July 28, 2016

I don’t like picking up
at midnight. I’m an adult.
I get my drugs during the day.


Sometimes I dissect the
meaning of things; forget
the blushing cheeks of the
letter S, that charming sing-
song voice of C.

I do not think you know
what you are talking about.

Can’t count the distance be-
tween two charging thoughts
like high school football players
running towards each other
with a vague sense of
without reason.

evolution //
revolution //
the constitution //

We tie words together
SIDE-BY-SIDE in a string of
handsome lullabies.

I do not think you know
what you are talking about.

Only the nuance of dancing
and referenced equality –
better that than anything else

though discrimination sounds
mighty pleasant to the ears
wish it meant something
entirely different.

I don’t think I know
what I’m talking about.

Only write so that my fingers
dance, not much to say only want
to feel muscles move, hear the
sweet tune of crushing ailments
cursing what-ifs.

That terrific acting performance
done by each insecurity slipping
off of the tongue, down to my long
thin fingers with a bouquet of flowers
at the end.

I do not know what this poem
is about.

Only know what I meant to say //
but got carried away //
in the poetry play. //

Not a complaint, oh surely
this is a nod to the dreamers
who wish on the brightest star
scream nothing much into a
blank sheet of paper just to
send it off in a red dress —

flowers blooming

May 1, 2016

petrified petal from the flower once
grew in her mother’s womb
dipped in honey and nectar-
infused with morning dew – a treat
for the bees–

spinning in the air
like a dancer pirouettes but
a clown in a tutu
playing slapstick for the kids.

the past is a place
filled with secrets.
it is: a snowy wonderland of lost footprints.
do not tread with caution
better to leave what’s forgotten forgotten.


the petal makes landing
on ground without sound
crushed under the weight
of something.

Pay Day

May 1, 2016

On pay day
I read poetry
listen to the crooning
tunes of decades past.
Find classic novels hidden
in dusty cabinets and
really relate.

Most days
I do not care
to open my eyes.
Too cold for a jog and I
do not like the rain.
These days my pants
sag with empty pockets
for the dust of dirty

on pay day
New York water
soaks my socks
drowns the spaces
between my toes
when I splash.

Don’t care much about
the dirt, only
the feeling.

I quote Maya Angelou
on these days
shop for exotic
teas with odd
research romantic
European getaways.

what it might be like
to be a heroine
of great value
like the feminists
in story books and
on the history channel.

Wonder if money
concerns them.

It is for sixteen days
that I make plans.
So much to see
so much to do on
pay day. And so

I listen to old music
wait for the familiar
steps of a woman
delivers the checks.


Maya sings
through the bars
of her cage

carrying the
sound through
my own walls
of existence

splashing in the
New York rain.


June 18, 2015

Dear Me,

I hate you.

God Must Be a Man

April 27, 2015

The doomed fate of woman leaks from her
each month. Lying on her back, she takes
it again; the pulsing of her crotch not
exploited by man but by god. Each month
she takes it standing up, cooking dinner,
all during her full-time job. She becomes
used to the pain, ready for what will come.

And if not? If it does not come — that’s a worse
fate for a modern woman! Hardly making
enough to pay the rent, she does not think of
raising a child unless it is a daydream safe
and far away. She has rights after all,
to birth control and abortion —
but no right to halt the fated war that
prompts enemy blood to flow through the
rocky creeks of her vagina.

Religious folk and submissive men, the
sympathetic souls, bless their hearts,
are bestowed with false information —
they will tell you, it is a gift.

Menstruation is not a gift. Is it a gift
when one animal kills another?
Is it a gift when the baby bird falls
from its nest? To be road kill
on a hot August afternoon? Is it good,
simply because it is natural? Nature is
cruel and unforgiving and

God must be a man. Only a man would think
to trap the feminine in a cycle of self-
pity and contempt. He must be a small man –
they are more likely to use tricks.

I am a woman. My blood is as beautiful
as stinging nettle. It smells as sweet as
the thorns of a rose. No doubt it is natural,
binding, sad, forever enduring until the
last woman on earth drops to her death
(and let’s hope that does not happen soon.)

What makes us think there is no God? This morning I was afraid of death, not the act of dying but what happens after, what we can never tell. And I thought I might be judged on what I’ve done and what profound adventures I have come into. I, myself, have not done much of anything at all. Well in this afterlife God would surely smite me for it. A life wasted — unlived. I might beg, “But what about my thoughts? I’ve had so many of those and Goddamn, they all scared me but I never stopped thinking at all.” And God might say “Even worse — a waste of a good brain.”

tricked by boys

July 14, 2014

born an apple always
an apple and with
a dick is worse

the balls they scream
for ladies cream
they’ll tell you
it’s really a curse

us girls just laugh
and laugh at yous

oh simple boys
don’t get confused

it’s better than singing
the clitoris

tricked by boys again.


May 29, 2014

#yesallwomen sexual harassment and assault is a difficult thing to discuss as a woman because it doesn’t seem to be taken seriously by most people. Often the victims are criticized and doubted, and then there’s that question of if she was asking for it…. I might be so bold as to say most women I know have been sexually harassed or assaulted in their lives, even if they will not recognize it.


May 15, 2014

Everything I say sounds d-u-m-b
even just admitting that is just that
written across my f-o-r-e-h-e-a-d
let me do that for you
I write sad poems to make myself
feel better
backwards, walking backwards, always
I think I might upset you for a second
then you will go about your day as usual
nothing lasts forever
time h-e-a-l-s all IF you’ve got the right amount
of chemicals in your brain
do you?
I wish I knew karate
Would like to kick myself
hard because it would make me feel better.
I get Morrissey.
He loves his drama sure but I think
it might be real do you?
Just wonder why he isn’t dead yet.