Dollhouse Architect’s Digest

The Dollhouse Architect’s Digest is a space where the dollhouse architect will clear her mind in sonnet and other poetry forms every once in a while.  

Architectural Note:  I’ve had friends who have been plagiarized by people and have had that misfortune myself.  I’ve also had a person who I admired very much call me “a factory” about my output, and I know it wasn’t meant in a mean way, but it bothered me.  Since I’m writing a poetry collection about a chocolate factory, Willy Wonka’s who is the victim of industrial spies and people who don’t want to do their own work, I decided to embrace the “factory” label in this poem — to embody his factory.  Because here’s the thing —  I love to work!  And in that way I am a factory.  I also believe that being very diligent and productive adds to your artistry.  I have very stringent conditions i work under and maintain.  And I feel that when someone steals a bit of me, they ultimately rob themselves of the chance of becoming better. The productivity, the innovation is what makes you a better writer.  So I wrote a poem about all of this.   (June 25th, 2020)



When your emissions waft delicate smoke

hot chocolate scent that comforts most folks, some

will choke on jealousy.  Purloin crumbs of

imaginary upside-down bubblegum

buoyant cake never tasted, don’t know how

to make its blush balloons inflate between

peach gummy rings.  Milk required comes from cows

who sing arioso for a year, cud emerald green

you engineered.  Artistic conditions

a lifetime you make, the end, invention 

some stranger might take for recognition

when the reward itself is innovation.

Productivity begets artistry.

They only see you as a factory.



Architectural Note:  I’ve written a lot about female competitiveness.  Social media can feed that fire in a danger way with how easy it is to compare followers, likes on tweets et cetera.  I decided to write a little piece based on Snow White and the Evil Queen — though in this case the magic mirror she uses to quantitate her comparative fairness is social media. (June 19th, 2020)


Like The Fairest 

a social media cautionary fairy tale 

A modern queen has need of no magic  

mirror just smart telephone with an app 

that quantifies how well she is known with 

emoji hearts, profile pictures she can tap

of any fairer competitors on 

her digital map.  She can scroll her feed

for lookalikes, the checkmarked echelons,

too many likes.  If she were to see

her hunter’s approval mark below a 

selfied heart-shaped birthmark, there then would be 

the primeval scream — Brothers Grimm portrayed 

such schemes before computers or tv.

Removing hearts to spite a fairer face 

is bloodless, cancellation, in cyberspace. 


Architectural Note:  I wrote this sonnet last night for Crow Carriage, a poetic novel I’m writing and Amy Suzanne is illustrating.  This sonnet takes place when The Mistress of Malice has been relegated to the basement after her betrayal of the evil nobleman Doctor by spying on his terrible experiment upstairs.   For her betrayal, she has been left in a rat-infested basement ona bare mattress.  When the woman who had been her lady’s maid upstairs comes to check on what she hopes to be a humbled prisoner, she finds the girl asleep amidst a room of dead, half-eaten rats. Afraid of what sort of sorceress the girl must be, the maid attacks what she does not understand.   (May 29th, 2020)


Murder Then Repast By Candlelight


A trembling hand you offer him, raindrops

and lightning as you would descend out of

his carriage and into his house.  Arm propped

by balustrade, pale nightgown doused, above

a lady is waiting to escort you in

a heavy oak door.  Elegant grin though

you have no notion what for — she spins

you like ribbon is tied round your head.  Shows

you to a chamber, a flocculent bed,

a gown atop bed clothes, same shade red as

what ebbed from exsanguinated, dead

relations tonight.  Murder then repast

by candlelight is veal for two she prepared

before laudanum milk for others upstairs.



June 5, 2020

A Little Girl Who Does Not Deign To Die 

Inside a massacre in black, what will 

luminesce between crack of basement door 

is thunderbolt animating eyes, shuttered, still

while you lie amidst inert mischief, floor 

of infinitesimal gore.  What invades 

as more light pours down your staircase,

presents a frightful female face — once maid 

now mistress within this forsaken place.

What scurries over furry backs, half devoured,

(all collapsed) corpses crunched beneath a laced

up boot will fall upon you like a brute.

Servile fingers wrap about a neck, wait 

no more, circumspect, on the disrepute 

recipient of some noblesse oblige —

a little girl who does not deign to die.




Architectural Note:  This first poem is something I felt after watching Tiger King and feeling for Travis Maldonado, who I related to as a person who suffered from sexual and other addictions. Welcome to my diary in sonnets.  (May 11th, 2020)

I Never Fucked A Tiger King 

for Travis Maldonado

but once almost a Smoothie King I met
on cocaine at a rave one night.  Said I
wouldn’t but I knew I might.  I had let
his kind inside before who offered lines
even one who called me a whore to the
entire population of our punk rock bar. Was
not there but word travels far in itty
bitty southern towns of Wednesday Addams
fleshlights in skintight velvet gowns who would
swallow anything they had found.  I know I am
no different than a teenager who put
on a ring, by methamphetamines damned
to wed Tiger Kings, lives we can’t abide.
I too fucked men who made me want to die.