Tuesday, November 24, 2015



It was my older Sister
who inspired me
To say, fuck it
I’ll not wear a bra
Today. My mother never
Could have, for I
Was afraid
Of the way hers sway

My Great Aunts
Let their mouths stretch
As they laugh
About how lewdness is their
Art. Shaking their heads
Like cudded cows
With nothing better to do
Than fart.

But my Grandma
With her wiggle on the dance floor
A kid from
A street called
Rough. She was
The one who
Stirred me up
To really strut my stuff.

Friday, November 06, 2015

Riots in Reflection

Is our custodian of calm,
So elastic and plastic and thin.
Or is it purely a technique for keeping track
When we want something looking back?
Perhaps she’s a gentle nurse,
Tucking souvenir tickets into our pockets.
Tender times spent waiting with children,
Unwilling to urge them into any rat race
Or when I pulled you from beneath a truncheon
moments before it split open your girlish face

The day you wanted something from me but I gave you only words
Wasn’t it you who said it is time we grew up? With
Time a lighthouse blaring warnings of imminent rocky ruin.
Tumbling through hourglass figures to settle on the underside of our hips.
Scorching moist elastin into a salty dry skin that cannot be rubbed young.
Time never stretching languid again
nor preening in the heat wave of unlimited opportunity.
She’s truncating, cooling and separating,
Breaking us like flotsam floating away still.
My nemesis moving fast forward
Intent on her kill.