Dirty Poem with Christmas

Found poetry on my phone.

Shore said he thought he was my best friend. The windows then go masturbate and get to know you. Tearing down a word or two about the flower growing up, she has been so tired. Carnality is a big deal to begin with, but it isn’t a good idea for Christmas.

Technology Poem

Omens are not good for me to get to see them again and again. Women writers and their bodies are wrong to say no. Insufficient information about myself is a very small community of the world. Skin needs a break. Feet of Christ are the hours of sleep. Originally published by Beard magazine and a half century fox, the history of women who have lust issues is on the rise.

There is so much to parse here -women and their privacy. Women and their needs. Christ as respite from the demands the world makes.

Predictive Text Poetry

I am using predictive text to write poems. I pick the word to start with, and then I choose 1 word from the 3 that are offered. Let’s see how that went.

The moon was so burnt out it was my favorite place to be. Corrosive bacteria can cause cancer or even three weeks of birth. Red light is always welcome in our churches. Feathered hair is silvered like a great idea and a great night.


Like a strobe light,

my nipple flash from my

bra cups,

overflow of myself and my softness.

He seizes me with his smart hands.

He knows what to do.

He will tease my peaks

and stroke my heart in

small, deft movements.

This is the game we play—

him catching me over and

over again like a ball.

I throw myself into clothes,

then shed them like unwanted baggage.

It is dark at the fringes

of my lomographic mind,

and in the center is my man,

plunging into me like a

lamp into an outlet,

completing my loop.

My hips squeezed in the

straps of lingerie,

I wait breathlessly for that

meaningful motion of his

hands tugging my panties

down just a little,

giving me permission to

unwrap myself

in his mute language.

My fire begins at my neck.

The beginning of pleasure

presides over the creased

space between shoulder blade

and ear.

That is where he starts—

at the beginning—

wise to my whimsical womanhood.


The whiteness of deers’ fear

behind the wheel of the car

I stole.

Deep in the woods,

whispering moss.

The direction the road takes

is determined by the path

families will take.

On their way to an

end made of synthetic light,

hurtling metal.

Husband and Wife

I am a well he drinks from
as he spends his seventh day
wandering the desert.

I’ve camped in waiting
And know the roughness
of the terrain,
the burning banality of work.

He built our home by hand
and like a bird I added
shiny things to reflect
the sun a thousand times
to guide him home.

My body is his haven,
the end of a chase
and the beginning of a pursuit.

He lays his head on my breasts
slides his hand down my belly.

The well will never run dry.


After fate untwisted,
she left a trail of
disastrous death in my driveway.

I need an incantation
to summon the voice in my

Sprawled lazily across
the concrete,
hieroglyphics bleeding
with age.
I drew them.

My people ran down
the lane years ago
to hunt the sneaky beast.
I am the only one left,
struggling to clutch my ochre
with broken hands.


In the noon glow,

the thrill of intimacy

while she maps me with
her tongue.

She knows my hips and

my secrets.

I know her shoulders,

her navel.

On the table,

my thoughts

on her sweet, moisturized skin,

my senses.

She has one finger in my world,

then her tongue on my secrets

polishing them.

Misplaced Sky

The naturalized sky

does not fit in here,

stylizes himself after

the hapless fop in the café.


Before the sky signed up

with us,

I was like a firefly

in a jar with no lid—

except I was too stupid

to leave.


Before sky,

we had limitless

and endangered.


Now we have a cap

binding our angels

closer to us,

and selling our demons

into our authoritarian world.


Ether is just a dandy,

the accumulation of

blue, just garish.

He doesn’t belong here.

Everyone is looking

at him.