She sheds herself one rough skin at a time, drops them dripping into the hamper, and, naked innards walking, drags the dripping hamper to a sly-smiled laundress who has her discount ticket pre-filled.
“Heavy duty cycle,” she says, “and remember, hang is the only way to dry.”
I am an essayist and poet. My work has been rejected by some of the finest journals in America. Fortunately, it also gets accepted from time to time and has appeared in equally fine journals such as Word Riot, Inlandia, Brew City Magazine, and SageWoman, among others.. In 2002, I won the Academy of American Poets Prize for Vanderbilt University.
For no good reason, I possess an unnecessarily dark humor which is why being third generation California Inland Empirian delights me so. My gods are weird. I once won $350 for writing a smartassed essay on “why the wise use of water is important in my daily life”. I am undoubtedly the Greek god Hermes’ special snowflake. I’m pretty sure I got into college via a series of fortuitous clerical errors.
When I had to grow up and get a real job, I decided against it and stayed a writer. I have worked many odd—and I mean odd—jobs to support my habit: PR writer for country music hopefuls, resume massager, WalMart fitting room attendant and switchboard operator, and telephone psychic, just to name a few.
I am also albino. That's why my psychic gifts are so strong. I traded in my pigment for magical foresight, because that's how it works. It gets all technical. Trust me. That's totally how it works.
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One thought on “Heavy Duty Cycle (poetry)”
The reptile brain must shed it’s un-laundered cerebral cortex when dirty work must be done to slither the emotions out into where the grass is not greener but filled with vermin opponents who rule the world like rats who have taken over the lab of evil. The sheepskin cortex must be clean if writing the war strategy is to be done on it. it’s done too much sopping up of the meandering river of dreams.
M. N. Ashley 
The reptile brain must shed it’s un-laundered cerebral cortex when dirty work must be done to slither the emotions out into where the grass is not greener but filled with vermin opponents who rule the world like rats who have taken over the lab of evil. The sheepskin cortex must be clean if writing the war strategy is to be done on it. it’s done too much sopping up of the meandering river of dreams.
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