Freedom, Inspiration, Poetry, relationships, Spirituality, Womanhood, Writing

The Hole

The hole inside of you does exist
but it is a vessel for goodness and care
not a dumping ground for excuses and addictions

“What are you trying to forget?” I once asked a
man who drank too much (according to me, mind you)

“What? Me? Nothing.”


The hole inside of you may be there
it’s true
Maybe blasted open in youth, a big
gaping hole of neglect and rejection
or maybe you’ve been carving away at it
for decades, an attempt to become a real
Rockstar–edgy and tortured

The hole inside of you does exist
I’m sorry I ever said it didn’t
but you turn that hole upon its head
and it is a vessel for goodness and care
not a dumping ground for excuses and addictions
it’s all in how we look at the cavern
light it up and it’s not so bad after all
not so bottomless–albeit there

Poetry, Rant, Writing

Billboard People

Instead of regurgitating facts
why not digest the knowledge
Instead of claiming ideas as your own
shoving them down my throat
like capsules of lead
let them collect around you
and carefully handle the wisdom
grow to understand it
before you accept it
Everything has a label now
most of all, our own persons
are we not all tagged as this
or that?
Who am I if I do not
promote myself to you?
Do I exist at all?
Have I no life if
I am not on display?
Have I got no education if
I don’t wear it like a badge?
Have I got no past if
I don’t carry my albums
in my mouth
spilling them out
on the floor at every change
waiting for you to stop
talking so that I might
do my dance
How old are we anyway?
Still young enough for
Show and Tell?
Are my bones
my breath
my eyes
my body
all lost on you?
Is my presence
not enough?
I forgot my billboard
at home
You forgot my
my phone number
You forgot I’m
a person
not a number
Not friend
number 362
but a soul
a spirit
a woman
Memoir, Poetry, Writing


Did I dream her up?
I met her in the vegetable garden. It was sometime near my fifth birthday. I was fingering the dense pumpkin stocks and their broad leaves like wall insulation to the touch–misleadingly soft and cozy. Like a five year old herself.
She appeared there beyond the ripe orange globes.
She stared at me,  reached out to touch the vines.
She was my age. Her eyes spoke to me but her childmouth never moved. I admired her wetsand-colored curls as she told me that we were Identical. That he touched her too. That he came for her when he was done with me, that he came for me when he was done with her. She told me her name was Esther. Before I could respond, he pulled up in his Chevrolet. I crouched down in the path in my Autumn dress. I peeked my eyes above the garden greens as he pointed to the passenger door instructing her to get in. My eyes got big and wet, her dress was caught in the door, they drove down the dirt lane toward Hunter Creek and I shook but it wasn’t cold outside.

Memoir, Poetry, Writing

No Title

For how long
can we
trapeze this love?
Before falling
            l l
with I love you’s
and titles.
We run from
those words,
playing hide
and go seek
For surely
those words
lead to
   I don’t love you

For how long
can we babystep
this desire?
Knowing All-grown Up
desire is

For how long
can you go
calling me Yours?
For how long
can I?

Inspiration, Poetry, Writing

Little Robby

Some people are firestarters
others rain
others rock
women are animals
that men hunt
men are butterflies that
can’t ever really be caught
I am free and I am burdened
I use the fire to get me hot
I put it out when I get lost
I was never my mother’s
not even in the womb
a psychic on Alder street said
when the seed was planted
I was bloomed
I raged out of her fists up and
how do I shake it?
Angry babies are not funny
they just try to fake it
I was always my father’s child
If at a distance
I was a grown man,
a grown woman
I am fire, ice
all of it

Poetry, Writing

Hot & Cold & Nothing In-between

I want to be on
top of the world
but am unwilling
to climb even a mole hill
I want to grab IT by
the horns,
by the balls
but I’m either
too weak
or too disgusted
I want fame
but I am unwilling
to emerge from this,
dinged and dented, shell
I want Home Sweet Home
without paying a cent
I want love without
getting naked
I want it masked and
mysterious and
practically perfect
I want pleasure
and I want it to roll
and unfold forever
I want truth but I
like fantasy even better
I want respect,
I want it now,
and without having to give it
I want the Earth but I want
Starbucks to-go cups too
…and cars
I want family but not
red and green holidays,
smelly bathrooms,
ugly toes,
why don’t you’s,
chatter-induced headaches
and taking care of Dad…
I want friendship,
health, and happiness
but I refuse to go out
and get it

Memoir, Poetry, Writing

I Want To Be

I want to be forgiven
for what I’m about to do
to you
catch and release
you’ll be guy number five
I’ll be your girl number two
your first
your last
your mystery
I want to be whipped
into shape
taught a lesson
fondled and driven
to madness
wined and dined
I said wined and dined
I said wined and dined
I said tell me
to put on a dress
I said ask me
to take down my hair
I said
I want to be whipped
into shape
I want to be tamed
lead me
guide me
I want a man
I’ve never seen a man
I’ve rarely seen a man
I thought I saw a man once
but he walked into the day
and by night he was all gone away
I saw a man once
who had It
I saw a man who
could tame me
but he didn’t want a thing
to do with this woman
with this body
with this piece of work
right here
I want to be forgiven
I want to be whipped
I want to be tamed
I want to be a girl
who is chased
but women like me
are so bold
so brass
women like me are
more of a man
than you’ll ever be
chew on that
and when
you’re a man
come back to me
cause I want to be
I want to be tamed
and pregnant
I want to be