Daddy by Sylvia Plath

You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time——
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend

Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene

An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You——

Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I’m finally through.
The black telephone’s off at the root,
The voices just can’t worm through.

If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two——
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There’s a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.

Thin Line Between Today N Tomorrow

“Perhaps some day I’ll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.” – Plath

A wizard, he hovered over the open gas can with…a well lit cigarette.

A ghost from summer’s past…she drove, as though, the heavens were on fire.

Believing destiny can out ride desire.

I cannot shove the madness aside.imageedit_4_9303855981

It is rock heavy with conceit.

Daily a witness to death defining acts.

I am punch drunk from insanity…

Even true love avoids the facts.

As I walk the only road…I have ever been down…

The one that is elusive… and as of yet, untold.

I watch, as my own inevitability protrudes.

Heading down into uncharted foliage.

So vast there is no looking  back…imageedit_5_7351757917

Life, death, is also avoid-ant of the facts.

Pocket Knives and Plath


As if it were just another day,

a child’s attempt to keep the monsters away.

Could say, this scepter of spirit, were for him.

But, truth comes laced with guile…

It is for me,

Wrapped in the words, ‘let it be’.

As the rain turns to sleet.

As the white lies repeat.

A childlike attempt to stumble a fall.

Awkward valor, lanky jabs,

to protest an inevitable stall.

At last, what of these testimonies,

languid walks,

poised crawls.

What if someone walked this very same road.

Read from Plath.

Listened with coerced ear.


I cannot live within the bell of your fear.

awkward 3
the Girl with the Weight of the World in her Hands – 

She won’t recover from her losses
She’s not chosen this path but she watches who it crosses
Maybe move to the right, maybe move to the left
So we can all see her pain, she wears like a banner on her chest
And we all say, “It’s sad” and we think it’s a shame
And she’s called to our attention but we do not call her name
The girl with the weight of the world in her hands

‘Cause we’re busy with our happiness and busy with our plans
I wonder if alone she wants it taken from her hands
But if things didn’t keep getting harder
She might miss her sacred chance to go a consecrated martyr
The girl with the weight of the world in her hands

I wonder which saint that lives inside a bead
Will grant her consolation when she counts upon her need
It makes us all angry though we feign to care
But who will be the scale to weigh the cross she has to bear
The girl with the weight of the world in her hands

-Indigo Girls


Is the glass half-full or empty, I ask her as I fill it
She said it doesn’t really matter, pretty soon you’re bound to spill it
With the half logic language of the sermon she delivers
And the way she smiles so knowingly at me, gives me the shivers
I pull the blanket higher when I’m finally safe at home
And she’ll take a hundred with her but she always sleeps alone
The girl with the weight of the world in her hands

Soiling the Air

Most Americans though reportedly obese are indeed very large in size; personally or otherwise.


The two most incredible sights to behold are:

A large person of color, African American or whatever the going attribute is these days, wearing a over the top large black t-shirt with these words blazed upon it and my memory: ‘Man boobs are sexy!’

*course the lettering had to be…you guessed it: Neon Pink.

Second disturbing visual had been a weekly encounter with a long lost but always around friend/repo man!  Coming in and topping off at nearly 300 pounds, Mike has worn a smile since the day he was born.  He also was seen wearing this piece of paraphernalia:

‘I Beat Anorexia!’

We are all on a Super Sized Not Diet!  And, the worse place to be?  Deer Haven cabin #4!  At  just under sixty dollars a night this little slice of haven-ly heaven north of Woodstock New Hampshire nearly caused the death of one white cynical angry lesbian!

No bigger than a thumbnail had been the stall in which I felt my demise creep up.  One ounce of bad timing and bad bathroom foreplay and soapy water left it’s mark on me.  Sprawled out on the bathroom floor, half in and half out into the living quarters.  Ass up and obscurely naked this revelation occurred to the vacancy mind set in my head: How does one die in a small bathroom?

1. Number four in home grown fatalities is…slipping on a bar of discarded soap in the tub!

2. Listening to a digital rendition of Sylvia Plath‘s the Bell Jar while taking a depressing bath.

3. Most feared way to die?  Ask Elvis!  Taking a moment to one’s self while on several prescribed and not prescribed medications.  Blood vessels constrict, over exertion is produced and BAM…you have yourself a heart attack.

4. Finding a non matching to anyone in the current make up of said household pubic hair while debating if you should see a shrink about the current state of OCD that has taken over you body.  Pubic hair leads to ‘this isn’t mine or hers’ which leads to paranoia, which turns itself over to jealousy and in the end you are hopped up on so much cough medicine that the only way out is going down the drug overdose shitter.

5. Lastly, the most feared article in the small bathroom?  A large breed dog.  A bubble bath.  Candles.  Incense and a old shortwave radio..  You bend over to retrieve the last known razor that is sitting at the bottom of the bath.  The black elongated muzzle wants to see ‘whatcha got Mommy’!  A feeling of being soiled and spiritually unclean hits.  A bizarre dance follows and a broken neck is sure to be the end of the innocence, at least for the small bathroom dweller.