Father Time is the G-rated Version of the voracious God who ate his children.
Father Time taps his Tick-tock at me gently Sighs, smiles, shrugs and Smooths his lustrous beard.
The voracious god, belly Full of children Looks me up and down and Makes rude comments about How my tits used to be higher.
I trust this god more. Our relationship is complicated. When he leans in for a kiss His breath stinks like children And it gets my childless womb All in an uproar.
I kiss him back anyway. I kiss Him passionately until his Breath smells like safe sex, Liquor on weeknights, and A liberation I’m not even sure I believe in. It makes him gag And vomit up his precious children.
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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