Well, I did it. I finally figured out a name for the blog. Welcome to "My Little House of Ill Repute." The decision has been made.
Years ago, Hillary Ryan, introduced me to Sandra Cisneros. She told me these poems would set me free. For this, I am eternally grateful.
They say I'm a beast.
And feast on it. When all along
I thought that's what a woman was.
They say I'm a bitch.
Or witch. I've claimed
the same and never winced.
They say I'm a macha, hell on wheels,
viva-la-vulva, fire and brimstone,
but I like the compliment.
The mob arrives with stones and sticks
to maim and lame and do me in.
All the same, when I open my mouth,
they wobble like gin.
Diamonds and pearls
tumble from my tongue.
Or toads and serpents.
Depending on the mood I'm in.
I like the itch I provoke.
The rustle of rumor
I am the woman of myth and bullshit.
(True. I authored some of it.)
I built my little house of ill repute.
Brick by brick. Labored,
loved and masoned it.
I live like so.
Heart as sail, ballast, rudder, bow.
Rowdy. Indulgent to excess.
My sin and my success --
I think of me to gluttony.
By all accounts I am
a danger to society.
I'm Pancha Villa.
I break laws,
upset the natural order,
anguish the Pope and make fathers cry.
I am beyond the jaw of law.
I'm la desperada, most-wanted public enemy.
My happy picture grinning from the wall.
I strike terror among men.
I can't be bothered what they think.
Que se vayan a la ching chang chong
For this, the cross, the Calvary.
In other words, I'm anarchy.
I'm an aim-well,
I'm Bitch. Beast. Macha.
Ping! Ping! Ping!
I break things.