Writings and Klonipin detox dreams, Summer 2011

In the poppy fields outside the Gates of Oz
A young man’s body lay at rest, long has it lain there,
Corpselike in repose yet ever-smiling never aging quite alive
Puer aeternus the eternal boy
Pollen grains gather in the corners of his eyes like sleepies
The man however went walking on in accordance with the rules of Time
Motion locomotion insanity repetition doing what they told him he must do
Keep moving move along move along move along
The boy without moving gathers pollen
Lives on light and love and dew
The man like some oblong overweight hummingbird flitters about
Trying trying dying on his feet racking up miles getting nowhere.
His face is a dog-eared atlas of the American road, an outdated and unwieldy book of maps
Pre-internet, torn cover, open at Nebraska, wrinkled as an origami turd.

In a white suburban ghetto outside the city walls, the man sits slumped in a therapist office.
On the wall a parchment: Masters Of Jungian Ozology
The therapist stirs him from his stupor.
“I asked you what stops you from reaching your potential?”
He lifts his head from his hands.
“Invisible walls.”
He hasn’t spoken in near half an hour
“You know, like the proverbial glass ceiling.”
So she lays it out for him. The whole truth about his real spirit, his soul laying in wait for him in a poppy field he cannot see or smell will not find on any Google map nor cannot iPhone app his way to on the 51B to the 88 to the 75R nor any other bay area bus or rapid transit train will ever take him there.
“Life itself…is experienced as a prison,” she said. You speak of barriers, so I thought.. Does any of this resonate with you?

And from him then there emptied out a font of dark events as when an emergency valve opens to unburden a flood-imperiled dam. At night. In the dark.

My life has been a series of cages, yes. And blunders that left me wondering about this thing called adulthood like the time while in the running for a Rotary Club scholarship to do graduate study in Nigeria having already passed the local and and county levels I had just one more key interview for the state finals before a panel of men in Sausalito. It was a simple question: who founded the Rotary in 1905? Was it the puer in me that jinxed it or was it some higher power putting words in my mouth to keep me from a fate that was grossly off-track from my own? I know not but I replied, Paul Harvey, naming the talk radio celebrity rather than the founder Paul Harris, and thus ended my career as a Rotary scholar.

He watched himself as he spoke. There were no tears. No great sorrow. No bereavement. Just a listing of dark moments from the past. With detachment. Like the migraine symptoms he was currently experiencing feeling trapped here with her under her scrutiny in her office were of more trouble and pain than any of the events he now described had ever been.

Last night L was reading my play and she hit upon the molestation scene and asked me if that had happened to me and I shrugged and said, “Maybe.” It had. It did. I was twelve and not yet sexually aware, so it didn’t register as a sexual experience rather as something weird and peculiar and yes, as something of a cage, a feeling of entrapment, of being trapped by this much older boy of 18, legally a man yes, wanting something from me and spending many hours of one summer night on Martha’s Vineyard trying in vain to make it happen. Then there was the time a few years earlier when some older neighbor kids trapped me and a boy from church in a very solid little clubhouse my dad built me in our back yard in Melrose and held us there for what seemed a few hours. The same boys later trapped me and some friends in the basement of my house. And my bedroom in that house was something of a trap, L-shaped it provided no direct line of sight into the hall or the light of the hall and thus the safe proximity of my parents room. Years later on a summer job during college a female boss fed me meds prescribed for our duel-diagnosis campers and used my body while I was barely conscious. I told the camp manager about this and he told me no one would believe me so to keep quiet. It was another case of feeling trapped.

The most terrifying example of a cage in my memory came less than a year after graduation from college on a brief visit back to my college town. I needed a place to stay one night and accepted the hospitality of a retired gay man who had been a congenial neighbor for over a year and to whom I had often talked openly about many things. His name was Jack, and that night I saw a side of Jack I had never seen when I’d formerly had the leisure to say goodnight and retire to my cabin nearby. That night he used everything he’d ever learned about me to manipulate me into a kind of psycho-sexual mental prison of shame from which I found escape extremely difficult. I was under his roof far longer than planned, how long I have difficulty remembering. Hours not days. Perhaps as much as 24 hours after my initial realization that I was trapped.

