words of power
the pretty blonde girl who volunteered
at the senior center
also wrote poetry &
one afternoon decided to hand out
pages of her typed poems to the
elderly residents. then she turned off
mrs. baker immediately created an
uproar & waved her cane at the young girl,
calling her a bitch & a
mrs. baker wanted to see the results of the
to know who really made two albino
babies in the dark
so the t.v. went back on &
the pretty blonde girl reclaimed her carefully
written sheets of poetry
her blue eyes had welled-up with tears -
she had never been called filthy names before
& she thought her poems could enlighten
* * * * *
years later -
at a cocktail lounge in east los angeles -
she sipped a vodka-collins & thought back on
knowing that she had to be called those names
because they made her lines strong,
her poems pop like cherries
Without a Prayer
My dog, Camus, was
run over last night, killed.
Dead as dirt.
I dragged her dead weight into the
pregnant pit-bull, white &
peppered with blood.
Damn it to hell!
But she wouldn’t want me to
nor would she had wanted a
nighttime burial -
that today would be just fine.
So I dug a dog-sized grave in the shade
of the avocado tree &
drank my Saturday beer.
I buried Camus
without ceremony or prayer;
I only permitted myself one indulgence.
I kissed one of her cropped ears -
an ear full of beauty.
Mike Faran is the author of We Go To A Fire (Penury Press) and has appeared in Barbaric Yawp, Homestead, The New Laurel, Iodine, The Main Street Rag, and many others.