Infinite Monkey

write to know.

No Tap Shoes

leave a comment »

tap shoesRough day,

thick-headed with the fog of grief

and weak bodied with the blood of life

all tough things at once,

a circle of loss,

this is how to choose your bites —

too large, and sticky-sharp

Overwhelmed with

your human condition


ALL seasons at once

teary, choking humidity,

hot salt and swirling bile

swallowed down

in rhythm

with a blister-busted heart

and sweat-aching bowel


(Just a small voice) muffled

beneath heavy pack,

buried in the avalanche

and heavy swelter of

water-drenched wool,

swaddling the (your) face,

seizing the (your) lungs,

weighing the (your) limbs

Peaceful they say,

(how would they know?)

dancing they say

(without your feet?)

reunited, at last

(but lost to us)


THIS uncharted land.


we’ve read a map,

roughly drawn,

(once or twice before)

to a similar place.

We’re offered directions,

(by every well-meaning passerby)


But NOT this one,


They don’t know it.

not this one,

not this place,

they can’t find this place

where we miss each other,

where you don’t know me,

locked away

in the distant abstraction

of reverie,


longing . . .




do not know . . . )


Until, even hunger is a stranger,

and sleep is your closest friend,

I feel your fingers slip from my grasp,

and with them goes my heart

Is this how it feels?

to lose your compass and canteen,

no shoes upon your feet?

no trail to guide you,


no shoes.

and still,


there are no footprints

(only bone chips) in this sand

(and no arms to carry us either),

no lapping waves at water’s edge,

no horizon to follow,

just the grit and gristle

of sand,

And I can’t even FEEL its heat,

only the thirst,

just THIS  thirst.


So I make water,

of my grief,

and touch the edges of your face in my mind,

and look for you in every corner of my being,

in every laugh and toe tap of this child,

in the newfound creases of my own skin,

in the mixed scent of soap and hairspray

and floral-covered cotton house dresses

and in the bitter sweetness of a peppered melon rind

at summer’s end . . .



(it has just barely begun)


And it’s briny,

but I drink deep,

(it knots my stomach),

but still,

I will drink,

(and yes, survive),

bathed in the hope,

of a freshwater savior,

(attempting my own osmosis


until the sand comes for me,

and with it, a time when,

those behind me,

will drink, too.


— Vanessa Nix Anthony

May 30, 2017




Written by Rainee Squatch

June 9, 2017 at 2:44 am

Posted in Uncategorized

Melting Pot

leave a comment »

hotpotpeople2So many peoples in
the land of the free,
blinded to the “dream,”
it’s been gouged from their skulls
by generations
of too soft, stubby-fingered hands,

“C’mon, it’s a revival!”

A legacy of othering,
shimmers on our slicked rivers,
hanging lifeless from the trees,
dusting lash and breath with ash,
smeared across cheeks,
and forced down throats.
this bitter lumped gumbo
no gag can expel

“Everybody out of the pot . . .”

and if you’re in,
“. . . as long as your under
these skies,
being stirred with THIS spoon . . .”

don’t bother
looking up.

you’ll do as (they) say,
for the warm-handed pat down,
or else . . .

have the breath crushed
from your moth-winged lungs
or a boot to your cloud-filled head,
hidden there in the closet
maybe something in a . . .
Bullet for your late night candy cravings,
your naked bones strung along a fence,
number on your wrist . . .
as you wait in a very long line
for the only bathroom for
YOUR kind

What’s that you smell, simmering on the stove?

(it’s mother’s last breath now,)
“Shh! She’s fine, just having a rest.”

“Don’t worry so much.
We’re safe here in the blankets they gave us.”

(So hot in Herr)
HOPE’s hydrocarbons
cracking with the blackened
crusted crude

“Taste this.”

“but we’re gonna be great again,
aren’t we?
Like it was . . .”


Vanessa Anthony
February 2, 2017

The Dalliance of Leaves

leave a comment »

the-dalliance-of-leavesA brilliant dalliance,
golden ochre, flittering,
paper Monarchs
taking off in flight,
twirling in the arms of the crisp Autumn air
outside my living room window
A break in the music,
(a welcome respite from their spirited waltz)
the dancers gather in groups, large and small,
on the emerald slabs of the ballroom floor,
catching their breath and
quenching thirsts,
sipping dew drops
from the blades
beneath their skirts

Vanessa Nix Anthony
November 7, 2016

Written by Rainee Squatch

November 7, 2016 at 12:02 pm

So . . .

leave a comment »


So weary of this war machine

where “They” and “Them



So easy

when it’s THEM




THAT and

THEY deserve it


Children, howling, slapping back

With all the rage and indignation of a God

(we bluster)

all the bite and brawl of a rabid Dog

(we attack)


Heeding the seasick call of

an infrasound fear,

beating just out of reach,

behind our eyes,


beneath our hearts

in the slick, oily underbelly



the syncopated rhythms

of our own internal compass

Jarring our needles from their

HOMEward pointing cradles

spinning them, careening

towards a magnetic pole

that leaves us all thin,

dizzy and amnesiac


All less than our whole


Stretched and translucent

Far from community

from tribal unity

from our humanity


And just as senseless,

just as petty,

just as bereft of higher vibration

or thought



of true meaning

of THE purpose

that IS




An action so small

Four tiny letters typed on a page

A line, a circle, an unfinished inverted triangle, an arm encircling in half-embrace

Four letters (4)

To bring us HOME




to join arm-and-arm with fellow humans

REAL humans

not automaton politicos

or Wall Street thieves

or the grift of man-made marketer dreams




to leave behind all the gaping, ooze of want

(disguised as NEED)

to abandon our Corporate Overlords

to their empty marbled fortunes

and gristle-strewn lies


(All of them, long ago parted

from the heft and whisper of their 10.5 ounce fisted muscle,

aortic valves parched, cracked and curling at their edges

their barren chests echoing with the hollow reverberations of a desolate chamber)


Peeling back these crusty, wilted layers,

the greed-covered rot, 

to find that better place

where those four tiny letters

and empathy,


and consideration,



To find us,

and them,

and they,


Are WE.


Reunited –

blooming in the Bedouin desert

hand-feeding one another,

feasting, on the honeyed milk-giggles

of OUR children



Vanessa Nix Anthony

June 14, 2016

Written by Rainee Squatch

June 14, 2016 at 4:18 pm

And Sometimes Late at Night

with 2 comments

she stomps late at nightShe clips

and she clops

she bangs

and she stomps

my neighbor, next door

But just in the morning . . .

and sometimes late at night

(when she’s most important)

or more importantly, when I’m adrift

wading through a dream or semi-wakeful state,

groggily numbed by the washed out sounds

of my white noise machine Read the rest of this entry »

Written by Rainee Squatch

September 28, 2015 at 1:39 pm

Whose shoes are you wearing?

leave a comment »


“Apex Predator Shoes” by Mariana Fantich & Dominic Young.

They say walk a mile . . .

To understand

And it’s true

To gain insight or empathy

That’s what you should do

But to get to your dreams

Read the rest of this entry »

Written by Rainee Squatch

September 6, 2014 at 5:39 pm

Posted in Poetry


leave a comment »

lost black hoodieI lost a black hoodie, 2 years ago now

I’ve tried to replace it (multiple times)

But none are the same

in fabric

or cut

or design

None fit quite like

that old hood of mine Read the rest of this entry »

Written by Rainee Squatch

April 24, 2014 at 9:30 am

Posted in Poetry

Tagged with , , , , ,