justdoit

poetry

all feeling left like falling rain
you’re in my bed i can’t complain
the thoughts in head i can’t explain
i want you here for me to drain
i want you here to cause some pain
and light the fire with the flame
you hand me dice to play a game
i’m bad at keeping myself trained
it is ingrained, i go insane
your car is still parked outside.

Considerations

poetry

I disregard the sunlight on most occasions

I hope for my sake I am not a fool,
yet I persist to act foolish

These are not wounds,
simply unplugged outlets.

Let the children watch, so just maybe,
they can learn something.

Wager

poetry

I called up all my family
I called up all my friends to see
if all the little animals had
really taken off tonight
and much to my surprise, it seemed
that every cirtter inside three
square miels had grown wings
and taken flight

Well I’ve never been a betting man
and never made much money hoping
other people’s words were untrue
but I have made out to gamble some
and you can bet I’m probably done
‘cuz pigs were surely flying
after I made that bet with you

this morning i’ll conquer something

poetry

standing more on the pads of my feet
and leaning slightly backwards to improve
my posture as i complete my sweaty run
all but barefoot and walk back into my
house feeling bigger than samson richer
than jobs and sexier than, well, my normal me
today i press the wife.

“what woulds’t thou have me to conquer?”

for i’m empowered right now to take on the
world. but your coffee? you want it ground?

conquered.

Wishing Well

poetry

I feel so under
qualified some
times when I con
sider all the lit
tle things comp
letely wrong wi
th everything but
I must rimain st
alwart at preten
ding that I’m just
as qualified as
the next ave
rage joe who cer
tainly will weigh
their two cents in
as deep as it
will rest, and it
will rest, so rest
assured you’re
not the only one
protecting this old
wishing well. Just
try not to let
your back be
turned too of
ten

Mind-reading is a guessing-game you’ll never know you’re good at

poetry

I can not tell
weather the man in the stained wife beater
and the 25 dollar sunglasses is
reading the plaque at the bottom of that fountain
or considering his entire existence at
7:45 on a Friday night in the small-business
district of a little big city’s downtown.

Perhaps he wonders where he’ll be in ten years,
when the retro furniture boutique and the
mid-city semi-exclusive jazz club will most likely be gone,

Or maybe he ponders where the time went,
he with two kids and a regular job doing
odd sorts of labor for a landscaping outfit.

He could even be counting down the days
before he finally catches up on back child support
and can relish in the full-sized checks he’s
been denied for so long.

Or,
he’s wondering what comes after
‘Dedicated in memory…’
on the worn-down part
of the fountain base

…I’m certainly not going to ask him.

The Mouth

poetry

Blooms like an oil spill
Demolishing the landscape
Of last night’s pizza
Your left cheek and
My chipped fingernail
A fat oscillating sponge
Gone mad at the hands
Of MSG and drunken karaoke.
But at night, the whisperer
Of gentle incantations
Of excellence that you
Don’t need to understand or
Heaven forbid write down.

boy, you’d better get your head on straight

poetry

because mine’s not,
and at least one of us
needs to think good
and to be able to
open their eyes,
despite the harsh fluorescence,
and the bright computer screens,
and the dull pain
just behind the right eye
and the feeling that all i want to do
is close the door
and lay down on the cool,
rough office carpet
and sleep

but for now i’ll settle
to rest my eyes
as i type,
hoping that no bosses walk by.

First day at work: self introduction speech

poetry

I am wearing a suit today.
I have hidden my tits inside this prim blouse as if to say ” I will not f$$k my way up.” I am a professional. My foot is inside the door, I am cut-throat. Look out. I discarded my soul a long time ago along with my college boyfriend; the sanctimonious sod.
I was raised by a feminist when feminists weren’t  simply thought of as lesbians( bless them), ugly loud men-hating frigid bitches.  There was a time when feminists were women seeking a fair and better place under the sun. Today, even half naked skeletal creatures call themselves feminists eventhough they have relinquished their brainpower and conformed to a distorted image of what a woman is supposed to be. I am no exception; I have assessed myself by counting all the body parts at their market value ( my ass is moderately tight, my face palatable, my brain fully functional but the extra pounds, the somewhat sizable breasts, and the average height are a deal breaker) . My brain as my only asset, I have optimized, kept my feminity under tabs and let my soul go. Now, I am a successful career woman. My name is modernlady, I am a feminist failure, and a kickass cunt. Bite me.               

The Postman

poetry

The confessional poets of the
fifties and sixties wanted you
to know all about their despondence
and what they thought of the
holocaust.

I’m not really that deep.
I don’t carry a leather satchel full
of international newspapers
and I don’t listen to
talkback radio.

What I can express in words though
is simple and to the point.
I find your utter ambivalence toward me
as irritating as undercooked
chicken.

it’s water

poetry

as the train approached our stop
we saw the edge of the storm
a wall of rain quickly advancing

when we stepped onto the platform
into the deluge the other passengers
laughed at our misfortune

we held our umbrellas like shields
they flailed and failed to protect us
the wind carried water in all directions

in seconds our shoes were sponges
wet clothes clung to wet skin
three blocks never seemed so far

but laughing beneath our umbrellas
loud enough so the other could hear
three blocks never seemed so near.