Lacy Specter

Lacy Specter


Clad in such trappings,
who is this mistress?
who waits in shadows,
and echoes sad prayers.

What is her purpose,
whom is she pleasing?
Standing so motionless,
but diligently there.

Is she in want of kindness?
Does she dream during wakeness?
Is there something she's needing?
Shall I offer her tea?

Are her shudders silent laughter?
Is she sobbing and weeping?
What the hell does she want?
Why has she chosen me?

Did I step on some gravestone,
that had been long forgotten,
buried under the concrete,
of a now busy street?

Does she wish some forgiveness,
from a scorned peaceful lover?
Is she somebody's mother?
What the hell does this mean?

Elation and Misgiving on ThanksgivingEve

Elation and Misgiving on ThanksgivingEve

I have a hard time expressing my opinion.

There are so many truths,because there are so many viewpoints, and those viewpoints are rooted in upbringing,personal experience, genetics, feelings and  beliefs.That’s why to disagree with someone’s view is such a volatile situation, because it is unclear  where their view springs from, and what central ideal it is connected to.

Allow me a metaphor.If a person holds the view that abortion should be illegal,that view is an artery which connects to a heart,which could be a belief in a god,who dictated a book,that states that he knows you in the womb,therefore,you are alive in the womb,therefore abortion is murder,and everyone can agree that murder is wrong.If you strike that artery,you threaten that heart,and that triggers a fight or flight response.

So, a structure of beliefs and viewpoints combine to form who we think/say/feel we are.We all have very good points,and justified (when you take in our entire personal backstory) views, but we are fooled so easily by our own biases.

This,however,is not a tragedy.It is simply human nature.To lose this facet would be to lose something very central, and very human.Loyalty.Loyalty is highly regarded as the mark of a quality human being,but it can also be horrifying when applied in the wrong context.It is illogical,and fervent;like love,passion,sadness,happiness or hatred.

We must be vigilant, and logical,but to be alive,we must also be passionate,and knowing what to be,how we feel,and where best to apply it; that unfortunate task is the human condition.

I like to  believe everyone is doing the best they can.

Happy Thanksgiving❤️

Transmission Fluid is Lousy Conditioner

Transmission Fluid is Lousy Conditioner

If prostration and devotion, along with weekly commitments make a religion, then my god could quite possibly be a 1976 Chevy Silverado.

It’s the similarities in life that create beauty and fluidity through all matters, and allow us to find common grounds as people. For example, the skills you learn when taking up pole dancing, can be very helpful when removing the driveshaft of a truck; a strong grip, a well positioned leg, and balance.

The reason I bring this up, is because….it seems like something has always been pushing me from the shadows to be a one trick pony.A career girl, a skinny girl, a rock star, a mother,a good daughter, a kind person, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera I would not encourage you to live your life like me, because, I am, in fact, no sort of role model.

However, I suppose that we are all role models in our own way. It might be a good thing, if we thought of ourselves as the finished product of however many years of triumphs and losses, instead of some debilitated human, bogged down by our past, and constantly on the road to self improvement.To be that perfection achieved….(sigh).

A fat girl can fuck, eat, laugh, and dance just as well as a skinny one. The world is both cruel and beautiful, both kind and ugly,with so much of it in our outlook. There will always be room for improvement, I suppose, but, someday… well, we will be looking up, flat on our back, taking in that last breath,and then…who knows?

Chevies, like gods, don’t usually tell you when they are going to quit on you, they just do it…so, it’s best to do what you can, before the transmission falls out, or the engine locks up.

Sirens (An old story retold)

Sirens (An old story retold)

The voice of the slightly bald man croons Frank Sinatra in a heavily wavering voice.
“My wayyyyyyyeeeeeeeeeeeeee……”

The Spring Break Crowd, overexcited by the tequila, applauds loudly, a tan boy with bleach blonde hair whistling shrilly and pushing nearby eardrums to maximum vibration. I shake my head and groan under my breath. My sister, Licentia takes the microphone and calls up the next singer, her eyes dull, and her smile plastic. My shoulders itch. My other sister, Audacia, comes up from the cooler, a mixed case of beer and wine coolers in her hands. She has red hair, and Blue sparkling eyes. They used to be green, but that was years ago. Licentia comes behind the bar as the synthetic notes of Electric Avenue began playing.

“I’ve been having that dream again.” I say. “I’m flying, and-” I stop. Audacia looks at me, agitated, and begins shoving beers in the ice tub behind the bar. Some nights, my fingers go numb from the cold in there. Busy nights, you spend hours, cracking beers and handing them off. The register gathers pools of water under the money. How long have we been here now? I think back on the dream. The wind, trees whipping by, a green shady blur. Then I’m pushing up past the canopy of the forest and into the sunlight, my wings stretching out wide now, swooping upwards. Licentia slaps her hand down on the bar beside me and I shudder out of my daydream.
“Wake up!” She yells, coming around the bar and heading back to the stage. I sit the bar towel down and walk out the service door, flipping off my sandals and step onto the warm sand, while sea grass blows around the pathway. I follow it down to the beach proper. It’s busy, but there is a bare spot near the waves. The tourists just want to lie out and get drunk. They usually don’t swim for another month. The cold waves must kill their buzz. I head for the open spot, and sit, feeling the breeze, with my toes near the edge. I could walk into the ocean, and never come out. Go back to a time, I can remember, before we were barmaids. I can’t take this anymore. My shoulders itch, my wings aching to be again. My feathers were taken so long ago, prizes for a rigged contest.
You can’t take a girl’s voice, even if you do give her legs, or take her wings. Perched on the rocks, we sang the songs of a million men’s souls. They died for us, easily, and later, in the most entertaining ways. It was never satisfying, though. Not since we had been downcast. Finally, we decided that taking lives and being bored on a rock was less than we could do with our talents. After a lot of bars, a few thousand years, we ended up here.
I pull myself up onto my feet. The sun is getting lower, and it is my time of day now. I don’t feel quite as bad now as the sea fills with gold. I can hear the crowd inside as I near the bar ,and as all earthbound creatures, I too must make the best of it.

