Why do poets always talk about the ocean's waves,
about their single file march to shore,
and yet never talk about my grandmother's farts,
which arrive in time, one after the other, with equal
     regularity?

Are these poets too holy to comment on anything
less than nature's flashiest gestures?
Are we going to spend another millenia searching
for meaning in sunsets and waterfalls?

Or will we finally turn our ear to Grammy's ****
and away from all that pretty stuff,
and hear that foul, muted trumpet sing,
marking the end of an era?

I had to get it off my chest
The aching need tearing away
At my heart
The very thought of keeping it from you
Could cause my fickle heart
To explode
I'm not falling
I'm sinking
Into your skin
Deeper
               and
                        deeper
Until I can drown in you
So I gasp
For the air
To say it
I love you

summer nights
fairy lights
women rights
skinny tights
we ended up with
lovers' fights

plain as day
you took away
a sunshine ray
left me with
no words to say

feelings fade
a girl's parade
to hold her head high
and hide the mess you made

She wanted to wash the man out of her hair
But the scent was too strong and the braid was too tight;

The sun cannot shine from beneath a rock;

So she cut it.