Gone Girl (aka “She Cray”)


Bustling, Running,

Scurrying about…

Where did your femininity go?

You toss it out the window with all the other

Unimportant things?

Like Being, Loving, Nurturing

Took hold of what matters most, eh?

Drive, Ambition


Going at such an Incredible Pace…

But you aren’t Accomplishing anything

No you aren’t Accomplishing anything

And isn’t that the point of your broken Mad-ness?

Your endless rushing?

To get to the Thing you seek?

Funny how you ain’t really gettin’ anything

Fretting, hand-wringing

Chasing your sarong in circles

Grasping nothing

That’s the kind of thing that happens

When a woman loses her sense of


And I don’t mean goal-setting

But when she becomes identified with the Flurry of Doing

And doing

She does

But she grasps nothing

She is all splayed about

Like the papers on her desk

Or the packets that have essentials missing

Essentials missing!

Businesses can only run for so long like that

People ain’t no different

You find that out and then Spin Out

It’s an Indy 500 car crash

You try and take me with you again

But I am not driving in that race


I tossed that Panic-Panic-Ungroundedness

Out my window…

With all the other

Unimportant things.

Where She Lives


He dug his hands down into the Soul of things

And came up empty

Awakened, brutally, to the Other Side

Disillusioned, now


Bitter like the dry dirt caked up his arms

From the constant digging

She calls to him, Look up, over there!

But he no longer trusts a female voice,

Even one that is not hers

If only he could get out of his own way

She is pointing him to rich soil

A well –

Wet and deep and thriving with Life Force that can sustain him

If only he can bear to try again

(Though he is so sick of trying)

To reach once more

To find what he was always meant to have —

His land.

His land.

Where She lives…

Black Widow

I feel long, spidery-limbs reaching out of the sky

Or sitting, Heavy, in the corner of the room



She is the Atom Bomb,


But no one can see her venomous, toxic waves of breath

Infecting, dissecting,

Rejecting us

There is no milk or honey here

No willow tree or baby’s breath

Only Her insidious Neglect

And her insatiable urge to Trap

To suffocate us in her hairy grasp

Like Saran or cellophane




In clear webs we do not know

We are in

Sad little ignorant



Bright Red Dress (a.k.a. Anima)


She wears the Bright Red Dress, dances on marble table-tops


Has that perfect laugh — Head tilted back


You know the kind.


Yes, she’s That Kind


The kind they like to put in slow-motion


On the movie-screens


The kind who gives the teens


Wet dreams


And makes men stiffen in their theater seats


As they squirm over to one side


So the wife won’t see


The hard evidence of their fantasies.


Yes, she’s That Kind –


Her smile blinds,


Those wide big eyes


Blink innocently


While what they think is underneath – unbridled sensuality


Simmers through transparently


Because it ain’t necessarily


Her own sensuality


But I won’t bore you with


Such Things.


They all imagine she’s Untouchable


While fiending oh-so-desperately —


To touch her ever-endlessly…


Projecting every wanted woman they have ever seen


Unconsciously on that Bright Red Dress


She happens to be wearing.


Betting to themselves deep down, “I know her and she knows me.


And if I could only win her over, she’d see we’re meant to be.”


Oh, how they think Know her!


And there is some magic quality.


I’m not sayin’ she don’t have it —


It just ain’t the Realest thing.


‘Cause they all think she’s the Virgin Mary


And Madonna —


Goddesses Sophia and Innana —


Some twisted kind of Freudian mama


That they secretly beg to Keep.


Sweet souls just projecting onto her


Their hopeful, true-love dreams.


Nothin’ wrong with this except


When the woman removes the dress


She hopes the men who said


She was the greatest thing since whole-grain bread


Will be able to, instead,


Love the regular, plain ol’ “me.”


You know — the very real wife beside them


In the theater seat.