A Bit Much

 A Bit Much

 

A

Book

I’m reading currently

Tells me more

 

Much more than I wanted to know

Understand, it’s poetry, and my take is a

Cautionary tale on being too 

Honest.  I mean, some things are better left unsaid. Right? 

 

Yeah,  fuck that. 

 

Like MFA also stands for 

Many Followers Acquired

Make Future Amazing. (Fill in the blanks.)

Meaning Framed Accurately (For once)

My Filter’s Absent. (Found a new home)

Moon Files Applause (Universal approval)

Mirrors Flash Agreement (It’s confirmed)

Ministry of Forthrightness Affirms (Impeach him)

 

I rest my case.

Time To Wean Myself Off The Helium

 Time To Wean Myself Off The Helium

 

I’ve got a little chronic inflammation
camped out in my belly like it paid rent.
I feel like I over‑inflated myself
party balloon, car‑dealership, wavy man
except nobody’s clapping.

I don’t feel like my old light self,
you know the one
pre‑90‑day bender, pre‑wake‑up call,
before gravity found my forwarding address.

Yeah, I had surgery.
Now I feel dense.
Millstone chic.
Like if I took an ambitious, heroic dump
I might retire five pounds lighter
and emotionally reborn.

But no.
Everything’s tightening its belt.
There’s nowhere for the extra air to flee.
Not even a tasteful hiss.

My blood’s gone viscous.
My heart and organs are marching
to something that sounds like a funeral dirge
played by a tired band
slightly out of tune.

I’m slower.
Duller.
My knife couldn’t cut string cheese
if the cheese insulted its mother.

I’m fresh out of freshness.
Past my sell‑by date.
Like, yeah.
It’s time to go home.

To The Man Who Keeps Leaving me Love Letters with Numbers

 To The Man Who Keeps Leaving Me Love Letters with Numbers 

 

Dear Bob,

Thanks for signing your notes.

We’ve got to stop meeting like this—

You’re a real go-get-her… with suspiciously neat handwriting.

But I’m stuck on the numbers.

I keep trying to call you—

but my phone says, “Nice try. That’s a locker combo.”

Also: the pink Post-its.

So bold. So… 80% highlighter, 20% cry for help.

Is that your personality showing— or just your stationery budget?

Confession: I’m heterosexual.

So if you meant these for the other “Cornelia,”

please use the box on the left by the Men’s Room—first door, first heartbreak.

We’re the Ladies League. We have clipboards.

If not… congratulations. You’ve piqued my interest.

Next note, please include a selfie. Preferably with both eyes open.

One more thing about me:

I prefer a golfer who dances.

Or a hiker who dances. Any man who dances.

You may be a musician—Steven Tyler energy, fewer scarves.

But you must dance. This is non-negotiable. Like cart fees.

See you in the Fall.

Waiting with bated breath (and a nine iron),

Cornelia

Why You Should Care

Why You Should Care

 

Why should they care—

when your face goes full loading screen as a friend announces,

“She’s an author and a photographer.”

So what—do you want confetti or a coupon?

My name is Cornelia De Dona.

I kept my ex-husband’s last name—

not nostalgia—just because it glides off the tongue like good bourbon,

and I’m not high-strung.

Not high-maintenance either—more like low-wattage menace with good posture.

My claim to fame is simple:

I’ve won awards—tiny gold stars for the way my mind bites the page.

Recognition, too, for my writing and my art—

the art being photography: stealing light and returning it as evidence.

People tell me my photos are beautiful,

like this burrowing owl—

she posed as I passed, a pocket-sized bouncer in feathers,

eyes flashing WARNING, and, honestly, I was impressed—

she gave me her best angle, like she’d trained in a studio I can’t afford.

And after all, that’s all anyone can do

show up, hold still, and dare the world to look back. 

Resolution

 Resolution

I resolve to keep writing

even during episodes of blankness and staring at white space

which is a new series on STUCK. 

I can’t believe the names some people come up with, like perplexity? 

Perplexity does not imply intelligence, artificial or otherwise. Or is that supposed to be us? Nope, it’s about predictability, Math!! Look it up. 

Today is Friday’s List

1.   Have coffee

2.   Get dressed

3.   Take out the garbage and recycling

4.   Take a walk

5.   Go to Water Aerobics class

6.   File papers

7.   Solve the “what not to bring north” riddle

8.   Stop making lists. 

9.   Look up sense of humor. 

10.                 Do the math

 

 

 

A Poem In Your Pocket

 A Poem In Your Pocket

 

Can rip you to the core

Make you soar through the back door 

Explore Bangor from the floor

Bring you more noir, or a war you swore

you’d deplore.

You’d score points with the Biltmore 

crowd with a poem in your pocket.

They’d  fall for 

 A white-glove

a shove from above

Another encore of love

To save us all from falling into the abyss

I’m sure we wouldn’t miss

The kiss between Elizabeth and Robert Browning

or the dip of her quill when she wrote

“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.”

Or as he swooned with bliss

From her bed to his soft core, wanting more.

Distraction

 Distraction

Imagine this,

A huge data center is being built beneath that ballroom

where the East Wing once stood.

Like the ones they have in Israel

But newer, improved, and state-of-the-art

The data centers can also survive missile attacks

Let that sink in

AI and the government

are BFFs.  I wonder if it’s Lindy, Perplexity, or Jasper?

Probably a CIA classified platform specifically designed for covert operations.

The Ballroom is a distraction

It’s fluff

It’s the lid on what is really going on.

It’s the tip of the iceberg

It’s not about assassination attempts

and yeah, we’re paying for it.

…