I. A Wild Mix

Consumer Fix

How to Train a Puppy

S’Mores

Hope Chest

Awaken

Port

Collective Consciousness

Consumer Fix

What thoughts I have for you tonight, Allen Ginsberg, as I wrestle the hollow iron behemoth into Costco seeking its fill.

Among the bustle and shrieks, crowds drag their hollowed souls under fluorescent lights, mothers craving delicious discounts, fathers lusting for purchased power, kids yearning for more.

In the aisle of the spagetti-Os, I remember my family dinners  when dad taught me to spell tasty words with sweet melodies in the jello. Cacophony and equanimity slid down my throat.

With the cacophony of flavored words and the equanimity of confidence, I’d aced the spelling test, gotten placed with the gifted kids, rows of eggheads following the rules.

Were you gifted too Allen Ginsberg? When you cracked open the rules of rhyme, invented a new kind of free-range poetry of noisy oversized shopping lists of American plastic and rot.

Testosterone-clad dads push fifty-horsepower mowers over cement aisles while TV-worn moms squeeze one hundred sour lemons dreaming of lemonade, kids howl for two hundred suckers to sweeten their lives and rot their teeth.

Fast-hands with big bellies pack superfluous deals into careering carts that gorge

supersized vans.

I see the best families of the land destroyed by consumer madness

                              (Influenced by Allen Ginsberg in aisle seven)

How to Train a Puppy

My Jack Terrier, Addie, like my mind, vivid and restless

I take Addie to training school

I bring my mind along

Step 1

Show Addy around her new home. The kitchen, the bathroom, her bed. She’s curious

Show my mind around my old body. The head, the arms, the stomach.. Be curious

Step 2

Lead Addie to the folds of her soft bed.  Pet her with love.

Lead my breath to the hollow of my soft belly. Welcome her with love.

Step 3

When Addie wiggles over and tickles my nose, lead back to her bed again. Be firm.

When my mind wanders over to imagine my coffee, lead her to my breath again. Be firm.

Step 4

When Addie wanders off, again, guide  her gently back. Don’t yell

When my mind wanders off again, guide her gently back. Don’t yell.

Step 5

When Addie returns to sniff the smell of my warm feet.  Feel the love

When my mind returns to lap the smell of hot coffee. Feel the love

Step 6

When Addie wins, wanders into my lap. . Remember there’s tomorrow

When my mind wins, wanders into my day.  Remember there’s tomorrow.

S’Mores

Dear Becky,

I went to the Memory Care Center to visit Nell, and want to share this sad, but sweet tale.

I sat by the sleeping side, her mouth slack, dribble slipped down her chin. In her clammy pink hands, I rested my bloody heavy heart.

Then in a flash, with a sleepy swoosh, I slid down the smooth waxed tunnel of Nell’s ear, dropping into the landscape of our sister’s once brainy brain. Through a twisted web of hardening plague, I swung my pick, tapped my trowel. My big beam scanned for stories we once told around flickering fires, scents of pine. I scanned for hope, a hole where the past might live warm and bright. I tapped. I tapped. Sweat and toil, my hope fatigued.

Tap. tap. Shards flew. A slit ripped open. With megaphone hands, I shouted down, down into the darkness, “Remember the chatter of chipmunk sharing our graham crackers, nibbling at crumbs? How you whispered to her "I'll remember you, this moment will live forever.” Forever, forever my echo wavered, bounced back at me.

I trudged onward, decaying, dying cells strewn on barren ground, stones of grist.

Suddenly, surprisingly, a pinprickle beam of light shone through a stone. Kneeling close, I pressed my eye to the shining unknown. Placing my lips on the hole, hopepressed mype, I trembled. “Nell, dear Nell, remember the burnt marshmallows, the sweet smell of messy s’mores. Remember. Remember.”

I slumped my yearning ear over the hole, From an ancient buried  land, I heard the twitch of a searching nose. A whiff of a living memory.

Then clearly, distinctly in the soft hollow of my ear, Nell’s sweet voice sent us one word.

 “Yum.”

Love, Karen

PS. Oh yes, About the grandkids. Timmie lost his tooth and Camy loved the tutu you sent her

Hope Chest

 My grandmother escaped from the Nazis, traveled across the sea with hope and dreams tucked deep into her generous chest.

My mother, safe in the suburbs, carpooled me to artful lessons in prosperity, her bounty lifted in starchy, pointy bras.

Me in the Haight, my freed breasts, earth-mother bare, flowed with sweet milk for my daughter.

My daughter, in Italy, raised voluptuous breasts and dreamed the grandest dreams of a proud single mother.

My granddaughter crossed the sea to visit me, at fifteen. With budding breasts she dreamt of a boy who broke his promise.

