The gold thread holding
Leadership’s hammock
Is fraying like my personality.
I put my star-spangled mouth
On my husband’s face
with no aim.
His breath cascades over my
Neck.
Everyone on our street
has a laundry room but me
Our little girl wears old
Onesies and roller skates
in the shower.
The emperor has clothes.
He just doesn’t want us
to see them.
like a mathematician
he subtracts us one by one
where I go, my husband goes
his breath locked onto
my hips.
Category: poetry
Female
the globe gingerly turns
on an axis she would not
have picked for herself
if given the choice
she has a crush on the
black hole
that calls her sometimes
something about that
event horizon
feels so remarkably other
her identity is unknown to her
not even the sun will tell
her she is gifted
January
I take a bath with a
Blue haiku –
The fewer the words
The more July the language.
So much steam.
I am a puddle in a pool
In a pond.
When I evaporate
No one notices.
Not even me.
I rise to the brevity
Of language and
Citric summer
Hose
Consecrate energy,
Obey the demand.
You travel a million matters
From your source.
The Making of a Biography
Letters overtake me,
Solid empty book that I am.
U kisses me,
I abuses me.
Synchronicity of text makes
My whole story work together
Like a glass machine.
But it isn’t about me.
Book of uneditable extractions.
Hot New Music Video
Rock with respect.
You’ll be dead
And this song will be
Filling the oldies station
Like a bucket.
Rhythm connotes meaning
More than words do sometimes.
Body movement is our base language.
Away
He doesn’t see the mountain
Under his feet as he travels
Only thinks that the
World has pulled away
From him
Why Do I Like Being Alone?
Why do I like being alone?
Cast iron smells hellacious.
Voices are diggers,
And my skin is soft.
Victims hiss when
Their yoke is sucked
From their mouths like a breath.
Spare me the torture
Of day sailers
And night sailors.
I am coming to a stop within me.
No cracker
Ever tasted so neat.
Hungry Scavengers
Calligraphy of rain,
Gentle messages stolen from a cloud,
A mother sacrificing her life
For future generations of mothers.
Spilling overtures of relief go door to door
To every blade of wheat.
Only the scavengers will go hungry this year
The Last Painting
Labored seeing –
The artist as his canvas drifts away.
The IV hums a little.
They only let him squeeze
The morphine button every five minutes.
4 out of every 5 minutes
Is a dog gnawing on his body.
Please…
He begs…
One more painting and I will go
Without complaint.
Miniature Moon 