As I opened the medicine cabinet
carefully hidden behind a broken mirror,
I discovered transparent orange bottles
with broken childproof tabs on each cap,
concealing diet pills the size of ants.

I replaced the capsules with fully bloomed daisies
and I hope you swallow each petal
and ingest each stem entirely
so you can eat something that,
like you, encompasses beauty.

I celebrated yesterday
that my mother is still alive, like how plants exist
and the sun has not fallen from the sky yet.

She has broken six bones.
She has had six different casts, all were green
but her favorite color remains purple.
She shattered the porcelain of our toilet once
with her torso and lost two ribs,
she was basically a man who can **** his own ****.

I picked her up every day
except for yesterday, because she is still alive
almost as miraculous as Mother Nature.

Cows have the ******* of Mother Nature
delivering spotted babies who do not **** sweet milk
worker bees after labor, laboring
packing their new udders with fresh, sweet milk.

I never ****** from my mother’s breast
either, I am basically a cow she’s  basically a man
I mixed my own formula in pink bottles.

She asked what my favorite color is yesterday.
It was the first time,
I said, “it is still pink,” but she said
she thought it would be blue because I am a feminist.
No, no, but yesterday I was only her daughter.

Upon the pages of my poetry books,
you might circle your favourite phrase
or leave your bookmark in the page

Drawing one last puff of your final cigarette,
you might say "I swear this is my last"
and then you might do what you're hoping to,
and set off for another pack

And when you say "babe" or "baby",
I might reply with a smart retort
and then I'll walk away

And some days you'll make a dumb remark
we might fight and I'll curse your name
and other days, you'll smile and wink
and it'll be okay

i don't usually rhyme much
but my thoughts are coming quicker
i'm lifting into the sky right now
drunk on a curious liquor

i recall a scene in a bar last night
one involving a french tickler
i'm seeing her much more clearly now
my memory no longer flickers
i offered to take her eyes home with me
and her body didn't bicker
i took her to a street in pound town
and oh god, did she take me with her

at the top of her lungs, she called my name
sometimes she called me mister
but alas, it's the next morning now
and i think i'll have to ditch her

98 bottles of jack on the wall
my stomach is getting sicker
my mind is sharp like a noodle
my tongue is getting slicker

wish you could see me right now, mom
*******, i'll take a picture

In the heat of the night
He took her hand and hid her fright
She came along, young and naive
Looking back, never once a thought of leave
They held on to those days
Through months of hurt, a gentle haze
Words of passion, tears of shame
Through it all that day had came
Confusion stripped them raw
Cutting deep like a bloodied saw
Pushed and pulled, emotions took their toll
Packed his things, the taxi ready to roll

The sun bore down, blazing hot and red
His string drew back slow in stead
A cool wind swept a chill across his arm
She held on to his promise to cause no harm
A somber air filled him as he readied
He stopped with a stark glance at the target, heart heavy
He noticed nothing but the pale curve of skin
Where his arrow would stick in
She smiled and said "hello dear"
The arrow let out; the string hit, slap! Clear
The fire  whirled across the blade
She warmed to him, the love they made
He smiled and set the bow down
He stood steady as the arrow drown

Her shock came in flows of blood
Her tears wet her heart in profounded flood
One last time her lips he kissed
Then strode away knowing he never missed
She collapsed to the ground
Her heart pained, no longer able to sound
Days passed her in a daze
It took time but she outlived that phase
Bitterness came and went
With others her time she spent
Her wound now stitched together
He is still her number one choice in forever

She knows now that love jades
But with keeping strong heartbreak eventually fades

