Saturday, April 11, 2015

The Visit

©The Visit
Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

sure, he loved his pretty girl with blonde strands and full, bow-shaped lips that looked like she was always ready to kiss someone.

we watched her sitting there on the edge of Madras-covered cushions with her hands folded in her lap as though she were about to bow her head in prayer and her smoky-slate, salamander eyes fixed in a wide stare because she thought she was in an evil West coast drug house she'd probably read about or heard someone talk about back East, but she wasn't and our leased-for-the-week, lake-front house was clean, as were we.

and so she waited like a muscled, boy-bodied surrealist juxtaposed with some imagined reality of death.

we all knew that for him sex was his one and only holy grail, the important thing in life; we wondered did she know that?

she was his arm candy, his carousel-golden ring, his sweet little toy with a wicked, sensual, unvirtuous smile and when those smoky eyes fell on me, my heart stopped because I used to be his sweetheart, his sexy lady, his she-belongs-to-mehis pretty brunette cowgirl with Shirley-Temple ringlets flowing down my back like a mermaid's tresses.

my current and permanent boy toy and I understand each other's levels of craziness and bone daddy doesn't talk to me in that authoritarian-with-jumbled-thoughts way and when he gazes at me, I know there isn't another god-like lover and Thor-like protector; so I inhaled and exhaled slowly until the tattoo from my heart met the steady pace of my silent mantra and I smiled at her like she was some diet-pill hallucination.

my sister's eyes flashed left then right then left and back and forth as though she was watching some tennis match of silent communication between his baby girl and me while Sis' husband eyed the eye candy's spread legs; I wondered if he was trying to see up that dark tunnel under her skirt and between those long legs to determine was she wearing panties.

the only thing scarier than hitch hiking to Haight-Ashbury with him—where his sister's black-tar-junkie John called us polka-dot people because we had calamine patted on pussy poison oak sores—were the Mardi Gras, drunk ass and boob grabbers and being sent to the highway, heading out of Vegas, at night while he stayed out of sight and mafia types stopped their crowded boat-people auto to pick me up with that oh-what-we're-gonna-do-to-you look in their eyes and I had to wonder what horrific tales of terror she could share.

Miles Davis played on the 'puter's radio when they had to get going  and before they headed for their dog-kennel on wheels, we all smiled and hugged and shook hands and Sis' hubby hugged eye candy a second time copping a feel of her nonexistent boobies with his middle-age chest and Sis giggled and slapped her hubby's right bicep playfully and called him a dirty old man, which he still is to this day, and boy toy and I strolled to the water's edge where he enveloped me in his arms and nuzzled my nape and gave it a suggestive bite and I knew everything I needed to know.

Thursday, April 9, 2015

Mimi-Mona Poetry: Poetic Knight without a Plan

©Poetic Knight without a Plan
Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

is it the chaos of the world that burdens him
this warrior looking for a battle yet
unable to sit in the driver's seat
of an Ovaltine religion with a numbered list
of injustices that can't be fixed
with no jobs and no possible pension
and seeing success as damaged goods
with women named bitches walking away
who he'd have given his left nut sack to
would grab his Speedos to expose those demons
to give to those without wealth and power

look around
everything is gone
political chaos in a Bell jar
colored on pages of raging poetry
he's like a goldfish in a too-small bowl
or like missing wisdom
that is locked in the Knowledge Corner
he shouts Let me be your sensei in the jungle called life

eyes too open to embrace wide differences
the champion's soapbox speech begins
give me your tired your huddled masses your sins of the father
drawing his inked sword from its sheath to settle
the score of what he calls financial inequality
in the chaos of the world that burdens him
he left The Book behind in some closed drawer
having lost his place in the Exodus
when he charged in searching
for the Sanctuary of Light
with followers and their lust for
another twelve-step program to the booze of life
more power more money and equal fame for all
but there is only editorials and provocative verbs
no outlined solutions to bulleted inequalities
from a knight whose armor is left in the closet

Tuesday, April 7, 2015

Mimi-Mona Erotic Poetry: Untitled

Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

Restless, she dove into that beckoning pond
That some find deep in the sunny woodland;
Dove twice into depths of which she was fond.

A young girl, in her innocence donned,
Shied ever closer fore being cautioned;
Restless, she dove into that beckoning pond.

Liking the company of those who fawned
Over her with a knowledge well burgeoned,
Dove twice into depths of which she was fond.

Understanding of the meaning now dawned.
She laughed, but back to the woods she hastened;
Restless, she dove into that beckoning pond.

Her parents cried, "What has that water spawned?"
She returned to the woods where she'd been ruined,
Dove twice into depths of which she was fond.

Lured by the lapping waves, she made a bond
And stayed close to the pool that had beckoned.
Restless, she dove into that beckoning pond;
Dove twice into depths of which she was fond.

(the fallen angel touches water by diceglia)

Monday, April 6, 2015


©Bottle Emptied
Mimi Wolske

Gads! A Salmon mess!
My toes colored by boyfriend.
What a MANicure!

Sunday, April 5, 2015

Mimi-Mona Poetry: Sleepwalking on A Tightrope

Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

©Sleepwalking on A Tightrope

Never wondering
Whether we'll survive
The forty-ninth parallel.
We are of good heart—
Without the stress,
Without the worry,
Without the pain—
Rooted to terra firma
With no wire
To balance love
Beneath our steady feet.
It is only in dreams
That someone greases
The tautly strung rope
And wishes us to slip,
Perhaps fall to our fates.
Our destinies endure
Together. Our love is not
A circus act and
We are not
Sleepwalking on a tightrope.