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.)


where my truth sleeps

August 21, 2013

Revelations come and go like the seasons,
the haircuts, the jobs, the men, and always
with a hint of daydream and all too much reality
I am the one left kneeling, left puking in a dirty garbage
can. I am the one left lying dizzy on the dirt; I am
the one wishing on the moon at night. Revelations
never seem to last with me, like philosophies and
preferences, they resonate just enough for a poem
and then they are gone and I am off to bury myself
in more lessons and more dreams and oh the anxiety!


I would like to be a singing fish – I would surely sing
the most beautiful songs and only at night and only
into the black ocean so that the bottom of the earth will
hear my falsetto, brilliant and shining into the darkness.


Never a constant moment, always changing, always all
we have – the fingertips of a gentle woman scratching my
back so that they leave pink vertical lines until morning —
then they have faded, and my back hurts once more.


At the end of the universe there is a whole hole, a holy
whole hole and it is filled with truths. I sometimes don’t
believe in truths but this holy whole hole must be true
because where do my revelations go if not into that
blackness — or is it grey? I picture this whole to have a
mouth and it smiles like Mona Lisa so that nobody is quite
sure what it is up to but it is  beautiful isn’t it?


Far away is where the tippiest truths lay. Far away buried
in a never-ending grey whole — or is it black? Far away,
nestled among the dead stars that have burned out so many
years ago but that the children wish on because how lovely,
how dreamy is such a star that glows long after its death?