***

 “Look grandma,” she says. “It’s almost perfect.” Snug and safe in the cushion of her palm, a sand dollar round and smooth and white against the curve of her budding breast. I want to reach out, caress its smooth, cool surface. Salt on the wind, the heavy, damp scent of twisted, decaying wood tingles the back of my throat. The waves crash, a thunderous, insistent cough again and again. She throws her treasure into the air. My eyes follow as it rises against the perilous, gray sky.

***

She’s sixteen when we again gather round my oak table viewing the mouth of the Columbia river, the graveyard of the Pacific. My breasts weighed with worry, I offer plain, comforting pasta.  Its sheen of rich butter, steam curling in a clear, innocent curl.  A simple ring in her nose, silver hoops in her lobes, long sleeves grip her arms, t-shirt cut low. Breasts overflowing, pushed up, smooth and white, they invite the eyes of a new world.

Taking a noodle mid-gulp, I stare.

Her eyes roll up. “What? Grandma. Gotta lead with my family assets.”  The scent of Eilish perfume, Amber Gourmand’s sugared petals and red berry overcome my simple pasta scent.

Her lavish breasts – unplucked. Waiting. Wanting. Will they carry a tingle to her core, untethered, as she drifts away from innocence?

A noodle slips from her fork, lands on the floor with a soft, wet plop.

She bends, reaches—her shirt twists—pulls up,a rosy areola peeks out.

I cough, intuition caught in my throat.

Then my eyes spy–a nightmare of angry, red slashes on her arm

the scabs barely sealed over an ocean of despair.

 Awaken

Desperate to flee the beast of my nightmares

His scaley chest thumps, gory blues and purple

I clutch my silver cane and step out

Inhaling the gray March mist, I’m terrified he’ll color my day

Headphones in place, the vibrating gong

rises above the struggling beast behind

Fleeing to the tap, tap, tap of my cane, I limp towards latte

to the thump, thump, thump of my heart

Tara whispers in my ears, “I’m here for you. I’ll guide you through the chakras to awaken.”

With a melodic whisper, Tara invokes the root chakra–

Energy in our feet, legs grounding us to the earth. Spinning red.

On Franklin and Fourteenth, I seek my own red, wanting a perfect primrose

Instead, I spy an Octagon with white letters that call me to STOP.

Red.

I root into the ground.

With the voice of an angel, she guides me to my sacral chakra–

Pulsating in the pelvis, generous with creativity. Shining orange.

Crossing to KMUN, I seek out the russet backs of doe and fawn

Instead, I accept a bright plastic cap on a pipe poking above the ground.

Orange.

My creativity sparks.

Tara leads me to my solar plexus chakra–

Below the belly button, this energy center radiates courage. Pulsing yellow.

Nearing Duane, I crave daffodils pushing through the damp earth.

Instead, I spy a fire hydrant alert with fresh paint.

Yellow.

My spirit shines strong.

Tara and I step softly into the warmth of the heart chakra–

Snuggled tightly in the chest, its energy glows. Vibrant green.

Right on Duane, I wish the gray Columbia River would shine green through the mist.

Instead, sparkle comes from the light strung across 14th Street as it changes.

Green.

My heart flips on.

Ahead, I spy the cafe where a latte will warm my throat chakra–

The voice calls for clarity. Brilliant blue.

The Blue Scorcher sign beckons

Blue.

I exhale.

At the counter, I slip my headphones down to say hello to my barista.

Skin inked with blue and purple blooms twining toward her breast

“The usual, Vee?” she asks, a twinkle in her green eyes.

In the distance, Tara says: “Now, The Third Eye Chakra in the middle of the forehead. Indigo.

Indigo jumps out of the striped pride flag on the window.

I settle to my chair and behold the slate blue mountains across the Columbia. Say hi to my buddies, Sasha and Charlie,

inhaling the first waft of sweet brew.

I let Tara have her final words: “The ultimate is the Crown Chakra, vibrant purple, connecting you to the cosmos.”

I connect to Sasha riffing on the ills of Capitalism

Listen to Charlie tapping out the rhythms of his next tune

I sip my latte, rich brown topped with a perfectly centered heart.

I awaken.

From afar, I hear the soft murmur of my beast, his blue and purple chest slipping into slumber.

“See you tomorrow,” I tell him.

“See you tomorrow,” I say to Tara.

Taking silver cane in hand, I walk through the open door

and greet the colors of my day.

Port

My vagina is the Port of Portland, wet and welcoming. As sea weary sailors are entering the generous throbbing mouth of the Columbia. I tingle with anticipation, the Willamette lap at my feet. The sun arises as I ready my five slips to welcome barges pushing golden grains. tankers with dangerous chemicals, container ships piled with chests of hidden desires

At six am, the longshoremen arrive, rough hands warming silver thermoses, gulping coffee, its heat rousing their strong, wanting bodies. The port aroused throbs with energy. Gulls cry, and longshore shout against the gentle murmur of the city. Seven great cranes stretch metallic sinews gleaming, then plunge, deep and insistent, into the vessels. In and out, a rhythmic thrust. In and out, they claim their bounty.

