Friday, April 11, 2014


Future XV3 and I are sitting in my kitchen.
We are at that early stage,
all hot emergency sex
and long discussions solving
the problems of the world
when he says
5 years.
That’s all it lasts.
After that you all just don’t want sex anymore.

I look at him. He looks at me.
Supposed to be friends who can say anything.

I shrug. I nod. I tell him
It’s not that we don’t want sex.
It’s that we don’t want YOU.
I point my finger at his chest.
Sometime soon you will start
treating me as your mother,
as your child, as your servant,
as your plaything, as your property.
You will piss me off
one last time and then
I won't want YOU anymore.

We both realize we are panting,
angry, and look away.

Our eyes meet again.
But hey, that can't happen to us, right?
We've been friends too long, right?
We are at that stage that is
all hot emergency sex
and long discussions solving
the problems of the world.

So we swipe the kitchen table
empty and fuck on it.

Wednesday, April 9, 2014

6/30/14 Adjustment Disorder

Adjustment Disorder

It’s a thing. Seems having your life
go to shit with no positive options
available is now a psychiatric disorder,
prevalent in formerly working class people
over 50, who have not found another job
since the Crash, and lived on their
Crash Trashed retirement savings
until it was gone. The house that was home
for 27 years belongs to Bank of America,
your credit is in the toilet, and your phone is turned off.
Here, have some Buspar.

What. The. Actual. Fuck.
Ok granted, I’m a little crazy,
but my feelings about this situation are not.
We worked our butts off raising you all,
doing strong young body things over and over
that are no longer possible for our now old bodies
to do over and over. It hurts too bad.
What are we going to do about retirement?
We can’t afford retirement. Best if we just let nature
take it’s course, let Paul Ryan and Rick Scott call us lazy
and irresponsible in the mean time.

The trap is closed and chewing your leg off
won’t get you anywhere.

Saturday, April 5, 2014

4/30/14 The Fuck You Haiku

The Fuck You Haiku

If I'd known I could
not tolerate your bullshit
I'd not have done this.

Yes, out of numerical order. Poetry. Deal with it.

5/30/14 Self Comfort

Self Comfort

It is not weird.

Ok, maybe it is weird, having
several playlists in my iPod - songs,
poems, stories - carefully selected for their capacity
to calm me. A certain pitch, a certain rhythm, 
like being rocked in trusted arms. 

When I was a little marching bands made me cry.
The LOUD buzzed beyond my ears
to the bone, my ears, my eyes,
want to scream, run, hide.
Stop stop stop.
That's not weird, right? 

Subwoofers should vanish from the earth.
This would be a very good thing.

Ok, it it weird, but who says you
control my bass, my volume, my own
sensory overload? Decide what goes 
in my ears in my bones in my brain.
Stop. Stop. Stop.

So shush, let me plug the buds in my ears,
lie down in the sun or on the sofa, and listen. I am
being rocked in trusted arms and I won't
melt down all over you.

That is not weird.

Thursday, April 3, 2014


Talking to angels 
is useless. You never visit
anymore. I don't believe
the dead are angels.
Ghosts, maybe, hanging here,
or the ascended, never born again.

No new fantasies, no new dreams,
only memories. So I do understand.
You are not coming back 
in this lifetime.  Patience 
is pointless. You have gone ahead. 
I hope you remember me.

But I can't know that part,
I'm still here. Looking 
at the map. Wondering
will I be arrested in your old
front yard doing my letting go ritual
among someone else's lawn ornaments.


2/30/14 Haiku

It's hard to drive past your dead
love's exit and not
make the turn toward that lost home.



Chasing fireflies in the lavender
twilight, shadows deepen dusky,
perfect for hide n seek.
Evening breeze chills child flesh
sweaty from all the running.
Moon rises, a pearl in the east.
Mamas yelling Come Inside
out the front door
just after the mosquitos get bad.