dc holt, poet

Life As Art.

Remake Me Useful

Remake me useful,

thrust me down heavy

deep into the good earth

readying with each till

a rich soil for planting.


Heat me, throw me,

and mold me delicate

into glass or a hearty metal,

raw and ready

for work.


Create me grand as a piano,

pristine and keyed

in a kinder ivory,

my only task to produce

a pleasing tone.


Fashion me the wind, fierce

and swift, turning tides, churning

turbines electric, I’ll wield

a gentle free energy on

my back.


Remake me more

than this idea machine

of skin and bones, plagued

by life and death.  Free me

from the drippings of emotion

and put me to work.

Published 2013, In the Belly of Delights.

One Night

She hurried home to wash

the city off her before his grand

entrance.  With a lathered layer

of almond cream and a few sprays

of lavender she dressed for dinner.


Stemmed candle light softened awkward

remarks and missed glances while red

wine struggled to urge conversation.

Dessert was abandoned for a new sweetness

though bitter in aftertaste.


On opposite sides they slept with no words

spoken after their frantic passion was spent.

White linen sheets dried the fresh dew on her

legs as his chest heaved with long breath.


The stench of regret and musk suffocated any

desire or love and the bed was too small

for both parties.  The shared sweat of lust formed

a deep river between their bodies never again

to be bridged or breached.

Published 2013, In the Belly of Delights.

Unused Convictions

Oh you make Bukowski  proud

With that cologne of stale beer

And mint gum you wear as you

Carry that heavy Jesus sign

and sing out of tune Hallelujahs

to a sea of Deaf witnesses.


Now you hide your tie-dye under

Suit jackets and golf course greens

As we try to reincarnate the passions

Of Mama Cass and Janis J.  You ran

Out of revolutions and flowers, trading

Sit-in songs for top forty and Kerouac’s

Suitcase of ideals for more capital gains.


Cheers to your fallen demonstrations

And abandoned marches that are now

Pickets of lost faith and biblical paraphrasings.

But we are the unwritten lyrics and unspoken

Words of a generation with no fire.  Watch us

As we dance and channel Lennon and Bowie

under the same white lights.

Published 2013, In the Belly of Delights.

Mary Ellen’s Handbag

Hey Mary Ellen, what you got

In that handbag of yours?


In that oversized patchwork

Pleather bag you clutch so tight will

I find the petrified tissue you clung to

At your daughter’s wedding?

Or, has it hardened and flaked

Like your age-marked, olive skin?


Perhaps in there are the remnants

Of your youth.  The love-letter

From Sam Whatshisname.  Or maybe

You’d find that pungent smell

Of green smoke from Your

Summer of Love.


The smaller, feminine you maybe

Hiding snug in the inner lining.  Or is

It the silhouette of your ex-husband

I see in there?


Your introduction to being Woman

Can be found in that stale tube

Of lipstick buried at the bottom.


So, tell me Mary Ellen,

What you got in that handbag of yours?

Published 2013, In the Belly of Delights.

My TBI (traumatic brain injury)

I can’t tell you exactly how the accident happened because I don’t remember. I can only tell you what I’ve been told.  So, on an August day in 1982, I was in the apartment building next door playing at a friend’s.  There were three of us I believe in the kid’s room on the second floor.  For some reason I went to the window and waved down to the other kids on the playground. The window was open, but the screen was loose. I didn’t know. I guess I pressed on it because the screen popped out and fell and so did I ——— head first two stories down on to the sidewalk.  I was three years old.

After the injury, I had some trouble talking, walking, and with general coordination.  I also had seizures for which I would take medicine for several years. Funny though, I also had another kind of seizures, unaffected by medicine, that would not be diagnosed for fifteen years.

From this time to age eighteen, I felt good, healthy even.  I finished high school while working a part-time job, had great friends, learned to drive ——- though I kept wrecking my car, cars actually. I went through a few of them.  That should have been a clue, but no I’m Taurus dammit and I had things to do.

After graduating high school I went straight to college. Soon I became sick with bad headaches and a weird bump on my head.  I ignored it for a while and then one day I had a grand mal seizure in my dorm room. After tests and wrong diagnoses I was finally told my brain was herniating against my skull, hence the bump, and this was all from my original injury fifteen years early.  I needed brain surgery.  So, after a few weeks of getting a high dose of anti seizure medication so that I wouldn’t have a seizure on the operating table, I had a cranioplasty. A small damaged portion of my right temporal lobe was removed as was a part of my skull, which was replaced with a plastic plate. Also, and what I frequently forget, a piece of bovine (cow) pericardial muscle (Really sorry cow!) Was used to try to repair meninges.

From what I gather all of this happening is quite rare. My doctors had never performed this procedure before. I don’t remember that part of the conversation either. But, once again I thought everything good and myself healthy, the constant depression, and anxiety aside.

Five years later I went back to college.  I graduated in the winter of 2007 with a B.A. in English with an emphasis in creative writing.  I credit myself for hard work, yes. But, also some very understanding professors who knew what I going through.  Two years before graduating I started feeling sick again. I was having memory problems, extreme fatigue, trouble walking and at times even talking.  All these symptoms and new ones would progress over the next several years.  I forget my name, the day of the week, date, my age, my phone number and address.  It is not fun finding out who you are and then losing her so soon.

I have been tested and misdiagnosed for essential tremor, Parkinson’s, MS, etc.  I am told I have Hippocampal Sclerosis and that all of this is from my original traumatic brain injury.

Thanks for reading. Take care. Peace & Love.

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An Irishman, A-Broad Irishman: Boundaries?! Who's she?



Monday’s post with an attempted grammatic alteration. Attempted!!! Have a great weekend and please SHARE! A x

Boundaries?! Who’s she?

For two places where borders are such a very significant concern I must say that, as an Irish person, we know a great deal more about “Boundaries’ than our Los Angeles’ counterparts. With the overwhelming need for immediate friendship; the instant revealing of one’s most…


“What Van Gogh was trying to paint with his baroque brushstrokes—comma shaped, S shaped, spiral shaped—was a vision of the convolutions of the brain.”
—Saul Steinberg, from a selection of portraits and landscapes by the legendary draughtsman.


“What Van Gogh was trying to paint with his baroque brushstrokes—comma shaped, S shaped, spiral shaped—was a vision of the convolutions of the brain.”

Saul Steinberg, from a selection of portraits and landscapes by the legendary draughtsman.