Throughout my long days, six days a week, year after year I load and unload two million tons. The whole of Oregon praises my labor, the  pains I take to give birth to their possibility and prosperity. I burst with pride as powerful lifts hoist the containers piled four, five and six high. Rows of Toyotas shine in the roiling sun, rolling onto asphalt so hot I hum and tremble.

Exhausted, at five pm the longshoremen wipe their sweaty brows, pack their tin pails, head for a brag and a beer before opening the doors to their waiting wives and kids.

Thankfully, Sunday is my day of rest. I sigh with contentment, lolling by the river, so wet and welcoming.

Collective Consciousness                                                                           

By Janeen Phillips & Vicki Lind

Initiated by Janeen Phillips

Rebellious hippie wannabe at age 16

Confined in a mill town far from the scene

San Francisco - family vacation

Hostage in the prison of daddy’s car

No amount of pleading changes my fate

They won’t drive near Ashbury and Haight

Hippy on Haight at age twenty-two

Summer of Love – the heart of the scene

Flower children’s sanctuary

Baptized in patchouli and pot

My hair grows long, my mind blows open

On hippie hill the bongos beat

I dance free on tender feet

In a moment of “grooviness”

Mom sews me a Nehru shirt

Embroidered gold paisley, swirling in black satin

Velvet bell-bottoms caress bare toes

Peace signs, colorful beads, the scent of Nag Champa

Smoking pot on the mill race I make a resolution

I’m gonna have my own revolution

Blossoming goddess of grooviness

My needle sews a golden robe

Embroidered pink and purple beaded buds

Shed on the sand, this diva dives deep

Bare breasts speckled by sumptuous sun

With a shiver and shake I know what’s at stake

I’ll become my true self, a woman to make

Music – anthem of a Movement

Transistor radio pressed to my ear

Back porch stereo room - my Fillmore West

Trippin’ out with Janis, Jimi and Jim

Over a rainbow and under the influence

Floating away on a psychedelia sea

Yearning to find the essence of me

LSD- Mind-Bender of the Moment

The White Rabbit beckons beyond the staid and small

I tumble and fall into Wonderland

Where Cheshire cats grin and Mad Hatters sip tea

Playing croquet with the Queen of Hearts

My head flies free to the cheering parade

Of a life blown large in an endless charade

Now we nest in recliners by the sea

Wearing wisdom wrinkles of lives well lived

Clothed in gypsy beads and goddess gowns

Shared conscience of that memorable time

Woven deeply in spirit and mind

We survive, even thrive and rise above

Two hearts beating to the Summer of Love

II.  Grieving Micki

After

Gimmer

Damn Eagle

Micki Moves

Let Me Count the Ways

After

Sunday, May 5th

After a fall, Micki’s legs in ice, fail to dance

After three months, pleading like a fallen star. A cry of “No” “no” “no”

I’m only alive when I fly and prance

After a fright, her canary had lost all song, the kitchen was still

After three months, song returns like a risen savior, A trill of “Chirp. Chirp. Chirp”

A chorus for Micki, the house to fill

After three months, the parrot wonders, the quiet bed

After three days, cries like a hungry orphan. A whisper of “caw “caw” “caw”

Not wanting to know Micki is dead

Micki Carrier

April 18, 1956- April 22, 2025

Glimmer

Vicki steps off the Greyhound, her cane spangled with purples and oranges, glimmering like the swirls on my leotard. She arrives on the four p.m. bus because she accepts—maybe sometimes envies—my commitment to, okay, my addiction to, my routine. Forty minutes swimming in 82-degree water, bike riding along the Willamette, Zumba dancing at LifeTime. A hot bath submerged in purple bubbles, capped with a nap, I’m ready to greet my best friend.

Walking towards me, catching my eye, Vicki is unsteady. I hold my breath. Like every year, Vicki has come for my birthday—I’m turning 68. My heart wobbles. Vicki is 80 and I wonder how many more years she’ll be able to travel for these too-brief visits? Vicki’s foot finds steady ground. I release my breath.

Like always, we’ll celebrate by collaging images on a posterboard to guide the life we each envision for the upcoming year. Like always, my vision is for another year as great as this one. On my coffee table at home wait images representing my three smiling little dogs that feed my heart, bountiful greens to feed my strong body, and the lush paths at Tryon Creek to quiet my spirit.

Vicki settles in her spot, sinking into the pillows on the nest of golden velour blankets. The fish tank gurgles. She swirls the ice cubes in the cranberry vodka drink I made following her instructions: “Make it stiff. To dull the pain.”

I’m on the floor feeling into my stretch, my hamstrings taut and pleasing.