But now looking back on it, this thing is happening in my mind that always happens. This voice is saying: but come on Rick. Really! You’re a grown man. You could have walked out. You should be ashamed of yourself. Indeed. Same voice speaks when I recollect the workplace rape (as I am now sure it was) of 1989. Come on, Rick, you’re a man. How can a woman rape a man? Fast forward: how can a 63-year old gay man utterly mentally disempower a 25-year old man? Shame. Shame is how. And more shame came of it.

He dreams that Amelia Erheart teaches him to fly. Drunk she insists they fly at night, that she ride behind him in a biplane where she will have no control, she tells him she has faith in him. On another night in the first of two migraine dreams, he is leading a group of children up the west side of a mountain. Reaching the crest, he espies the moon rising in the east and calls back a challenge to the children, “Last one to see the moon is a rotten egg!” When all are on top, the mountain suddenly becomes alive with scorpions the size of squirrels and they come snapping in attack. The dream ends. In another dream, he is hiking down a steep grade on Big Sur with his partner and two friends. At the bottom of the grade, they step off the road and onto rocks that reach out into a lake to make way for a truck coming down the narrow highway. In the confusion, his partner falls behind and when he looks back, he sees that not one but two mountain lions have approach her. She is carrying a loaf of bread and an child’s Igloo lunchbox. The giant cats walk right up and take the items in their teeth but she fights them. “Give them the food!” he shouts. He hopes she will surrender to them what they want. The dream ends.

One day years ago he wrote a poem about a choir boy with a woman’s face
He wrote that something about this “ancient archetypal face” was familiar
it is his face, the face he left behind outside the gates of Oz.

I caught a touch of some bug going around and spent 18 hours in bed, five of it watching Das Boot, the rest sleeping and dreaming.

In one dream I was in a barn showroom fair situation booth vendors etc, booth for The Frog an FM radio station out of the lakes region in Minnesota holds a contest for classic cars, from 1911 and up to 1977. “Do you have a car?” I start to say no I don’t, then remembering, “Yes, actually I do have a car, in a museum.” I tell them about my 1977 Ford Granada. “But how will you win the contest?” they ask referring to Duke being mothballed and far away. Indeed. Good question. I awoke shortly thereafter in a rush of images and impressions. Among them: the clouded seniors at Chaparral House on Thursday, navigating none to well the murky skies between this life and this next. And Duke. And WT Burge should be copilot. The sense that I must get Duke back on the road. The firm conviction suddenly that my SERVICE to humanity will never be in humble moments like reading haikus to drooling seniors and organizing their CDs and sitting by patiently and being the lone applause while another volunteer with a karaoke machine sings for them a whole run of lounge singer songs. My service is my art, my writing, all that my so-called puer personality brings to the world so fuck that PhD asshole and his indictment of the puer aeternus.

In another dream, I am in a cabin or simple house of some kind, perhaps a business with no bathroom access. I excuse myself to find the bathroom go outside, enter through an exterior door as one would at a gas station, find myself in an anteroom with floral pattern or paisley wallpaper on all four walls and doors such that doors are nearly indistinguishable from surrounding walls. Closing door behind me, I attempt to open door to my left, find no doorknob, turn and find that the door I have come through has disappeared into the pattern wallpaper and that it, too, has no doorknob on the inside. I claw at the seam and bang on the door. A sense of panic creeps in. The panic is tempered only by a sense of openness above, light, either in the form of a skylight or the absence of a ceiling gives me some hope.

A week later in a dream, K is showing me our house, her house, the house we lived in together but not the same house and so it goes in dreams, all decorated like Duke inside and out, one special feature an old 1950s neon-trimmed carnival ride out front, see-saw like, and because it fits right out front of the house too small to make sense outside the dream, like a scale model of the real thing. The inside of the house all bedecked and she now married but alone this moment there in the middle of it all, a warm sunny summer evening ten years hence explaining to me that she has preserved it all this way and added much she says “Because I love you and..” she says two other things now forgotten, obscured by waking. Note to any future reader of this: I do not interpret this dream to signify any chance of reunion with K, did in fact immediately feel it had to do more with my identity, my soul, with not forgetting who I am, and the first thing that came to mind was Duke and a desire to go and reclaim that huge monument to my Self or (as it occurs to me as I write) build a new one to rekindle that spirit.