Rainy Morning

Rainy Morning

You have to be strong.

In this life, failure is inevitable. You will not be able to win every time.In fact, if you win 60% of the time, then you are doing well for yourself.

So, all that anxiety about failure?

It could be right.

So what?

108 Billion people have lived on Earth up to now.

How many do you know of?

Live your damn life.

And don’t be a dick about it.

Shallow Thoughts : Aging

Shallow Thoughts : Aging

I remember when you were born.

I was so excited.

I hadn’t been around babies before.

You were so little, a teacup baby.

We were really tight, the two of us.

Now you’re an adult.

You’ve turned into a gigantic douche.

I know it’s because your hormones are raging,

You’re frightened and frustrated and excited and bored,

All at the same time.

But, you’re driving me crazy.

Sometimes you are really nice,

and sometimes you say the most asshole things.

I just have to wait this out,

and hope it isn’t permanent.

Right now you make me want to puke,

Just from being around the roller coaster of emotions you project.

I just got off that thing.

Stay the hell away from me,

Until you’re 25,

And…don’t forget,

I love you, and I totally understand.

But still…..



Tires, Joists, and Wasn’t That a Close Call?

Tires, Joists, and Wasn’t That a Close Call?

IMG_1512Six years to the day after graduating college, I was jobless and crawling under a house.I had a 200 dollar horse that had better documentation on her bloodline than I do, and she was about to go berserk.I was not thinking about this at the time, I was trying to understand why,after four weeks of putting in, and crawling under 2×10 joists,that my ass still didn’t know how to get down. It seemed every third joist would hit just above my tailbone, while my face was inches away from the long hidden Tennessee clay.

Outside, and away from the dark hole under the house, Daisy, my 16 hand tall paint horse, was tied lovingly to a tire, because she needed to be free enough to eat grass, but tethered enough so as not to skewer herself upon a fence post of one type or another, be it metal, or picket. Her personal motto seemed to be, “Give me Liberty, or give Me Death”.Truly, a well bred American horse.

The Zeka Virus was threatening to run rampant, turning all of the brightly lit future children of my fantasies into daunting microcephalistic shadows, and allowing for my fiance’ and I to have the “It’ll be okay.” conversation. It seemed quite hectic, since we lived in a cesspool of the “moh-skeeters” by a fake lake, and since it was clear at this time, that I was not to be a career woman, now this virus was threatening the “baby making” aspect of my sex that I had felt I could fall back on to earn self esteem. Three or four well timed mosquito bites could put my eggs on the other side of DONE. I thought, as I lifted a 30 pound sledgehammer to wedge a joist into place, several tons of handmade house over my head,my torn shoulder ligaments screaming,”I am so dumb. I need to be smarter about how I do things.”

As lunch wore around, I dragged myself up from the underworld, and stripped out of a heavy coverall that was four sizes too big. I walked stiffly down through the sunny hay field, to my tethered horse. She still stood where I had set her earlier that morning, so she had not chosen to move the tire, I thought. I moved her, dragging the tire behind to the shade, and her companion,Kemo, my dad’s horse and a royal pain in the ass, followed behind in a droopy headed walk, truly mourning her friend’s imprisonment. It occurred to me that, perhaps, we may have found a solution for Daisy to be outside of the dusty corral. I walked a bit more cheerfully back to the house to contemplate how I would save my summer, and my remaining weeks of freedom before having to find another job, from the house that eternally eats hours.

Horses run for many reasons. Some horses run themselves for exercise, and some run only to the feed box.Most horses that I have seen will not run full out, unless they are running away from something, or running toward something in order to murder it with vengeful hooves. They are beautiful, and passionate, when they run like this.

Daisy stayed in the shade  long enough for lunch to be over. As I cleared the dishes, I saw her there skimming through the tall grass in a fury, her tail up, and streaming behind her.

“Oh,” I thought initially, “she has figured out she can move the tire.”

Then, a break in the grass revealed that, amazingly,the tire was upright and actually rolling after her, and this was actually scaring her enough to run for her life.

She covered acres in a matter of seconds, made two loops of the field, and was not stopping.

At this pace, she could easily snag the tire on anything, tangle her legs in the rope,break her leg, her neck, die, DIe DIE, she could die. Shit.

I shoved the storm door open, rushing out to the field.I called her, screamed whoa, which was a fool’s errand, I knew,as she rushed past, then got into the truck as my dad tore the teeth out of the flywheel starting the Chevy.

We rushed after her and Kemo. They headed for the barn, and a woodsy area behind through a small opening in an old fence.Just as wide as the truck. They headed in, we pulled close.Like the old Westerns “Cut them off at the pass.”

Watching through the windshield, they looped around, and back they came, both horses. Daisy, frothing at the mouth,the legs, eyes wide, Kemo, whipped into a frenzy by the desperation, both horses alive, thundering, toward the bottleneck and a 1976 Chevy. I froze, Dad froze, and the horses weren’t stopping.

“They have to stop.” I said.

They weren’t stopping.

“Legs, oh shit, it’s over”I thought, “They’re gonna break their legs.”

The horses split, Kemo to the driver side, Daisy to mine, silent, like dolphins skimming the sides of a boat.”Bread and butter.” They used to say. The tire caught, and the rope broke.I turned to see the girls out the back window. They kept running, but slower now, the frenzy was over.

I started breathing again.