Kelly is as pretty as Kirsten Dunst. Her eyes are not weak at all. And all of her hair is not blond.

Strange Fruit

I defy you to watch a Ken Burns documentary and not cry. This week I tried to watch Jazz, the 10 hour series. I made it as far as the late 30's. By then Louis Armstrong had just arrived in Chicago. I began the series only intending to watch the episode about Billie Holiday. I quickly realized that I would have to start from the beginning to fully appreciate the Lady. To fully understand how she could be so heartbroken. Heartbroken in a way that only a jazz singer could be. If jazz were a tree, then it's roots would be deep and twisted, it's fruit would be bitter-sweet. The most successful artists had the greatest failures. They drowned in bottles or faded into shadows. Often they would just disappear into the deep blue of their own music. I only made it as far as the late 30's. Louis Armstrong was still blowing on second-hand trumpet and wearing borrowed tuxedos. He hadn't even met Billie Holiday yet. I defy you to watch an entire Ken Burns documentary. A person can only look at black and white photo's for so long. A person can only take so much heartbreak.

Restless Ear Syndrome

I can hear a dog howling a few blocks away. At this time of night, while I'm waiting for sleep to come, it sounds a little like the whurr of a police siren. At this time of night. After the crickets in the grass are silent. When the frogs in the forest lie still. When the birds in the trees have gone to where ever birds go at this time of night. I can hear a dog howling a few blocks away. It sounds a little like a man crying. The slow hands of the clock don't mean anything. When sleep hasn't come. At this time of night.

Madonna on the Rocks

This is dedicated to Amanda Westbrooke and everyone who is related to Amanda Westbrooke. To fans and suitors of Amanda Westbrooke. To people who watch public television, and patrons of community theatre. We are starstruck. We are children at her feet and clay in her hands. She is among the Daffodils. When we scorn her, she weeps like Mary. And so we give praise. She is your mother, and mine. Amanda Westbrooke. Holy vessel. Guardian of patrons of community theatre, and people who watch public television.

Damn

I have searched the pockets of every pair of pants that I own, and I cannot find a single piece of bubble-gum.

Pajamaralways

In the midst of a minor panic attack. The pile at my feet grows and grows and grows. I am cleaning out my closet. Reorganizing. Preparing to move to college. I've seen the television programs about pack-rats, people who pathologically hoard objects until their homes become unlivable. Houses strewn with garbage and the toys of grown children who have long-since moved out. Apartments packed with towers of newspapers spanning decades. The homeowner lies weeping in the fetal position as the producers of the show pack their possessions into garbage sacks and toss them in the dumpster. My walk-in closet is choked with my things. I pull my clothing from the dresser and find it increasingly difficult to part with things that I haven't worn in years. A wool poncho decorated with pictures of llamas, 12 hoodies, a black, polyester floor length dress, and several velour track suits that my mother passed down to me. I find that a good 40% of my wardrobe consists of pajamas. I don't wear pajamas. They make me itchy. Also I have no socks. I call a friend for emotional support. She suggests that I throw out things that I have borrowed from other people. I get rid of a pair of cowboy boots left for me by an aunt and the track suits. Even this gives me the cold sweats. I keep the pajamas.

City of Destiny

Tacoma: The Broom Capital of the World
Tacoma: City of 1000 fences
Tacoma: The Big Cupcake
Tacoma: The City With Broad Shoulders
Tacoma: The City That Never Naps
Tacoma: The City with No Past
Tacoma: America's Most Angular City

This is Just to Say

I have returned
the panini maker
that your great aunt
gave us
for our wedding

and which
was the only gift
I took with me
when I left
with your best man

Forgive me
you were possessive
and boring
and Bradley already has a panini maker

This is Just to Say

I have killed
the cat
that was sleeping
beneath
the back tires
of my car

and which
was your favorite
pet
from childhood

Forgive me
she was old
so toothless
and smelly
and you know I'm not a cat person

This is Just to Say

I have eaten
the sandwiches
that were in
your back pack

and which
you were probably
saving
for lunch

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so peanutbuttery

-William Gabby Williams

Here in the garden
among the snakes and apples
we discover pants

Poetry and All

The Garden Gnome

so much depends
upon

a stout garden
gnome

glazed with gutter
water

beside the white
kittens

-William Gabby Williams

Poetry and All

This is Just to Say

I have washed
the sweater
that was dry clean
only

and which
you probably
spent
a lot of money on

Forgive me
but dry cleaning is expensive
and inconvenient
and I hated that sweater.

-William Gabby Williams

Comments for the Cosmos

March came in like a lion and out like a kidney stone

You are like an onion. If someone were to chop you into pieces it would probably make me cry.

This morning I sat waiting for you to get out of your public speaking class. Whilst rummaging through my purse, I found a package of heart-shaped candies left over from St. Valentines Day. I was hungry. My stomach churned like a cat in an ice-bath. I was hungry and the heart candies were small and shiny like beads. The were smooth, and red and pink. The package opened with a soft crinkle. They were tiny in my hand, and I was so hungry, and your class was so long. I popped the handful of them into my mouth. They were smooth, and round and they tasted like human hearts. The sharp, mineral taste of blood filled my mouth. As I ate them I felt the chewy spring of the sinew against my teeth. It was like like licking a wound. It was like eating a piece of steak, if the steak was raw, and still attached to a live cow. Then your class was over and you wanted to talk about Darfur. I spit out the candies.

Wrong Side

This morning I awoke to find in my bed: 35 cents in nickels, one forgotten red mitten, a dead turtle dove, two tickets to "The Barber of Seville", a pair bloodstained cutoff shorts, a half eaten Tupperware dish of pasta salad, a very frightened looking tenor, 3 incandescent light bulbs, the plumbers section of the yellow pages, and my shoes.

Throughly Postmodern Millie pt. 1

Hipsters drink Coke and wear 10 gallon hats. Or they will, at some point. My efforts to define and classify the elements of Hipsterism began after a encounter with an acquaintance in which he offered me a swig from the ball-jar he was using as a water bottle. False, it began when I noticed the frequency of my friends buying animal t-shirts from Value Village.

Though my knowledge of eastern wisdom comes primarily from what I read in "The Tao of Pooh", I believe that Lao-tse, the Chinese philosopher, was the world's first hipster. "Those who know the way, do not speak it. Those who speak the way do not know it." Such is the Taoist proverb and the ultimate challenge with defining what makes a hipster.

Things I Have Not Written for Kelly

1.
In the morning frost
Footprints melt like dreams
Erased by the dawn
2.
We are the snowflakes
The bliss of mortality
Melting on warm tongues
3.
Said moth to himself
as the white light grew brighter
How fragile we are
4.
Owl called to Moon
night wind rustled the branches
Moon made no reply
5.
When the storm has passed
I stand barefooted and wet
Smiling at gray skies

The true mystery is that no one is attracted to redheaded men, and naturally redheaded women are extinct, yet somehow they still manage to reproduce. And the male redheaded subspecies flourishes. If only this were true of the Whidbey Island Pygmy.