What you see is what you get.

The content on this web page is not to be reused or reprinted without permission of the writer.

Now that you’ve been warned, I’ve decided to post some of my “rejected” poems/stories/ramblings first. Actually, to be fair, some of them are posts on web sites still pending, have been posted on a web site, or may appear in print. So yada, yada, yada, I’m hijacking my own work submitted to online and print publications. (Has “yada, yada, yada” been copyrighted?) Here’s some of my off the wall musings, with a little backstory:

Inspired by Haggard & Halloo. this disturbing image is courtesy of the texasccl.com, a site that is pro-concealed handgun. I'd feel more comfy with at least one minority/female represented.


She submitted her headshot to Vogue,

a bullet wound through the face

courtesy of Adobe PhotoShop 6.0

and the Editor wrote her back:

“Dear Madmoiselle,

You may need to seek professional,

psychiatric help. ”

Her headshot rests on the table

next to the letter in a frame.

She still hasn’t found a place for it.

She glances in the mirror

with mild disapproval of her countenance.

Her once beautiful face is becoming concrete

etched by those lifelines slapped

across her once supple, now nubile cheek.

He was always drunk and always

sorry afterward. Especially that night-

when he jokingly held a 12-gauge to

her painfully beautiful face.

A poem about the esoteric ramifications of physical abuse. Some readers will find this poem confusing. And I’d like to ask those readers the following question: Is it live, or is it Memorex™?

Vagabond Street Blues

Rubber tire sandals on concrete

after the rain sound like

diving in pools of pontification

and drowning in the hipocrisy.

The lone brown figure stands plump

and juicy with exciting tales

of listening to a bluesman

on a dusty crossroads –

Damnation intersecting pure jubilee

of self discovery and new

wonderworlds of fruit and fungus

on the fattened virgin tongue.

Will he truly beat her to death

after dusk when well-dressed

paupers ask for change –

and the old blues singer wails?

He moans for a divine peace

that runs like fountains of gin

in a disease free whorehouse

where he pimps his old lady.

I listen for a while and

my eyes meet a stranger’s –

a watery and muddy green Mississippi.

And my blues feel like home sweet home.

As I look down at wet muddy feet,

my sandals hum to the tune

and the stranger sways and

closes his eyes as if praying for me.

In a moment of crisis, when stranded outside Waterloo Records for a few hours, I penned this poem about my observations of the evening. A fictionalized account, of course.

The next entry needs no backstory:

a livejournal entry: who needs hallucinogenic drugs when you have daytime tv?

So I was Magnum P.I., kinda. (For LiveJournal people not aware who this is, Magnum P.I. is a fictional TV detective from the 1980s – don’t laugh – portrayed by an actor who at that time was considered the sexiest man alive since Burt Reynolds – Tom Selleck – OK, laugh). I lived in the house in Hawaii and had all the same friends as Magnum, except I was a woman. Without a mustache. At first it took me a moment to comprehend the fact that I was now Magnum P.I., and at one point I kinda freaked out when someone was chasing me and my one-hour client/paramour who looked a lot like Courtney Cox who played Tom Selleck’s love interest Monica on “Friends”. (This also made me realize I know very little about the television show “Friends”, because when filling out one of those time-wasting surveys on MySpace, which asked “Which character on Friends are you most like?” I answered Rachel. But from what I remembered, I was thinking Monica. Hmmm….) Anyway… When you live in a nice guest house on a tropical paradise and drive a Ferrari, you eventually get used to the idea that you’re Magnum P.I., even though you’re a thirty-something black woman trapped in a thirty-something/forty-something’s white male body. It’s just a dream, after all, and I’m not Michael Jackson…

Later in the dream, I’m drinking a beer with T.C. and Rick, my buddies from ‘Nam (that’s the Vietnam War) and trying not to flirt with them and totally freak them out. They don’t seem to think I’m a woman, and this isn’t that kind of television program. And of course Higgins comes in with the Doberman Pinschers to bitch about something I’m doing or not doing right, and I want to know where his Robin Masters is, although I suspect he’s really the Master here. I am a private detective, after all… And then I wake up.

And through the thin walls of the bedroom in my sister’s apartment I hear a very familiar theme song.

Yep. The “Magnum P.I.” theme song was blaring from the neighbor’s TV. It was like I was in there watching it with my neighbor. (I thought I heard it at the beginning of my dream.)

I just realized this very moment how trivial and dull my life really is.

© 2007 diy-danna/The Surreal Estate of Danna Marrón Williams.


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