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
RESPONSIBILITY and
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
syllables
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–

falls.
spinning in the air
like a dancer pirouettes but
clumsier
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.

Or

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
except
for the dust of dirty
tissues.

But
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
fervor
research romantic
European getaways.

Wonder
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
who
delivers the checks.

Today

Maya sings
through the bars
of her cage

carrying the
sound through
my own walls
of existence

splashing in the
New York rain.

Tomorrow…

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.)

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
blues

tricked by boys again.

dummy

May 15, 2014

Everything I say sounds d-u-m-b
even just admitting that is just that
L-O-S-E-R
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
backwards
b-a-c-k-w-a-r-d-s
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.

 

The most beautiful tooth I’ve ever seen
was crooked. In his full-lipped mouth it
danced with his laugh, leaned on a bigger
adjacent tooth. He had thirty-two teeth
in that mouth, all of them but one 
straight as an arrow, white as the clouds in
a Simpson’s sky but I could only see the 
crooked one nestled near the center. It 
had secrets to tell me, gave me a smile
with the glow of a child and I leaned in, 
longed to hear all that it had to say. Kissed 
him on the mouth, rubbed my tongue 
along thirty two teeth tasted the secrets
of each but none were as sweet as his
crooked tooth.

Once upon a time, in a small town just outside of a big city, there lived a man with a paintbrush. Ever the opportunistic American, he fooled his neighbors into thinking he was an artist – and not of the con variety! “What beautiful flags he draws,” the businessmen would say, who were all related to the mob but who gives a damn anyway. What matters is a love for the colors on the flag; the way it dances in the air as it claims new territory. Like a dog pissing on every tree near his home this man with a paintbrush worked on his American flags for every worn-out mobster with a buck. Oh it was truly great for the con artist.

Each compliment made his head a bit larger. This change in appearance became apparent a few months after his fame began to rise and was glaringly obvious after a year of the big scam. In fact, his head weighed half as much as his entire body by the time it got stuck in a doorway. The man could hardly look his followers in the eyes, what with such a heavy head and small neck. Some people started to worry, but not too many people, because nobody cares about anyone else all too much anyway.

Well, this con artist was sure in deep trouble. Stuck in the doorway to his home, just a few feet from his bed (where he sleeps all alone), the man called for help. “Help me please! I am stuck in this doorway!” But the townspeople did not know what to do. You see, the man lived in a house completely made of stars and stripes. Red, white and blue colored wood spanned four stories. It had become a site for tourists to visit (mostly Christians who had a prayer booth set up a mile back), all of whom were afraid to deface the patriotic abode. “I’d like to help you sir but you are stuck in a flag. It is illegal to break that.” And so the con artist pleaded “Well yes it is, but in this case I really do think it’s necessary…” The tourists found the artist to be quite contradictory.

Day turned to night and the man with a paintbrush fell asleep in the doorway of a giant American flag. His 70lb noggin could not fight the power of gravity and so his body was slumped in a very strange position; the kind you expect to find at a crime scene (but without blood – this story is child-friendly). It really was a funny way to sleep, and the kids in the neighborhood couldn’t help but laugh. “What a giant head that man has!” But nobody moved him because they were afraid to defile the flag, and secondly because he weighs a lot and they did not want to strain their muscles. The con man died a few days later with the Christians looking from their prayer booth.

And so the legend goes, the spirit of the con man haunts every American flag painted building in every small town for all of eternity. SO if you don’t want your business to be haunted by a fake artist with a big head DO NOT pay for a painting of the American flag!

 

That full sky
spits grub into the mouths of
green stems, red geraniums…

a vague light, as if from
the set of a movie
(the sun) hides
between the greyness of
clouds; it is all comparable
to the birds.

It always rains on Earth Day.

As if it were my
grandmother, always teaching lessons
through story books and
fantasies
always with the same ending; oh
how small we are and
children especially.

I wish to be larger

when it rains
on Earth Day. Like

that tree branch reaching
for its mother’s mouth, always
going just past it
never fully nurtured, always
standing in the
in-between but

with such poise.

I would wait for the
burst
of thunder and lightning
to soak through my trunk;
a meal chewed by her
the sky.

You see
man is not
so special

on Earth Day

when it rains
(it always does)

it is
for the rest.