I sit here on the 2nd floor
hunched over in yellow
pajamas
still pretending to be
a writer.
some ****** gall,
at 71,
my brain cells eaten
away by
life.
rows of books
behind me,
I scratch my thinning
hair
and search for the
word.
for decades now
I have infuriated the
ladies,
the critics,
the university
****-toads.
they all will soon have
their time to
celebrate.
"terribly overrated..."
"gross..."
"an aberration..."
my hands sink into the
keyboard
of my
Macintosh,
it's the same old
con
that scraped me
off the streets and
park benches,
the same simple
line
I learned in those
cheap rooms,
I can't let
go,
sitting here
on this 2nd floor
hunched over in yellow
pajamas
still pretending to be
a writer.
the gods smile down,
the gods smile down,
the gods smile down.
Black Sparrow "New Year's Greeting" 1992

well, first Mae West died
and then George Raft,
and Eddie G. Robinson's
been gone
a long time,
and Bogart and Gable
and Grable,
and Laurel and
Hardy
and the Marx Brothers,
all those Saturday
afternoons
at the movies
as a boy
are gone now
and I look
around this room
and it looks back at me
and then out through
the window.
time hangs helpless
from the doorknob
as a gold
paperweight
of an owl
looks up at me
(an old man now)
who must sit and endure
these many empty
Saturday
afternoons.

He blew a kiss.
A filthy, nasty,
leaves your skin crawling,
kiss.
In his hand,
was his wife's hand.
I quickly made my way down the street.
But my mind stuck to that moment,
as if it was a child's chewed up piece of gum.
Left alone at the side of the curb,
like a washed up actress from the 90's,
who just sort of lost her flavor.
I loathed the moment that had just occurred.
I know I am a woman,
and that I have a larger than average-sized chest,
and maybe even a decent face.
But treat me with respect.
Or at least make sure your own woman isn't watching you,
violate my existence.
Please just make the filth that runs through your veins,
a little less noticeable.
Think about me later while you're ******* her.
But don't acknowledge me in the street,
if anything but a small smile,
is what you have to offer.
Because I will not accept your ***** kiss.
And no,
I will not climb into your bed.
Just because the pieces fit,
doesn't mean I wanted the puzzle in the first place.
Because I know,
as that woman with a larger than average-sized chest,
and maybe even a decent face,
I deserve better than **** off the streets.
I deserve respect.
So keep your kiss,
for a ***** with no self-respect.

darling, do you find me clingy?
you are the first who has stayed for longer then a
week.
you are the first who has spoken to me with truth,
instead of lies intertwined with alcohol and
lust.
so excuse the bite marks, the extensive sighs.
you are the first who has wanted my words,
not the stains within my legs,
or the dampness of my lips.
so excuse my nails that constantly scratch,
excuse the quiver my voice has when you
leave.
you are the first that has said,
“i love you”
and i have actually believed.
you are the first that has said,
“i will stay”
and actually have.

Is a happy accident predictable?
Could I prophecy that red is romance
And that we'll meet in the Tunnel-of-Love
That is part of London's skeleton?
Will the Central Line tie us up,
When happiness is accidental,
Like a red ribbon following 'destiny'?
Am I able to sit on full buses
Without a new fated friend sitting
On that one empty seat?
Dearest Who-Knows-Who
Will I trip and drown you in tea
And stain your ears with words;
Will it be the start of a beautiful
Work-but-never-social relationship?
Can I foresee the strike of chance that
Has two hands reaching for the same
Bottle of milk only to then be locked
Into a battle of politeness with my
Defeat being an exchange of dairy for
Kind ears? Or is our shared liquid desire
Made by a patient and the soon to be
Doctor in, say, seven accidents time?
Perhaps a publisher engages in this war
Of intrinsic social conduct, perhaps my poetry
Is destined for pages because of this bottle,
Perhaps I become a helping hand.
Perhaps perhaps perhaps.

Not all of this is an exercise in futility;
I look out from my window and see a city
Filled with cracked pavements or missed trains
Or shared taxis or dropped books or...or....
Or, perhaps, that ever so unpredictable,
Wonderful, accidental serendipity.

it's 11:45 pm
and you're sitting on your bed
your newly cut hair pulled back
and your first experience with fringe
occasionally dancing over your eyelids
the sounds of a tv and your mother teaching herself the clarinet
make it hard to concentrate
on the thoughts in your head
but your inner organs tell you all you need to know
your stomach flutters with a thousand monarchs
your heart soars
and your knees are weak
and you're not sure how you're going to recover
but that's okay
because maybe you don't want to