The law says: every action must be accompanied by a reaction.
So when I slipped out of bra and ******* and spread myself open on the kitchen floor,
I expected that he would at least put down the crossword puzzle. No response, though.
I rose up and emptied the saucepan over him.

I went on a course: 'Poetry-writing for beginners'.
I made my similes illuminate the dark, like phosphorus flares.
My metaphors danced the can-can, naked, around the market square.
The teacher said: "Yes, very clever dear. But your imagery clothes a void,
Where the poet's deepest thoughts and feelings should be".
That was when I unstoppered the nitric acid bottle. She will probably keep the sight in one eye.

I joined my local writers' discussion group. At the last meeting, this was the consensus:
Music was subordinating sense; my attempt at profundity was just a lazy mysticism.
They suggested flushing out the drivel from the windmills of my mind.
I added bleach to their cappuccinos. They were left speechless.

I looked in Yellow Pages, and found a personal poetry trainer.
He said, "From now on, you let other people see your poetry only when I say you may.
I shall hold you back until every cadence convinces;
Until I hear the extraordinary, the important and the authentic sing from the bedside table."

Eventually, we were both satisfied.

Take me to the movies
Sophia said

and so you did
and sat at the back

and was looking forward
to seeing the film

one you’d heard
quite a bit about

but Sophia
had other ideas

and they involved
trying to get

into your pants
or running her hand

along your thigh
in the darkness

or kissing your cheek
and whispering words

in her broken English
the Polish accent

still discernable
beneath the words

and rushing breath
and you only went out with her

because she’d been
pestering your

for weeks
or throwing you

on the beds
of the old folks

in the care home
while they were downstairs

in the lounge having lunch
or sleeping themselves

into a late death
and she said

why don’t you put
your hand on my thigh

the Polish sound
hanging on to each

spoken word
why don’t you try

and place your hand here
and she pulled

your hand into
the heaven

between her thighs
and as you looked up

some soldier in the film
was falling dead  

blood oozing
from many wounds

and there was you
in dangerous territory

trying to stay alive
fighting the temptation

and she saying
afterwards we go back

to my place
if my parents are out

and you flushed
and hot

hoped to God
they were not.

We went out to dinner and you ordered my favorite
when it came, we switched plates
because you knew I’d change my mind.

We walked into your friends house looking for some beer
instead they pulled out a sweet little baggie
filled with don’t-say-it-out-loud-named drugs.
Everyone gets big stupid smiles watching Rodger
cut it in lines on the table.

I’m trying to tell you with my eyes that my heart is beating faster
than it’s supposed to
that I am in no way comfortable here
please please take me home *******
and you told my eyes out loud,
“Yeah but I’m gonna do it anyway.”

(Full blown panic attack. It’s what you do to me
baby.)

Leaning over the table like you’re about to get ******
(that was mean, but I am mad),
inhale deeply through that roll of paper.
I’m watching you sourly from the couch
whispered into your ear
“when you come down, you’re taking me the **** home”
(this entire poem goes in The Swear Jar)
instead we had makeup *** upstairs and
I flirted with all your friends.

I guess it got later. The party started going,
some Taylor kid’s speaking in my ear
“That boyfriend of yours, does he love you?”
“Not at all” (I’m a flirt but at least I am honest)
Told me to call him when I shake off the loser.

How can I shake off this loser?
How could I give away the boy (man?) who orders
my broccoli cheddar soup
so we can switch bowls
after my disillusioned moment
of chicken noodle wanting.
He carried me to bed again, and held me when I woke up
crying.
We listen to Neil Young in the car on our way out to the woods
he said
“What a sad man…his Mimi went away.”
running his hands through my hair.

This is my excuse:
you don’t know a person, until
you have gone through their medicine cabinet.
They say.
Mine have prescriptions
You’ve had to find yours yourself
to find yourself.  But now I think
it’s time to grow up, or die real young.
It’s not my problem.
I think I maybe should stop it with this
problem.

The sea gave off a cry tonight,
It plays home to a child,
Her father threw her out of sight,
The sea swallowed her, so wild.

Her mother pushed and screamed all day,
Until the sun shone twice,
The blood would flow without delay,
Her grip was like a vice.

While pain would ebb and flow for her,
She knew her life was slipping,
But he refused to let her go,
The fear was ever gripping.

When finally the child was born,
And mother gave a sigh,
The father cleaned as best he could,
The mother closed her eyes.

A wail crawled from the fathers throat,
A pain beyond compare,
He'd lost his only love that night,
To love this child, he could not bare.

He struggled down the beach, that night,
With baby wrapped in cloth,
He swore up to the lord with spite,
And stepped in to the sea- like froth.

The sea crys out in pain tonight,
It's tears make waves, so wild,
A life, just barely started off,
She plays home to a child.

you taste like candy
and i am starving and swallowing your tricks
i dreamt of a greasy hotel and
a box to sleep in.
i am not a cannibal,
i am not a sky diver
& and i am not a pilgrim,
but i hunger for your body
and i'm falling for your holy curves.
i will hang from your window and dance in the sunlight
even though i am not a pink velvet curtain.
i am a garbage-collector poet,
fresh from the allabaster market
who has found the words once lost
in a dark fox hole
near the bend of a lazily flowing river.
all i need is a dime and a glass vase,
a short story and a wet cigarette.
i've come back to town--i climbed right out of that stop sign
standing on a shotgun bullet-holed volkswagon
with a 7 day hangover
holding burning grace in my hands and you say
"lead me to the garbage"
carrying with you a bag of soggy french fries
and i stop to show you a dying tulip,
and we watch as it floats into a cloud.
we'll hide all our money in a glowing furnace
and as i try to write this with a water logged pen
you show me pictures of shirley temple with her head in a noose.
my name is not moses, and i do not want to be remembered.

Life is  an  amazingly  wonderful   maze,  when   you  t h i n k  about it.
You                                  start   at  the  entrance  n a i v e   and  unaware
of what lies within.         It's  easy to c h e a t in this maze, if  you choose
to walk the e d g e          until  you  get to the  end,  but h o n e s t l y it's
more exciting  just          to  j u m p right  in.  Sure,  you   may  run  into
dead ends                        every   once in awhile,  e v e r y o n e  has  their
dead ends, but it's           easy  for  you to  turn back around, r e t r a c e
your steps and go                             on.   At    times,   the   maze   makes
you   want  to  pull   your  hair        out,  but   for   the  most   part,  you
respect  the  challenge    that it        offers you.You begin to  r e a l i z e
that l i f e                                            isn't  about   finishing  the   m a z e          
it's  about        the path you take to get there. It's  about  The  t h i n g s
you do on       your way  there. It's about all  of the amazing  p e o p l e  
you  meet       while you're travelling.  I think people   forget   that quite
a   bit,   so       the next time you see someone racing through their maze
trying   as       hard as they can to reach the end, remind them that  they
are    only       doing  themselves  a  disservice.   Remind  them that  l i f e
is      what       make of it
                  **You