In the dream I was on a small commuter plane talking to an older airline steward. As the other passengers disembarked he told me how he had entered the field with certain expectations and how everything had changed, how now he felt his job had all the prestige of a bus driver. I told him that like sleepwalkers most people get stuck in corners and end up staring out of the same window for so long that they forget they are living in a vast mansion with an infinite supply of light from an infinite number of windows, and that likewise, were they to stop banging on the door in front of them and turn they would find that they have not one door through which to walk but an endless array of doors leading to an infinite array of possibilities.

Universal Love Letter Of The Apocalypse

by RSM

I could watch the house crumble to dust, the shutters shudder and fall, watch the
Paint peel and flake, the dust bunnies propagate; I could watch the cob webs gather
The window glass crack and shatter, watch the walls collapse the floor collapse
Watch the roof cave in; I could watch the world fall apart
I would not care if you were there beside me at peace.
I cannot stand the gathering of more stuff; don’t know what to do with it.
Don’t want a phone don’t want all the clothes I own, don’t want the car don’t want
New tires could ride the bus don’t want the stress, don’t want new things

The world is dying the world is decaying the planet is sick with plastic
She is bleeding out the blood of her oil, her palms up, veins open the oil gushing out
They are scraping the earth now, digging deeper blasting the peaks off mountains
To crush her flesh and squeeze it some more more oil more blood of the mother
To make more plastic to feed your need humanity not my need, no, no don’t want it.
Ain’t interested I need only the bare essentials: one pot, one wooden bowl
One knife one fork one spoon shit I don’t even need a fork!
There is a cyclone in the sea where your soda bottles go
Your styrofoam your grocery bags your disposable razors your tampon applicators
Now it’s mothers day and fathers day and why don’t we give each other Time?!
More time that’s all I want that’s all any mother would ask of her child.

I could watch the sky fall, watch the house crumble, sit still as the cobwebs covered me
I would meditate until the end of time if you’d sit beside me so that I would not be alone
I need nothing but time and your presence your gaze your eyes your natural scents
Your skin like butter like angel feathers like tongue licks, summer breeze, warm wind
I only want your skin no more coarse fabrics no more plastic clothing no more
Synthetic coverings death shrouds for the living no more barriers between us no more
Barriers of time and space no more haste no more brevity no more snippets of language
Give me full phrases spoken softly without stress no more texts no more hasty calls
No more tension anger and volatility owing to the chase for plastic for stuff more stuff
More having more getting more rent more medical expense more insurance
Everyone wants more money to tax
They will tax us to death but you can’t tax NOTHING.
I want nothing
Nothing and you there by my side, we will write sonnets in our minds
Communicate telepathically with smiles and knowing glances we will shine
We will watch the world fall away grow old together on pillows before the setting sun.
We will do nothing because that is all that there is to do that’s all the creator asks of us.
We are everything we need but we are caught like thrashing moths in the web of getting
Of having and better and more stuff, where to put it all, how to maintain it all.

The children will grow and be healthy and happy naked and unashamed
We are still in the garden, have always been here east of nowhere we are not lost
I am here right in front of you right beside you and we are perfect, we are pure
I don’t want these veils these stones we are lugging
These scales we are wearing to protect us from.. From what? From God.
We are afraid of our magnificence, for it isn’t God who would blind us on sight – it is us!
It is me, it is you, the real you the one you won’t look at won’t give the time of day
Won’t stop to feel won’t allow in won’t stop long enough to let catch up with you as
You run through your day in pursuit of plastic, plastic things bought with plastic cards
Plastic cars plastic food plastic reality there is no reality
There is no matter, no reason to try
You are what you are you are everything you need
You are all I need.

The World On Its Axis

rick drives duke w foot

Marin, CA – Somehow part of the package of being a living, thinking being, is you get a Universe inside you. I love that thought, words of the late Terrence McKenna. I started out to say that somehow the world keeps turning on its axis, somehow life keeps going and going much to the chagrin of the conspiracy theorists and the doomsayers in every discipline. But then Terrence entered in. Terrence would like that. I entered in, he would say, like a little fleck of cosmic energy flying off the crown of the mushroom king. Don’t ask me where I am going with this because I just. Don’t. Know.

I do, however, know that I am still alive and well – more well than ever in fact, and living a remarkable existence, and that is more than I ever would have imagined possible a decade ago. This website has been around far longer than Facebook or any of it’s contemporaries. Yes it has. And I am. And you are. If you are reading this, then you are still alive and you are still with me. Or perhaps by some freak accident, you are young and just happened to land here. Welcome.

