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Previously Published in The Sand Canyon Review

Untitled (A Man Thinking to a Woman)


I am the roar your pour of heat

grumbling grimacing inside everything cool silky and you


I am your rough your smooth your creator and comforter of all your wicked gorgeous dreams and desires


I am your dare your dream your dog your madness master of your hands feeling your woman sweaty peppered lips satin lashes tasty I am yours


I am the strong the hairy the fierce

the awkward friendly who knows the way knows the how

can fix a dream your car your love who can order and hit and fly and drive your smile into my crotch in any instant for any price


I am the power your security your songs your destiny you want it darling


I am your naked I am your clothed I am your lonely your strong who mustn't feel mustn't cry mustn't dive into the true gleaming precious water which is mine

Honorable Mention for GoodReads “Poem of the Month” August 2016

I Write Poetry

Inspired by the Preface in Allen Ginsberg’s Cosmopolitan Greetings

I write poetry because E.E. Cummings wrote, “since feelings is first who pays attention to the syntax of things” and E.E. was a sex god in that trenchcoat of his.


I write poetry because sometimes “words and manners leave me no space for myself.”*


I write poetry because the Hebrew word Shira means song and poem and I write songpoems.


I write poetry so I don’t explode bam boom curl in fetal position so I can channel anger emotion lust spirit.


I write poetry because pinewood forest Led Zeppelin dreamy jazz guitarist long hair lovely my dreams my gold my melodies into subtle stars of deception


I write poetry because I am more than immature wan priestess good plump thick waisted baby naughty sassy little girl.


I write poetry because it’s less expensive than perfume.


I write poetry because it is magic and because I had a dream poetry was like pottery-shaping the clay— getting your hands in it— feels so good— the control the unfurling…


I write poetry because any art is a type of bleeding and I turn my tears into diamonds through poetry.


I write poetry because I am competitive as hell and poetry isn’t competitive and it slows me down mellows me out and turns me into an amorous hippie with braids sprouting out.


I write poetry because I cannot sing.


I write poetry because I love bookstores at night looking at all the lonely books I read as a child knowing the steadfast tin soldier and the ballerina talk as I sleep in my beautiful messy room.


I write poetry because I am a shy wide-eyed little girl who can’t find her way home from the beach.


I write poetry because alcohol makes me sick before it can make me drunk.


I write poetry because I am a maddened impassioned self-absorbed primadonna water spirit.


I write poetry because I hate analyzing.


I write poetry because I love “Bring on the Dancing Horses” taking me back to John Hughes movies high school romance falling in love immortalized.


I write poetry because I was never very athletic.


I write poetry because I fell in love with a golden haired dyslexic sexy man who believed in bicycles.


I write poetry because I am sore all over all the time so everything is sacred.


I write poetry because I am afraid of being forgotten.


I write poetry because I love words language spelling linguists.


I write poetry because poetry is peace poetry is truth and I don’t want to be dried up like an attorney.


I write poetry because I saw a Venetian beggar ask for a word rather than a dollar.


* from Ntozake Shange’s Nappy Edges

Previously Published in Incandescent Mind 

Issue Three, Fall 2017

Postcard from the Ashes

At age 17, your twisted back will be surgically unfurled. Your titanium backbone will give you impeccable posture, but an inability to move without pain. Afterwards, people will compare you to Ophelia and the Lady of Shalott, trying to grant you a beautiful persona, even though they sense that something has died in you.


You will immerse yourself in fairy tales to survive, dreaming of mermaids every night. Water, poetry, and an avian seamstress will become your best friends. Remember to ask for your back’s precious metal to be melted into a heart for your niece before you are put in the incinerator.

Previously Published in Incandescent Mind 

Issue Three, Fall 2017

Write madly. Live fiercely. Have sex. Be reckless with your art. I know I told you to pluck your brows but now you’re overdoing it. Take it easy. The thick, coarse hairs will all grow back, much to the envy of other people in an unknown era where thick brows will be trendy. The nose job might really be a good idea. Don’t worry about school. It turns out it won’t matter at all. Get some therapy for your anxiety. Try to be happy. Fucking cut your hair short. Your sharp facial features will be fully on display before you grow a middle-aged wattle. Don’t listen to anyone except me. Don’t care what other people think. You don’t know it but this is your time and I want you to have few regrets. Be kind to everyone. Brown eyeshadow will make your blue eyes “pop.” “Pop” is a good thing. Lip gloss will soon be fashionable so don’t worry about how your chapped lips look in matte lipstick. However, you will continue getting lip products on your teeth. And sometimes, strangely, on your nose. Shave your head. Rock on like the supermodel you are.

Letter To My 20-Year-Old Self

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