A bird fallen from his tree,
wings broken,
chest rising in uneven panicked gasps
half in a mud puddle

disgusted them.
No song left in his throat,
no color in his feathers.
Probably diseased.
No longer hopeful,
no longer a thing to be admired.

They looked up from the ragged pile of feathers
drawn only to the sky-
to the soaring.
They had no use
for the broken one at their feet.

He lay there,
not dead,
but forgotten.
His pain
too heavy, too honest,
too close to the end.

And they looked away.
Pretended he had never flown,
never sang,
never mattered.

And in that silence,
he writhed.
The mask of beauty long shed,
his frailty exposed
to boots and blindness alike.

He had fallen.
His panicked fluttering body of tiny hollow bones
in the gutter of the world,
breathing his last breaths about to die.
He fell out of the sky.

And they stepped over him—
And on him—
with the same indifference.

Until he stopped moving.

I’m not a writer,
so I’ll give it to you straight—
without fancy words
or the metaphors I hate.

I’m a nobody
that’s never been a somebody,
that will never amount to anything—
and I’m just like you.
Admit it, it stings.

It’s not Go-thee,
it’s Goethe, I swear—
I’ve read every page,
just never learned where
the right sounds live
in a mouth like mine.

But make no mistake I’m not far behind.

And it might make you sad,
but it’s the sad truth.
When will you see
I didn’t waste my mind or my youth?

Time is a tightly closing fist
that has us all by the throats,
and we won’t escape the clock—
so hold me close.

I think and I dream,
and then I plant those thoughts
like deep-rooted flowers
in hand-painted pots.

I’ll never win a Pulitzer
or get an honorable mention,
but that doesn’t mean
I don’t live my life with intention.

And it might make you sad,
but it’s the sad truth.
When will you see
I didn’t waste my mind or my youth?

Time is a tightly closing fist
that has us all by the throats,
and we won’t escape the clock—
so hold me close.

What do you want it to say on your grave, TV woman?
I’m a feminist too.
But I know that being a cog in the wheel
Won’t pay homage to the goddess in you.
TV woman.

I am your daughter, I know your worth,
Stop working so hard for what?
Touch your body, touch the earth,
TV woman.

You are everything,
and you always were,
TV woman.

You don’t even have the bank account
They say makes it worth your time on earth,
TV woman.

I wanna be proud, but you’ve been blown off course,
Stability is an illusion—
Even financial—
Write a poem that’s substantial,
TV woman.

You are everything,
and you always were.

So you’re better than men, that’s obvious,
You’re the best in your field,
TV woman.
But the world doesn’t need a network special.
You feed your ego, not your soul,
Let it go, let it go, let it go.

You are everything, and you always were,
TV woman.

What does it feel like?
Swallowed, like Jonah, I swim in the pit of its stomach rolling with the sea; in putrid stinking company.

Until, at long last there is a great sneeze- for you are the fire, the expectorant, the release.  The gently pulling back of the covers and kissing red, stinging eyelids- while I’m deep in the belly of the whale.

The lily uncurled won’t last the week-
White face confused facing the sun.
I’m sad to see you here- it’s dangerous, oh dear- weren’t you safe inside your little bud before you were cut for my birthday?

Salami?
Bits of meat, fat, gristle, seed
stuffed into a ****** of entrail

Milk?
Bits of fat, cream, mineral, body
Stretched into a plastic coated carton flash pasteurized for your adult pleasure?

Pancake?
Bits of concrete, iron, bone, bunk bed
Sunken into a parking garage of reclaimed marsh in south Florida?

Surfside
Stuffed, stretched
sunken in syrup primordial ooze.

Yes, All buildings will fall.

With hair that appears red in the sun,
she has
Atlantic eyes with black lashes.
She’ll hum while you’re talking to her.

She self-soothes—
don’t take it personally.
She bites her nails,
her skin’s spotted like sand,
and bottom teeth are crossed.

She throws back her head and cackles,
neck mole exposed, off center.
With her small hands, she can’t open cans,
but she admires
her ugly fingers.

Beautiful singers.

At her rented apartment
on an otherwise tree-lined street,
she will write with a pencil
the secret words
caught in her throat.

She self-soothes—
don’t take it personally.
She bites her nails,
her skin’s spotted like sand,
and bottom teeth are crossed.

She throws back her head and cackles,
neck mole exposed, off center.
With her small hands, she can’t open cans,
but she admires
her ugly fingers.

Beautiful singers.