I’m not the famous author I once imagined I would be. I am just a guy who writes. I am a guy who has had lots of interesting adventures and experiences and written about some of them. I have been lucky in love and been loved by many a woman and a few men. I would write more but I am daily distracted by all the work I have done over the years, all the words written yet little of it published. I would write more but I am lazy, and getting more lazy by the year. Ambition has been leaking out of me, and as I watch it flow down the street like the water of a garden hose full of holes, I have to wonder if ambition isn’t just another word for life essence. Life essence just might be all that drives us, and all our drive might just be the sum total of our life energy.

Oh, forgive me. Waxing poor-etic. Truth be told I have never had a lot of ambition. I realized recently this is because I never really wanted money. Never really cared for the stuff. People who like money go after it with teeth gnashing and claws out and balls out all the way. Not me. Never really cared.

I’ve been trying to understand why it is I write lengthy manuscripts and then toss them into a drawer. Money must be the answer.

Twenty years ago right around this time of the year, I embarked on writing my first novel. A year later I had finished it. But it has yet to be published. And that is a shame. It is a good story, if a bit naive and imperfect and perpetually un-final edited. And in those twenty years, half a dozen other book-length pieces and many short stories. Will they ever be read by an audience greater than a few friends? I have to wonder. If I didn’t care then, I certainly care less now. A lot less.

I’m totally through caring about fame or fortune. I scratch together enough to live on. And now I have a family, a woman and her three children who have welcomed me into their world. I have a roof over my head. I no longer live alone on a boat. I have a car. I drive kids to school, and I fix things. I am needed. I have many friends albeit mostly far away. I enjoy movies and carrot cake and Earl Gray tea. I read constantly and have endless access to books, the old-fashioned kind. I have memories. I have a few goals left.

I just might reach a few of them before this story is over. Tonight then, I begin with these words something new, a new blog within the newly revamped Jigglebox. Imperfect and under construction though it be, I think readers will find their way to these new words.

I have to save the world tomorrow, starting with rising at 530 to make coffee for eighty recovering drunks. But for now it’s time to sleep.


Slingshot Vagina Dream

I go naked in a suit of glass
While all around me
Men in jagged metal hats
Have 16 penny nails where
I have only fingers
Ship’s anchor thighs where
I have frightened and fragile knees.
The women here
Have diamond teeth and
Slingshot vaginas.
My Kansas
Is a narrow gulch in Bisbee, Arizona
Peopled only by characters
That I myself made up
They live in all my stories and
There are no sharp edges in Oz.

[from 1999-2000]

© Rick McKinney


Your lips, four
Mine, two
Outnumbered I maneuver
Move into position
Take your flank
And with my teeth render you rigid
The meat of your high left thigh in my mouth
You grunt
Half naked on your belly
In t-shirt, arms outstretched
Jeans and panties yanked down cuff your ankles
Trapping you twice
You let your head fall and with it your hair
Resplendent falls, sweeps thick carpet
You see me behind and beneath you and sigh
Let your eyelids close as my nails rake your back
Clutching your shirt in both hands I pull
Cutting off the air in the soft tissue of your throat
You gasp as my teeth find the meat of your ass and bite down
Without air you weaken
Your arms buckle and you let your torso fall
Surrendering your upper body to the floor

© Rick McKinney December 2006

Slingshot Vagina Dream

I go naked in a suit of glass While all around me Men in jagged metal hats Have 16 penny nails where I have only fingers Ship’s anchor thighs where I have frightened and fragile knees. The women here Have diamond teeth and Slingshot vaginas. My Kansas Is a narrow gulch in Bisbee, Arizona Peopled only by characters That I myself made up They live in all my stories and There are no sharp edges in Oz.

Slingshot Vagina Dream

I go naked in a suit of glass While all around me Men in jagged metal hats Have 16 penny nails where I have only fingers Ship’s anchor thighs where I have frightened and fragile knees. The women here Have diamond teeth and Slingshot vaginas. My Kansas Is a narrow gulch in Bisbee, Arizona Peopled only by characters That I myself made up They live in all my stories and There are no sharp edges in Oz.

Save All Life

An idea is a powerful thing.
You have the seed of the idea of being well in you.
Trust that idea to carry you daily.

