HOT/POETRY

It’s been over a week of record high temps. I do mean well over a hundred for most of June. I recently traveled to La Grande, to meet with a friend of mine who has family in the area and is traveling further to Lincoln City, Oregon. Hot. It was hotter than those inedible Takis burn holes in your tongue snacks. La Grande is in the mountains. I do not recall my undergrad town being almost too hot to go outside, not even once. In June. Or any other summer month. Unusual weather we’re having here in the West.

So, here’s a poem. I have no idea where this one arrived from. But here it is. Maybe it’s a bit of nostalgia. My family would gather, both sides, during holidays. My grandfather loved loved loved Fourth of July. Both did, actually. But my dad’s dad would order fireworks, then delight in shooting them off or having one of us light the fuse. Roman candles, those ones that spin and fly, bottle rockets, everything illegal that would set giant fires, woot woot. Maybe I am missing the sense of celebration, family now scattered or passed on…maybe maybe maybe. That careless ignorance that such gatherings would never stop. Of course they do. Time marches like a savage merciless army through everything and everyone, after all.

JESSICA IN THE GARDEN

Catnip and thyme, basil and lavender.

Her left hand tugs at the leaves,

caresses the stems.

She will smell like spaghetti sauce

and old lady purses

when she wanders by.

She eats a banana while standing on one leg,

her eyes on the cat chasing the dog

through the new mown grass.

They put bananas on hooks,

some sly wit tells the child.

Maybe that’s where bananas go,

Jessica replies

before arranging the rocks she painted

into odd and various piles.

Drops of the Sky

DROPS OF THE SKY

I eat drops of the sky like candy

made in the ovens of

the gods.

That road before me

leads me to saviors

made of stones and

tangled grasses…

saviors who will offer me

a star-scarred night;

a careless gift

to enjoy

like a broken porcelain cup

full of dandelion wine.

Pig Bait

Wheat field, with storm coming in, last year

It’s May. The weather is either FREEZING, WINDY HELL or hey, it’s warm out. Garden is planted, got a new blueberry plant to go with the one from last year.

So have been not writing that much. But. Have been thinking about it. Does that count? Yes, it does.

So saw this blip about Baker City, Oregon and how it’s now a sanctuary city against…wokeness. I. Um? Ahem. Not an Onion article or a satire piece in the sedate New Yorker. The mayor, with crazy glazed eyes, did an interview on Fuck It Fearnews. Where she blatted on about entire Pacific Northwest cities burning down, Antifa not welcome in Baker and…the usual bullshit you can hear from your red-hatted relatives. Seattle is gone? Portland is now just ashes? We’re kinda short on cities here in the Pacific Northwest. Eugene? Is it Eugene she’s shrilling about?

Yes, so!

This utter stinking lunacy gave me an IDEA. What if…what if someone deliberately trolled the red-hats, got them so wound up that one of them actually decided to ‘do something about it’. And it’s a trap. Baited with ‘go ahead, look me up, if you dare’ rhetoric implied. As Americans are off their damn rockers right now and do actually find people to shoot or run over or…Yeah, my brain, it just goes there.

Sometimes you have to take those wild ass far right news blips and turn them into horror tales for this post-modern trying to return to the actual fucking Dark Ages timeline we’re in now. Yeppity yep.

I am fully vaccinated. There’s that.

Been up since two. My brain is a swirly whirly sludge of huh? right now. But I noticed I had not posted for a while and hey, I do have a rough draft, two now, done of a short story I’m called Pig Bait. I rather enjoyed writing it. I haven’t enjoyed writing for a long time.

All righty! It’s gorgeous outside so I need to obsessively check my seedlings and yank the sprinkler to a dry spot. All my flower seeds sprouted! The cat is also doing well. In case you were worried. You know who you are.

Ambitions

Hi and hello. I am going to try to record my work in audio formats, which should be a fun learning experience for all. I am also going to stop being a chickenshit and get…A PATREON PAGE. Why not. I have stuff to offer. It’s a way to get my works out there.

I am not good with technology so this will be a challenge. And since the weather refuses to not be wintery, which is freezing all my plants…yeah, should jump with a WTF, let’s do this! rebel yell into the nearest canyon. All righty then! Onward, upward, woot woot.

https://www.patreon.com/annwuehler

Hello 2021!

It’s finally here!! 2021!

I have no hope it will be better but it surely cannot be worse than 2020. Yes? No? I guess we’ll see when we’re all fighting off the zombie hordes, waiting for 2022 to hit so everything magically gets reset due to the Oregon Prophet’s prophecy. Because anything is possible in this time of no laws, magical thinking, alternate realities for all and ignorance is just as good as knowledge debates. No, I’m sober. Okay!

I did start up an Amazon author page. My only goal this year is to improve my self-promotion skills. That’s it. No grand plans, no wild dreams, nothing bigger than…be better at advertising a wee bit. I just started this yesterday so am still trying to figure out why it won’t…and then cussing a lot, then playing some Candy Crush, but I’m stuck on this particularly horrid level, that gives you about five moves to clear about seven of those fucking nut/cherry combos. Why do I bother with this stupid game??? Why?? Surely I should be writing or self-promoting so hard my entire face bleeds…

Yes. Hi. Hi, 2021. How ya doing so far?

