Tag Archives: Heather Susan Haley

On the eve of my *new* book, Three Blocks West of Wonderland

Crazy week! Or two. Fighting a cold and losing, succumbing to aches, pains, fatigue, trying to ignore H1N1 fear mongering, largely by the press and government. I was just discussing it with my niece and she said a friend was in panic mode and saying, “Did you hear about the healthy young man slayed by it?” Niece saw his picture and said he must have weighed 400 pounds. Apparently obesity is a complicating factor.

I don’t know, my GP says everyone should get vaccinated, to reduce the number of carriers, my naturopath says you have to eat a lot of dirt before you die, it’s natural and I swing back and forth. Naturally. I ignored previous plagues, even in Romania, the rumored origin of bird flu and never worried. People die of seasonal flu every year. This year’s variety, the swine flu is getting a lot of press and a bit harder to dismiss.

I’ve been spending quite a lot of time proofing the galleys for my new collection of verse, Three Blocks West of Wonderland that I told new FB friend Timothy Taylor was completed over a year ago. My still unpublished novel, The Town Slut’s Daughter is nearly as old as my dog and her chin is covered with white hair these days. In the meantime, Continue reading

The Proper Tool from “Three Blocks West of Wonderland”

Heading to the printers soon. Woo hoo!

The Proper Tool

I’m raring. I’m keen. Keen on the job, keen on green

suede, pea soup green suede. Round mountains

of breast meat. The taste of breadfruit. I’m fond

of blue fin, the Nepali coast. On off days I mourn

road kill, vanishing tooth fairies, yell above the wind

in ironwood trees or run over wild boars. I try to decipher

your posture, sagging down pipe. Was it something I said?

Did I wing a wrench into the works of your Stoly-propelled,

part-time life of letters? Did my leaky duck plump

body mangle your shift,

the entire working class hero period?

You don’t know your Gatsbys

from your Kowalskis, pub-crawling from slumming.

I buy jade, Siberian tiger’s eye. Thyme

infused bath bombs. Glass beads. Silk and suede,

green suede, so much easier to stroke than you.

Go saw yourself in half. Go nail

it in, back against the wall. Paint yourself, or it,

black. Into a corner. Weld your metal. Meld

the two halves of your dark side. Screw yourself.

Gather the loose ones. Punch yourself out.