Going nowhere. Doing nothing. The world is ending.
I challenge you to show me where and how I must interact,
Where must I thrust my sword, parry a thought, carry an idea.

You fill your days with distraction.
I cannot act. I have no traction.
I am up to my armpit in shit all day,
Riding a stupid one speed bike to the hardware store
To buy a tube of plumber’s putty to plug up the shithole
So that when you come over you can shit in my boat.
Home is a safe place to take a shit.
Everywhere else is a locked bathroom,
Fucking inhuman humans.

I wanna skin and eat your goat.
You goat fucker, you.
I have resentments.
Vain dis-contentments.
I have a blister on my boiling pride, grist for the mill of me,
For the hill of me, over the hill, wandering stupid pedestrian will.

He turned off the television and expected beauty,
Wisdom to fill the smashed vacuum tube of him.
No words came. No game. All and ever after shame.
Fame flipped him the bird and went sailing.
I hate my life. I love my life.
I write to dump the skull fucking trash.
Take out the trash of you.
Into the vacuum of television
You dumped your trash into my consciousness.
I don’t want it.

I want a new drug. I want a new soul.
I want the world bought and sold.
I want nothing. I want nothing. I want to be left alone.

I hear you found a new leader to rule you demo-cratically.
I hear the Krauts are happy to be rid of Greece.
I hear the feast is on, the fast flight into mad melting night.
I hear the chickens have plucked you gizzard empty man.
I hear the tin can tango telephone bore more bad news to the front.
I hear he takes it in the rear.

The other night with cucumber and fresh grapes I made a fool of myself,
Made a needle prick prick of myself.
I made her wonder why,
Made her question her resolve in..

Leon. Jesus.

I moved tables to get away from the psycho end of the world banter.
I moved tables to escape talk of suicide off the golden gate.
I moved to write.
I moved to try and find something positive to say.

I picked a fight with the woman today
Then hung up on her when she tried to fight back.
I am an asshole.

My mother taught me how.

I feel bad for brushing Leon away.
But I had to.
One can only handle so much psychic hammering.

Don’t bury your head in the sand, he says.

Harriet didn’t look so hot.
She looked mildly unhinged.
She looked unbalanced.
She looked as though she were about to cry.
So when she told me I looked good,
I didn’t immediately respond that she looked good, too.
I had to think about it.
She’s a lovely woman, but tonight she wasn’t glowing.

Jack went away and left a vestige of a woman behind.
Jack went away and left us all behind.
The dumb and the tragic and the snarly fight-picking assholes.

I don’t like being an asshole.
God grant me the serenity to quit being an asshole.  

It occurs to me that Save The Earth is too abstract for people.
If current environmental indicators are to be believed
We gotta find a new way of selling Earth salvation.
How about this:

Save All Life.

© Rick McKinney
July 2, 2012

Rowing Killer Fang Falls

A sample of my full Grand Canyon rafting manuscript

Valentines Day – Killer Fang Falls Rapid, Grand Canyon, USA

Our private group of four boats is pulling over to scout Killer Fang Falls, also known as Mile 232 Rapid. It’s February, it’s cold. We’ve been down in the canyon for weeks rafting icy water, one day in the falling snow. But this is the Grand Canyon, the rafting trip of a lifetime. When you win the raft permit lottery, you go. Our boat is on sweep, which is to say we are the last boat. I’m on the oars, having run the past couple of smaller rapids. Killer Fang is not small, and as the name implies, not to be trifled with.

Despite being the strong rower that Boo has dubbed “The Motor” that he drops-in to get us to shore when he doubts his ability, I am not stern to the shore in time to back ferry. I perform a spin too far midstream, miss the eddy. Suddenly we are quite clearly not going to make the scout.

Immediately I snap into GO! mode having no choice but to power through and take our chances with the unknown white water lurking around the bend. What I know about Killer Fang Falls: it takes its name from a two-pronged jagged shard of schist protruding from the wave train. What I don’t know in that instant is exactly where said fangs are located. Turns out they awaits us at lower river right. I deduce this from information being shouted at us from shore and frantically resounded by Boo and Meredith as we plummet down the tongue and straight into a fast narrow chute.

In the words of 19th century canyon explorer John Wesley Powell, “The waters reel and roll and boil.” Once in a Grand Canyon rapid of any substance, there is no escape but straight on through. There is only river right, middle and river left. Often you must enter right and move left, or visa versa.