Move To Trash

I have decided to ax a post. I hit the publish button and then went, eh. Why does anyone need to read that? They don’t.

I have a book out, Aftermath: Boise, Idaho and am working on getting another one into final editing. That’s Remarkable Women of Brokenheart Lane.

I have had a pretty good year writing-wise.

My short story, Mouse and Man, was published in the Sun, in April.

My short story, Greenhorn, was in the Whistle Pig’s Volume 12.

I helped co-write a screenplay based on a short story of mine from Oregon Gothic.

There’s other things out there that got accepted and hey, good for me.

So will press forward this last very long month to be. Will skip Christmas, spend it on my own.

Onward and upward to a bright new year. [Hopefully?]

And thanks to all who read my scattershot blog and thanks to those who support me, even only slightly and thanks to this year about being nearly OVER ALREADY.

I didn’t cuss once. Look at me go!

Banana Poetry

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My mini garden, in April. 

Hello! 

So here’s a poem based on the pic of a banana hangin’ on a hook. This is what formed in my brain. Not even kidding. 

JESSICA IN THE GARDEN

Catnip and thyme, basil and lavender.
Her left hand tugs at the leaves,
caresses the stems.
She will smell like spaghetti sauce
and old lady purses
when she wanders by.
She eats a banana while standing on one leg,
her eyes on the cat chasing the dog
through the new mown grass.
They put bananas on hooks,
some sly wit tells the child.
Maybe that’s where bananas go,
Jessica replies
before arranging the rocks she painted
into odd and various piles.

 

 

Terrible Happiness

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from Day by Day. 

My brains seem empty. That oft-played scenes in Westerns, with the tumbleweeds tumbling across the landscape. Yes, that is my brain right now. Eastern Oregon does indeed have the tumblin’ tumbleweeds. They pile up along the fences, or among the piles of debris, irrigation pipes, parked farm equipment. You carry them over to the burn barrel or the spot designated as the ‘burn spot’. The flames so satisfying! At least to me. I am something of a firebug. I do love to set fires. A rake, a box of matches, a weedy bank or stretch, I am a peaceful, happy collection of bones, skin and muscle.

This weekend, I do plan on attending a writer’s workshop. It’s free and offered in Nampa, Idaho, by the Death Rattle crew. Maybe my sluggish gray matter will burn those tumbleweeds to ash as it offers me a bit of a rush or even a new Idea. Or the needed impetus to work on a neglected project.

So, I’ll make this short and end with a poem…

 

 

TERRIBLE HAPPINESS

Be happy or there’s hell to pay.
Smile or they won’t leave you alone.
Pretend real hard and post pictures of bread
you made while saving pennies
to buy cat food if you get to retire.
Put a grin on your face
or get called names
or be asked why you hate
your country.
Be terribly happy
or be labeled a traitor.
Wave that flag
until you dislocate your shoulder.

5th Street and West

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Fun with filters! 

Something recent I wrote for a monthly poetry contest. I was channeling a bit of Tom Waits, perhaps? Maybe? Not at all?

 

 

5TH STREET AND WEST

Angus runs the liquor store on 5th Street and West.
His little ginger cat cleans her white paws
in the window each night if you pass by
after Angus locks the door and yanks the grill down.
The neon on the fur, strange strip club effect
but the cat doesn’t seem to care
for Biblical judgments that turn light into sins.
He lives above, in a tiny apartment and she must sneak down
to wander through the whiskey and gin and rum
as a tiger wanders through subdivisions
built over jungle and forest.
That same sensation of bewilderment and discovery
that perhaps something wonderful
lives just behind the section
of Kentucky bourbon.
He’s not married, and that little ginger cat
means the world to him.
When you buy a fifth of something harsh,
that cat purrs under his hand
as he rings you up with the other.
It’s just a cat, he claims with sneer on lips,
but the truth flops little moth wings
in his neon eyes.

Dreamless

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An old-fashioned Valentine’s Day postcard

I haven’t posted for a bit. So here’s a quickie. I’ve been eyeing the DC craptastic craparama of crap and oh dear. Oh my. 

So here’s a ‘pome’! About love! Happy almost Valentine’s Day!!

 

LET ME SLEEP DREAMLESS

Let me sleep dreamless
with no notion that you ever existed.
No world where you tied your shoes
with the dog trying to lick your cheek.
Erase yourself.
Erase yourself from me.
That would be a kindness
of immense practicality right now.

 

 

 

 

My two books are available on Amazon. Oregon Gothic, short stories. House on Clark Boulevard, novel.

And hopefully soon, my Remarkable Women of Brokenheart Lane will make its debut. Cannibal bikers versus elderly sisters during the end of the world– no, wait. It’s funny and absurd more than grim, gross and the Road-ish.