Posts for June 17, 2026 (page 3)

Three weeks had gone by 
by the time I was forced to click
my little red heels together. 

I was swept off my feet by a
Blue Collar Quilty of sorts. 
He rolled me White Owls.

He kissed
my fingers
one by one.

He dropped the cherry of
his cigarette on my wrist
and spent the rest
of the night apologizing
between my legs. 

My mother says he is malignant.
She has the records to prove it. 
Two years probabtion. 8 months in rehab.
3 arrest records. An EPO. 
A friend in DV court
that remembers her name.
Her face. Her tears. 
The broken glass door and
the smell of burnt popcorn on tinfoil. 

I am thrown to the wolves. Nobody to tell. 
Every mouth filled with judgment.
I have nothing substantial to say. 
I will burn in this labyrinth.
If there is a justice higher
than that of man, I will be
judged by Him.

No Regrets

X-cept that I let
my boobies droop.

I never thought my flat chest
would be big enough to sag.

I never thought I’d be flabby enough
to see my used to be firm breasts flounce and bounce.

Yet, here I am, today, writing a poem
about how I wish I had learned to make my pecs pop.

Yes, I used to stand in front of the mirror
and try to find the action to isolate the chest muscles.

Make them flex and unflex.
If only I had been more diligent in that quest,

took care of my body better
I’d be blessed with popping

eye-gawking mouth-dropping,
performance ready at all times,

mammaries.

I don’t want to hate poetry
but I can’t find my rhythm
every lone line drawn 
at an uneven pacing

it makes me feel angry 
frustrated and cursed
an imposter who just can’t 
seem to make the words work 

wind in the lay of this land
where the eastern coal fields begin
is a living thing moving wild as it will

lofting birds carrying voices
bearing rain and thunder in madness
and silk spreading the seeds of trees

it is the trees who safeguard
the shards of the mighty wind’s heart
ever broken by its yearning for home

My wife uses little bronze plaques on stilts
to mark her plantings. Iris. Purple coneflower.
Broccolini. Onion, radish, lettuce, dahlia.

Cities use big bronze plaques on poles
to mark significant locations & events.
Old Water Street. Florence Crittenden Home.
Original home of Lexington Public Library.

Communities would be much more interesting
If we each got our own plaque on a stick design
to highlight our lives.
“In this driveway in 2002 Bernie crunched the spare
tire on a Honda CRV with a Ford Escort while thinking up a title”
“On this dogwood for 14 years Biscuit the terrier
peed nightly, even after he was blind.”
“This wicker chair is named ‘lost in thought’ and
has spawned over 80 poems”

Signs that denote who we are
instead of cataloging nameless
history.

You can only do
what you can do.
Let it go,
outcomes out of your hands.

Except inspirational speakers
on scratchy LPs in high school classes
and hair-sprayed preachers in pulpits and at church camps
all convinced me I was supposed to make a difference,

fostering a longing
in my in my psyche
for tangible successes
that has never gone away

despite all reason
to the contrary.

Really, I don’t want            
      to write about                        
            this dark. I crave light,  

to see the moon            
      face in daytime,                        
            some sun to fracture  

another ragged day. Long            
      after midnight                        
            I remembered to fill  

the feeder. My porch            
      is a watchtower                        
            of cold and stars.  

At daylight a housefinch,            
      a redbird, a titmouse                        
            were in line for breakfast,  

taking turns, charitable            
      as the clouds soon                        
            binding the morning sky.      

Arm swing, grass swish,
I rounded a bend into green unknown,
relaxed in the expectation of some
fresh surprise of wildflowers.

Instead, fur charging
brown-gray at breakneck speed.
I hopped, he swerved,
our mammal bodies
inches from collision.

It happened so fast,
but I’m sure I saw fangs.
Whether on the bunny who almost
mowed me down
or the dog revving close behind
I cannot say.

I will say this—
that was no ordinary rabbit.

There’s always a reason why people gang up on you and bully you

You met a man named Martin
and you killed him with your gun.
But my commands are Spartan,
and Nate, you broke a big ‘un.

I have to ask, did you feel strong?
Did it finally get your father off your back?
Did you prove the haters and losers wrong?
Are you a Punisher-sticker-haver, and hopelessly wack?

Yes, I made you a coward, and I’m hardly surprised.
Your fate? You are damned, this you surely surmised;
you signed up for this “job”, you knew all the hazards.
I am a loving God, saying 
                                                All Cops Are Bastards.