fire fight

Cherry bombs
fire skies
the light is blocking
out the night
turn the wrist
cut for blood
now you’re at it-
having fun
the world is dying
before one’s eyes
the light of burden
turn the picture
the bombs fall
now you’ll learn
how to see the sun.

True safety is fear

Silence is golden
talking is bad
we hate our feelings
happy or sad
nothing is better
than living in beige
we can’t feel anything
so we know we’re safe.

Money can’t buy love

When you die alone
in a hotel bed
no one ever thinks
you will wake up dead
no one ever watches
the men who keep them safe
no one is responsible
for the life they did not save.
Everyone makes choices
just like Anthony Bourdian,
chose to die alone
a single flower on his grave-
choices made by others
to ignore the ones they love
everything has happened
because of what was never done
you say that you loved him
at least you loved someone.


And then the room turns to water. Hard to tell if the walls are weeping or if their image is deception of the dew. All four walls bugling toward the center, raindrops melting the clock and pushing the furniture slightly. I watch. Wide eyes fixed on the droplets membrane, sucking in air as the water moves forward, it’s cold and tastes like water. Chills run through her frame, fragile, cold, drowning, kisses her back as the water touches irises, nose and lips. All four droplets become one. We’re swimming.
Her lips are tight, eyes still wide-this isn’t real. Yet, she’s wet. She can feel her white dress move, her feet no longer on the ground, her butt not sitting in her chair, her chair no longer on the floor. Everything is floating, drifting in the water, moving, but only slightly. She’s screaming, literally screaming, in her mind as the bubbles begin to decorate wide, panicked eyes. Tiny oxygen filled bubbles all finding home upon her face, she can feel them-I can feel them! She can hear the narration in the back of her head. She doesn’t know that’s what it is. The clock ticks in that office, click away, but the tick is more tock as its sound slugs through the water. Does it slug at all? Twenty minutes… She’s gulping on closed lips still holding on to that last breath. Will that come? Will they see it? No-even though I can feel it! She’s screaming, screaming most literally in her head-the water soaks through, she feels huge raindrops in her skin. Tiny bubbles tickle, her eyes strain from the wet, but she cannot make a sound. The hem of her dress rising up as a lily blooms, upside down and just as confused. How long has it been? Her chest begins to pop, the calm flow of water disturbed, every object feeling her need to breathe.
Hands to her mouth, she wants to close her eyes, but she can’t. She’ll drown in the dark. Though, there’s no real reason why.
And then all at once, the clock ticks, but with more of a tock, the door opens and everything crashes into individual spots. Her butt hits the chair, the chair hits the ground, and her feet touch the floor with a start. She gasp, eyes wide as ever, the sound of water rushing away filling her ears. A babbling brook distorting sounds momentarily. No one will see this. Her dress clings to her flesh. She is still wet.
“We’ll be right with you” a man wearing glasses, and a white coat, holding a clipboard says. His voice more of a tick rather than a tock. Without waiting for response he closes the door, his footsteps splashing in the puddles left behind. She’s breathing heavy, a dying goldfish gasping, flopping, splashing in the shallow wet upon checkered tile floor.
Everything’s wet.

Halsey self identifies

Halsey is
skin is on
we took
down Rachel
but let Halsey
she says
she’s not white
but how can
that be right
when her skin’s
so light
isn’t she
self identified?

Clowns in alabaster skies

Circles in the air
everything is here!
The square all festive
we throw our brains
right down
shooting cotton clouds
we grow braver now
now that we see clowns
circles in the air
the red nose we see clear!

How to kill a mockingbird

How do we like
our stereotypes-
old school baby-
we do it right.
get that theme tight,
don’t make Han Solo
that open delight
gotta give it to Lando
to the black guy
keep him over sexed,
sex him just to do it,
get the stereotypes out
and wake the dead.
Lando Calrissian
the new Star Wars
token rapist
an idea given
by an
old rich white woman