It’s where the planet
recognizing our similar themes,
as we write out the dirt and the dark,
we are tethered to justice and dreams,
where each line can ignite a fresh spark.
oh, the healing these brave voices bring,
for the the heavy things life has to send;
thank the poets who stand there and sing,
they are making us whole in the end.
With her bedrooms polished
and smelling of Pledge,
before another load of washing
must be gathered, my grandmother
lets breakfast dry on the dishes, drops
her stout body onto the piano stool
and plays the only hymn she knows by heart.
She could be chopping wood, the force
of her forearms and bosom ample
as her vision of a home beyond the skies.
She doesn’t embellish or let her fingers
fly above the melody like a ragtime beat
in a rowdy saloon. Her hymn is rich
like her pies, clean as her home,
solid as her steps marching
through a cloudless day.
If I bite my tongue then maybe I won’t cry
Had to hollow my lungs and let out a bad lie
Became such a fool, a husk, hallucinating
— Brakence, Hypochondriac
Reality is a fragile thing
It beats you to death while telling you it’s okay
It breaks down at the slightest bit of trauma
It falls apart when you get cheated on
Reality is a anxiety inducing thing
So much so I try to escape from it often
14 hours of gaming go by
4-4-4 breathing to become numb to it all
One shot of detergent away from the permanent release
Reality is a gut wrenching thing
It eats to the point of gluttony
While other days fasting until anorexia
And leaves you over the sink heaving
Reality is an insomniac
Forcing itself to get 1-2 hours of sleep per night
Before finally crashing and sleeping through every class period
To only sleep to exhaustion again the next night
Reality is a fragile thing
That tries to smash itself to bits at every corner
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,