“Micki,” she says. “There is something we need to talk about.” Her tone is serious.

“Mmm,” I say, wishing I had a word to explain the pleasure of pushing the stretch to the point equidistant between comfort and pain. I sure as hell hope she hasn’t left her glasses or laptop or something on the bus again. I know how frustrated she gets with her ADHD mishaps, and don’t want to add to it by showing my distress about the endless hunts for missing objects.

“You and I, you know.” Vicki begins.

“Mmm,” I say. “Need a refill?” I ask, even though she rarely has two cocktails.

“Please,” she starts again. “You know how you are like me. Really hate pain. Get depressed when I can’t walk.”

“Right,” I agree. “Can’t stand pain,” as I watch the yellow and red fish duck into the seaweed, pausing, wishing I could duck this grim topic.

But she continues, her voice steadier now. “Well, if I’m at the end…”

“Hold that thought,” I say, jumping up to water a plant that suddenly demands my care.

But she doesn’t stop. “I want to know if you will help me—at least I could talk to you—if I didn’t want to go on.”

The water is about to seep over its brim.

I shake my head, say firmly, “This isn’t a conversation I want now. It makes me too sad to think about. Maybe next year.”

I pick up a photo for my vision board. It’s deep in Tryon Creek Park, a shaded bed of ferns at the end of a winding path. “Come on, Vicki, let’s begin,” I say, coaxing her into a sunnier vision for the year ahead.

Without a glimmer that before the year ends, I’ll lay my own broken body, my devastated spirit, on this bed of ferns in Tryon Creek Park.

Micki Carrier April 1958-May 2025

Damn Eagle

Remember Micki? How she'd soar, like a damn eagle in the sky. Kicking her heels up, you'd swear she was about to fly. We stood there, watching, never once asking why. Never thought she'd actually go, thought she'd get by.

They point the finger, "It was the dope!" Nah, you clueless chumps. Her true addiction?

That goddamn dance, the beat in her bumps. Needed it to breathe, to escape these emotional dumps. Yeah, she was at the end of her rope, man, those gut-wrenching slumps. Slid right down a mean, dark slope, buried under the lumps.

But, all she saw was shade, a constant, bitter grief. That ain't no damn way to live, that ain't no brief Taste of freedom, just pain on pain, beyond all belief

 But then the silence hit, a chilling, final goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.

Influenced by Eminem

Micki Moves

Sunday, May 12

In May

  when the world is dancerlyspry

            Karen-Ann-who-recreated-herself-Micki, the leaper and twirler

            chooses the other side of pain lamenting her lost zoombaswim life

crooked crippled MIcki                            (so still)

                                                               in the ground

When the ground is muduscious

                          LolaandilyandSparrow, her barkers and yippers

                          search in quiet yelps for their lost snugglebuggle life

confusing crazy where MIcki                     (so still)

                               cannot be found

When the perfect lawn on a hill holds her loveinabox

                          AnyaandVistoriaand me, her twelve-step mourners

                         Dig up stories of their lost serenitysurge life

not accepting the things we cannot change       (Micki so still)

                                                                                                        without a sound

 When the sky turns blue above the lusciousless puddle

                              ReyandOscarandCarlos her builders and gardeners

                              cry wet Mexican tears for their lost  Micki orangepurplegreen life

bringing  mounds of doche desserts decorated without documents

                                                                               (Micki so still)

                                                                                under the mound

When we heap  rosyredrhodies onto the mound

                               JohanandDorrieandMaura, her bodymoves dancers

                               Remember with stiff joints Micki’s bold bare midriff

making plans to leap and twirl again at a laterlesssad Celebration of Life

                                                                             (Micki still)

                                                                              dancing in our memories

Style after eecummings

Let Me Count the Ways

The sisters who did not come hired a company to count her belongings with a sharp leaden pencil in tight tidy columns. If they had hired me, I’d  write on her orange, green and purple walls how many messy ways I loved her.

Wet  ways. Her stylish bathtub spigot of Japanese simplicity where she welcomed me to immerse my old lady pains in her pink perfumed bubbles.

Obsessive recycling ways. Her unwavering finger pointing to my trash, with terror II would dump the “compost” or “recycle" into the most hated “landfill.”

Sparkling ways. Lights strung , twinkling from wall to wall, from fish tank to fish tank, her laughter, a current  plugged tightly into the walls of my gut.

Crazy kind ways. The homeless camp where she took me to meet Sam and Matt, bearing gifts of granola bars and warm socks for their frozen feet.

Irreverent ways. The New Seasons ailes where we heaped our spoons with buttered mashed potatoes to feed each other, not waiting one second to share our holiday comfort.

Screaming ways. The king sized bed where I joined the princess swaddled in red velvet patches beseeching a deaf universe to heal her screaming damaged legs.