I’ve tried meditation
and human design.
I’ve looked to astrology
and ancient designs.
I’ve shouted to ancient gods
and whispered prayers in cemeteries.
I’ve been at the bottom
of a prescription bottle,
but I can’t get out of my head.
So I picked up a pen
and started to write.
Feeling better,
I went for a walk.
I talked to the trees,
the birds,
and the rocks.
When I returned,
there were holes in my socks.
Who knew
that’s where I’d find god.
i couldn’t help looking
into this ivory birdbath.
beauty is the place i know
to go when i can’t find
anyone i love. i can’t help drinking,
just a little. and a little
more. and wanting it to cradle me.
and wanting to turn
to stone, too, immovable.
the beautiful thing these creatures
seek to keep small dreads small.
how long a ribbon takes
to snap, the dramatic feathering
of a burlesque dancer
all strawberry curl. but death
upon this sex is immediate.
i felt fate turn over, the sleeping
fetus in me, it flipped tail to head.
and a fixture of the garden
isn’t really what i am now.
i am young. i am ruby.
girlness brought me here.
How many ears hear those words?
Number the brains that nurse them.
How many wheels turn in America
imagining the logistics?
Not
a blood squib slap at the ear*
Not
a stage-managed dash
by a shotgun-wielding
selfie-taking fool with 4 large knives*
but real Americans blinking, thinking,
would-be or let-it-be-someone-else
patriotic perps
wish-fulfilling trigger-persons**
red hats praying for divine intervention.***
What a sick feeling in the pit of our stomachs
to be trapped in a cage fight not of our choosing.
Even during the national anthem, we boo.****
*according to a NewsGuard Reality Check poll Reported 5/11/26, 24% of Americans believe both the Butler PA and the White House Correspondent’s Dinner assassination attempt on Donald Trump were staged.
** a Manhattan Institute poll taken shortly after the Butler PA attempt found 1/3 of Americans wished the attempt had succeeded;
*** Business Insider 1/31/23 reported former GOP Rep. Peter Meijer says “a lot” of MAGA Republicans hope Trump dies
**** 6/8/26 Game 3 of the NBA finals, New Yorkers booed when Trump’s face was displayed on the Jumbotron during the pre-game national anthem
after Lorca
Night
in the afternoon.
Rain like
falling stars
on swollen earth.
Where are you
Moon Moon?
Hiding behind
the clouds
while the mood mood
expands like
cold creek water
and the
gloom gloom
becomes
a flock of grackles
on my back back?
Sing me
a song,
Moon Moon,
a tune
of lunar
pulls and starts
that turn me
into a leaf
floating in
dark currents,
waiting for
the gray gray
day to split
into curtains
of pale light.
Sing sing
me a song
of a beating
heart.
Here in the Midwest, we don’t have streets.
No, we have mighty stalks of corn,
the kind that mangly teens detassel for a meager
four-fifty an hour. Here in the Midwest,
everybody has an ear of corn. You overhear
he-said-she-saids, she-said-he-saids,
of whatchamacallits and thingamajigs,
all sorts of naughty stuff. Conversations like:
Real hot day we’re having, doncha think?
Ope, sorry spurt, the rain’s coming down now.
The scotcharoos and puppy chow better wait
with the creamed corn, the real cream of the crop.
Here in the Midwest, you feel watched.
The soaring hawk eyes the stormy weather,
the threat of inland cyclone, a derecho.
You think I owe ya one? Iowa nothing.
I’m angry all the time it’s just exhausting,
green clouds obscure the red star
we’ve been here–I think–for twelve years,
making it around 1975 back home,
allowing for relativity
the animals are intelligent,
speaking a variety of languages,
living in societies bartering
with The Others
for dwindling resources
we don’t bother trying to learn–
there is no point and
body language doesn’t work so well
here, with species from different
cultures, histories,
planets
we’ve been left alone–mostly–
after the initial battery of tests
to which we were all
subjected
pen and paper work well in this atmosphere,
so we keep notes to share with one another
but we find we have less to say
as time (whatever that is) goes by
we don’t think we are going home,
nor could this place ever become home–
we are stuck out of place in this universe,
living, but not advancing
I can’t remember the sound
of laughter
Sit down to write a poem,
first word to come to mind
every
single
time
is “toothbrush.”
Why in the world?
What rut in the neuron path
sends my thought in this direction
every
single
time?
What could possibly cause such a fixation?
I even wrote a poem about a toothbrush once,
how it somehow worked its way to the back of the drawer,
and I had to search for it
every
single
time.
Was not a good poem.
Maybe the universe is waiting
for me to write a good one.
This ain’t it either.
I stand at the station,
waiting for my train.
The world smells sticky wet,
the fresh rain painting the
morning with the smell of
petrichor.
I want to breathe deep but
I don’t trust that I won’t catch
an unpleasant whiff of that
smell that comes (the only
downside) when you’re a
part of the living city.
Came like a whisper
The grandiose theatrics
The faulty facts
The bravado
The self-aggrandisement,
It all seemed so surreal,
Could not be reality
Would not be accepted
So outlandish
So contrary to our culture
Yet here we are,
Masked and unbadged hoodlums
dragging people from courtrooms,
schools, churches, their cars,
to places and fates unknown,
Ignoring due process
Legislative bodies heavy
with the kowtowing spineless
who love
their lifetime pensions
their lifetime medical insurance
more than their Constitution
And the dissolution accelerates,
people, mores, social safety nets,
decades of progress
dismantled
chipped away
devoured
by the endless cycle
of graft, grift and greed
And we sit in our (mostly white & college educated) privilege,
and we gasp, appalled by the amoral
police state that’s now our country
truth is, this didn’t happen overnight
our privileged perch let us
ignore those deep-pocketed malevolent male millionaires
with the patience to plan for decades, saying
“Crackpots” “Extremists” “Impossible”
racism and white nationalism now run rampant, and
all our national shames have come home to roost
(Jim Crow, Isolationism,restrictive suffrage, misogyny to name a few)
The time for rhetoric (and gasping) is over
our country needs bold, focused, informed citizens,
rolled up sleeves, commitment
And grit, lots of grit
