Navy blue boxes of processed macaroni and cheese

at the grocery store. Black SUVs parking in

make believe driveways. A highlighted forest of

reverse bobs. Attack out of monstrous boredom.

Greyish- white snow,


“I was so busy,” speaks the diplomatic,

suburban headlines. Read past the

fictitious smiles with which the lies of

hell cannot compete. With the façade of

shining barbeque grills on Labor Day.

Hatred camouflaged as soaked olives

in putridly mixed martinis.

Once upon a time in suburbia,

I longed to join them as they would masquerade,

Frankenstein becomes a Countess.

Glistening golden glitter,

resting by green and black

garbage containers, left by the curb,

on counterfeit Sunday evenings.

(** Still under construction, don’t hate too much!!)

It’s not as bad as it sounds, uh–

Maybe my poetry was, but the experience was not. Yes, if you did not already know, I take college courses in all my spare time–I mean, when I am not procuring car keys from the toilet and burning t-shirts while preheating the stove. I, for what ever reason ended up in a creative writing course where, unbeknownst to me, the first half of it was poetry.

The following will explain it all (or provoke you to never want to read my blog again… whichever)

Nothing to Write About

What to write about?

A parade of dirty diapers,


missing shoes,

forgotten lunchboxes?


Frosted Flakes,


Frosted Flakes…


Me, in the front yard, barefoot,

covered in questionable substances that might cure Ebola.

Screaming at half-ready children

while my neighbors sit in sun chairs

drinking orange juice (mixed with Vodka).

I should charge admission.

No tales of the carpool line,

an impatient, frizzy-haired mother,


convinced I can go faster than the stopped car in front of me.

Or the lady in charge,

frantically flailing her hands and arms in panic.

Charades? No.

The middle digit of my car rider number is

blocked by my Black Coconut air freshener.

I rush to move it

catastrophe averted!

Facing a looming deadline

and burnt chicken,

I scramble for inspiration.

My kids take it upon themselves to assist:

Angry Birds,




Unicorns pooping chocolate bars and farting rainbows—


“Do You Want to Build a Snowman?”


I want to build a poem.

I sit watching a blinking curser.



like an order of chili cheese fries on a day I forgot to bring Tums.