Up a wave we go and down the other side only to be met by another of greater size and force. The river bends to the right here, the forward driving force of which gives birth to a series of lateral waves striking inward from the left wall.

Just five seconds ago all my force was dedicated to pulling us left to set the boat up to avoid the fangs. And only two seconds ago I shot down the tongue of the rapid straight on. Now I point my bow thirty degree left and thus at a right angle to the now monstrous laterals.

Then we hit it: the seething maw at the core of the rapid, the largest of the hydraulics midway down the falls. Down into its trough we go and then up, up, up but before we clear the top she breaks across the bow. For a few seconds all in the boat is awash in foam.

Now past it the boat bobs and weaves in a mad sea of waves breaking every which way. Somewhere deep beneath us a maze of huge boulders and tunnels carved through the millennia churn and froth and swirl and beat the passing river into the frenzy of white water that is a rapid.

Now all my energies go into pulling the bow around to face the approaching fangs on river right. Always careful to plant my oars where and when the powerful hydraulics won’t rip them from my hands, I commence to turn the boat. But the current fights me. I roar and grunt and shout in unconscious accompaniment to my physical fight for every degree of angular advantage.

I see the fangs. They are barely visible today due to the current high water flow but no less treacherous. To hit them at this speed would be at worst to flip, to shred the boat or at the very least eject a passenger and possibly high center.

They are coming up fast. The boat is not stern to river left as needed. Without this angular advantage, I cannot be sure to pull away from the danger in time.

At last I gain the upper hand. With both oars pulling hard in opposite directions, I manage to pull the bow around to face my nemesis. With mighty back-ferrying strokes, I feel the heavy 18-foot craft creeping across the crazed swirling but mostly hard downstream tangent of the water, all 20,000 cubic feet per second.

Through the flying foam and splashing hysteria that is every great Grand Canyon rapid, I can hear Boo and Meredith cheering, “You got it Jester! You got it! Pull! Pull!”

Suddenly though we are not yet past the fangs, I just know I have cleared their dangerous line. I pull once more for safety’s sake and once again out of pure adrenaline, and a whirlpool under-path spins us ever-so such that as we pass we are sideways to the river, bow to the fangs. We laugh as we cheer. We are clear of them. I have done it. I have run my last Grand Canyon rapid spot on, and I did it without even stopping to scout.

© Rick McKinney 2011

The only way out is straight through the middle
The only way out is through the middle


Housewives like to chase me with vacuum cleaners

This time it’s my sister
She doesn’t mean anything by it
Just cleaning because
Cleaning gives life meaning
Which is more than I can say for me
In terms of purpose and sometimes cleanliness

All this cleansing rain
Insane-making by day
Dreamy by night

There was another housewife
(there have been a few)
Who manic, chasing meaning
Drove me from her house
Her vacuum nipping at my heels

She and her husband were once my friends
Swingers who threw erotic dinner parties
Tongues on flesh
Baked garlic on french bread
Red wine and brie

Waking from such nights was always hard for me
I could spend all day in bed
Nursing hangover, dreaming, moving the pen
But for the vacuum

My friends’ house was a faerie tale castle
All minstrel and myth and madness
It was fantastic really, a Shakespearian dream
Maybe the vacuum died
I don’t know

For one night the wife
On hands and knees
Hoovered a hundred Xanax
And the castle
Left unvacuumed
Ate itself

Who could remember
All the vacuums that
Consciously or unconsciously
Have rousted me from sleep (a misdemeanor)
Or writing (a felony)

I do remember well however
The day Anna in full hausfrau mode
(Flipped from previous night’s debauch)
Blasted me out of bed with
Her screaming cleaning machine

Any vacuum salesman would agree
A good vacuum will do far more than sweep debris
A vacuum’s roar will stifle great heaving sobs
Even suck up screams in screeching solidarity

Science tells us
Nature abhors a vacuum
I’m not too fond of them either

But given the chance to go back in time
I wouldn’t run from Anna’s vacuum that day
Instead I’d pull the poor women into bed with me
And with the flick of a switch
Remove the scream of desperation from the air
Change the tone
Make it a moan

Give the woman some small reason to go on
More, I imagine, than a vacuum can

For a little while anyway.

© Rick McKinney Dec 17, 2008