Promise me something:
don’t extinguish a flame, dear,
for tyranny’s sake.

“People are pure at birth.

Surely, we as a mankind are better than this.”

My nonna scoffed at my naivety, 
“We most certainly are not. There’s no proof that we are.

Only proof that we aren’t.”

Mankind
is not better than this.

The scent of a flower
the buzz of a bee
the whisper of trees in the breeze.

The source of the power
that surges from you
to merge with the multitudes
fighting for truth
disarming evil
restoring peace.

Beauty keeps you alive
with strength to survive
and keep truth alive.

As he sits pretty
banishing the hardworking
America fights.

an afternoon well spent
driving country roads
     I’d yet to drive
investigating the blooms
     yellow flowers on tomato plants
seeing the last of the strawberries, remaining on the vines
sheep, pigs, miles yet ahead
seeing a deer cross the road, midday
a well kept church, far from a town

I’m curious if anyone
has driven every Kentucky highway
     each route and numbered road
no shoulder 
    curves and surprising stop signs
or if there is always
at least one more, awaiting

I wish I lived in the apartment upstairs,
the one with pounding feet
and shrieking voices
and life that leaks out the windows,
seeps through the floorboards,
and drips onto me just below where I lie on my bed
and imagine the scene on the other side of the ceiling.

The apartment upstairs is singing
as another droplet makes its way down,
dropping onto my nose before trailing down my cheek
like a tear.
Chinese Water Torture,
I remember,
and I wonder if I stayed here forever,
how long it would take for the drips to drive me
insane.

My apartment is quiet and cold,
the floors so frigid this time of year
that you can’t walk around barefoot.
I choose to not walk around at all,
because there’s nowhere to go,
and I know that somehow,
even in just 1100 square feet
and four rooms that I know like
the back of my hand,
I’d get lost.

I once lived in the apartment upstairs.
Now I’ve fallen down,
landed on my back,
too wounded to climb back up.

I wish I lived in the apartment upstairs.
The lights in the windows are on,
and I can hear music playing—words to a song I forgot long ago,
but can still hum the melody to
now and then.
Silhouettes move behind the curtains,
fuzzy and out of reach
no matter how hard I stretch.

I’ve lost my keys
and the spare isn’t under the mat,
and the doorbell doesn’t work,
and no one hears no matter
how hard I knock.

At some point, I must have moved out
without realizing,
and no one ever stopped me.

So I remain down below,the drips from above
the closest I’ll ever get to that feeling
again.

The everyday violence of creation
is contained like
the message in a bottle,
within these knitting needles.
Stab, strangle, 
spin the yarn into something new. 

She learned to knit beside me
casting new loops
turning new tales
making new promises to break.
Swearing like a sailor 
with tears she did not cause
interwoven into our work. 

It was with that casual violence
that I was cast off.
Casually, like I wasn’t a project, but a chore.
Not something she chose to make
just something assigned
that you abandon after the due date.

I stick out like I
am wearing swim trunks to a
homophobe’s wedding.

What’s the costume of the day?
this is a phrase I used to say

Boas & Sparkles & Bangles & Flair
such fun to don, don’t need a dare

It’s EZ to look like the other gals ~ same necklace, same hair length, same frosting,
same shadow ~ same kinda shallow hallow kowtow

No chance for a glance in this boring stance

Instead it’s fun to boa, glitter and fur
to match, to clash, to splash, to purr

It’s not an intention to stand out from the crowd
It’s wearable art livin’ bold out loud!

My Tiger Fur Coat ~ stockings that shimmer,
My Red Frye Boots ~ Johnny Lennon blue glasses that dimmer,
My Beatnik Beret ~ fellow beats say hey!
My Red Leather Pants ~ my 101 pounds of fun ~ my South Pacific Honey Bun!