Protest Bush in Argentina"

2005-11-04T11:59:00.001-05:00

Whore

I feel like the whore
that bedded your husband
for months
while you mothered his
children sweet, cooked his dinner
served hot on your clean
table each night

the whore who met him
tossed blankets and legs
in your neat pretty bed
at lunchtime,
in his car or that hotel
pretending to love it good
love him good

when all along I never
wanted him

I just wanted
to fuck
with
your world.

Michelle M. Buchanan Nov. 4, 2005

"States Await Details on Flu-Fight Plan"

2005-11-02T11:52:00.000-05:00

Grocery List

Milk, bread, eggs
Tamiflu
past 5 issues of the Enquirer
Iodine Tabs
90 Gal Bottled Water
1 xtra lg gas mask
3 reg gas masks
1 xs gas mask
scrabble, deluxe edition
4 med hazmat suits
1 xs hazmat suit
diet pepsi
100 rolls toilet paper
batteries
200 cans spam
500 morning after pills
wire coat hangers
chewy sprees

"Republicans Enthusiastic About Supreme Court Nominee"

2005-11-01T09:46:00.000-05:00

I made a mistake
making the same
right hand turn
twice

I just wanted
break and milk
maybe a snickers
and now I'm lost

fuck this SUV
it never gets me
where I want to go

"Body hanging from tree mistaken for Halloween decoration"

2005-10-31T09:10:00.000-05:00

Halloween epiphany

Just when I thought I knew
what it was all about
money in, money out
food in, food out

words in, words out

she walked into my office
eggshell eyes
a soft shined
yokey tongue

corn-scattered
chicken wire bulge

peck, peck

feathers flew like
confetti

and everything went
scrambled

Michelle M. Buchanan 10/31/05

"Female Quarterback Proving She Has Game"

2005-10-29T21:26:00.000-05:00

History

For years she studied
earth, plant and land,
heat and temperature.

         domesticated the wild

Her lips were dry,
breasts hung low.
Celebrated for the glow
in her womb, labor
the gods made only her capable of.

Spear was bent, shifted in direction.
A blank silence
of unwritten recollection.

        somewhere along the line she
        became the domesticated

Like history, like weather
over time you can see
the pulses of change and cycles,
but not right at that very moment.

        icebergs melt

She is celebrated now
for the glow of her throw.

        But it's all so deceiving.

Michelle M. Buchanan 10/29/05

As always: comments, critique, thoughts, conversation welcome.