 Pamela is the author of three collections of poetry: “Something from Nothing,” (Writing Knights Press) “Woodwinds” (Lipstick Press) and “Matrimonial Cake” (Red Dashboard). Her next book of poetry debuts in spring 2017 with Oolichan Books. When Pamela is not writing, she's sleeping. She believes sleep is death without the commitment.
Misconception There’s a terrorist perched in the pine tree in the backyard. He’s frozen as ice is, legs coiled around the tippy top branches, AK-47 slung to his side. The birds bludgeon the morning with whooping war cries and my body hits the floor, takes cover beneath the bed. There is no God here to help me. Clumps of snow fall and limbs crack. Earthworms churn their bodies through dark soil. It won’t be long now and his polished boots will appear at my bed. He will kneel down, lift my bed skirt, and peer into the cross- hairs of the veiled darkness in which I lie in. I pray Allah’s bounty of virgins is enough to go around and wonder if God knows the women are being screwed? Kurd from Baghdad wins Oregon Lottery The story does not end here but triggers a full blown, Facebook feeding frenzy with people going ballistic, blowing up their walls in shell-shocked statuses and point blank posts about this little known man of international mystery: The money belongs here in Oregon! There needs to be rules. This is messed up. Not to be racist, but this is so wrong. We can’t give money to a foreigner. Isn’t gambling illegal for Muslims? This is not what our soldiers died for. Way to bring the terror home, America! God bestows millions on a Muslim. Lord, help us all if they give it to him. This should buy a few air missiles, virgins, guns and goats. In a related story… Iraqi Kurd becomes warlord overnight. This guy will use our money to kill us. You dum (sic) asses. You’ve funded ISIS. What would Donald Trump say? When you’re sliding into third and you feel a squishy Kurd… A man from Iraq wins the lottery. They withhold his name with good reason. Croyden Courts They live in enclosures behind sun bleached walls facing a courtyard sandbox, littered in beer bottles, butts and dirty diapers. Lawns are postage stamps clipped out like coupons. Grandpa sits captive in his den, confined to his chair rolling loose leaf tobacco, sipping stale coffee. He tells me Birdie is sleeping with Leo, Tabby's a bitch and Rex is a snake. Robin’s a pussy cat in her tiger tank top, black panther boots and leopard leggings. Ava's the doe- eyed one who drives Buck, ape-shit crazy and even though Jonah thinks he's a catch, he's really just a jackass. Grandpa's sick of the shrieking, snot nosed kids running wild while parents take time to procreate less time. He roars at them to keep off the grass, keep their hands to themselves and quit feeding the beast. They're all a bunch of animals! Fingers coil around fence posts and eyes glow yellow through the keyholes as doors slam shut. He's the zoo keeper, minding his business while cages moan under the moonlit filth and children curse inconceivable beds. Haven’t got a Prayer How do prayers reach Heaven? Do they hitch a ride on the cosmos in the backpacks of angels, go air mail on the wings of doves or do they drift on a slow spaceship to Zion? Is there a place in Las Angel Bliss where God’s messengers sort requests between the seven deadly bins before sending them Heavenward with their seal of approval? Do they measure and weigh each one, filter out what gets tossed, returned to sender and dispatched to the dead letter office seven stories below? I’m sure they wire the flyers and The Daily Bread. Does all Hell break loose when God receives junk mail and do the angels go Ghostal? Maybe God is fed up with our lack of creativity, our inability to grasp his word. Maybe he’s golfing all over God’s green acres and is on a million par hole. They say God answers in his time, not ours but time doesn’t exist in eternity, so forever and a day takes no time at all. Perhaps prayers are left unanswered because God in his infinite wisdom knows we just haven’t got the damn message yet. It’s all about the Yoga A forest of women spread leafy green limbs to the matted-mossy floor. They are ferns unfurling branches, bending and arching their newfangled bodies with open minds. I'm the camel plodding along, sweating it out in the dry hump of midday. I don't belong here in this dense grove of women, this cathedral of ever- green composure. I don't wear a red cape, drive a blue mini-van or drink. I am a trinity of all three melting into a twisted rendition of Edvard's Scream in an ugly frame of mind. I am not sitting Lotus or posing as the Fallen Angel. I'm the woman in the yoga pants, downward dogging it to pick up toys, soldiering on till I undertake the corpse position. I lie there, a spineless cactus without a stiff prick of rain to inspire me to get off my stump.
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