Little Red was a fast runner; she sped round the track with surprising velocity. Freddi Wolf was a newcomer, with size and intensity. "What big shoulders you have," said Red. "And you’re towering over me." "Don’t worry," said Freddi; "I’m just a girl who tries hard; you  could probably beat me". "Your legs are quite hairy," said Red. "I don’t shave them with frequency." "And your voice is so deep." "No more comments! Have decency."  They both ran very fast, but Wolf took the win. He bared his white fangs when he collected his trophy. But he quickly changed his expression to a sheepish grin.

Buzz
From HortiDaily: "In a few countries, bumblebees are not available and manual pollination must be used... It pays to remember.. that without proper pollination a tomato plant will not produce premium fruit.
When tomato plants are pollinated manually, the best method is by using electric bees. These are battery operated vibrators. Staff must vibrate every plant in the glasshouse three times per week "

Tomatoes won’t ripen right
without pollination.
It helps to have a bumblebee
to give that good vibration.
But if you lack the bumble,
there’s another way, you see:
Your plants all can be pollinated
manually.
You will need to use some labor,
and wield a good *******--
the electric bee will soon become
your best-loved pollinator.
Your fruit is premium
and you’ll want to keep its savor.

They’re just things, they said. They can be replaced.

30-year-old handwritten letters from friends.
Photos of a place that no longer exists.
The stuffed animal that had a name.
The quilt grandma sewed for me.

You have your memories, they said.

But my possessions were the keys to my  mind’s drawers.
My old life is locked away.
I can't see it now,
through the smoke and flames.
I can't smell it,
only the  poisonous odor of melting vinyl.
I can't hear it,
just the crackling and crashing of the trees.

You’re lucky to be alive, they said.

But I'm having trouble proving I'm alive.
I have no passport, drivers license or diploma.
No utility bill,  birth certificate, or computer hard drive.
No Social Security card.

Some have it worse than you, they said.

Some always have it worse.
I didn't lose a husband, mother or child.
Just my cats. I thought they would follow me out the door
but they ran in the other direction.
I try to think of them in the forest somewhere,
climbing trees, and
not as charred bones.

But
I have the car.
I still have the car. I will drive it far
far away
from here.

On the First day of Xmas, my Dem Rep gave to me
A transwoman in her skiv-vies.
On the second day of Xmas, my Dem Rep gave to me
Two fake *******, and a transwoman in her skivvies.
On the third day of Xmas, my Dep Rep gave to me
No women’s sports teams, two fake ******* and a transwoman in her skivvies.
On the fourth day of Xmas, my Dep Rep gave to me,
Four phalloplasties, no women’s sports teams, two fake ******* and a transwoman in her skivvies.
On the fifth day of Xmas, my Dem Rep gave to me
Five preg-nant men! Four phalloplasties, no women’s sports teams, two fake *******, and a transwoman in her skivvies.
On the sixth day of Xmas, my Dem Rep gave to me,
Six double mastectomies, five preg-nant men! Four phalloplasties, no women’s sports team, two fake *******, and a transwoman in her skivvies.
On the seventh day of Xmas, my Dem Rep gave to me,
Seven teens with breast binders, six double mastectomies, five preg-nant men! Four phalloplasties, no women’s sports teams, two fake *******, and a transwoman in her skivvies.
On the eighth day of Xmas, my Dem Rep gave to me,
Eight cheater’s trophies, seven teens with breast binders, six double mastectomies, five preg-nant men!  Four phalloplasties, no women’s sports teams, two fake *******, and a transwoman in her skiv-vies.
On the ninth day of Xmas, my Dem Rep gave to me,
nine pharma lobbyists,  eight cheaters’ trophies, seven teens with breast binders, six double mastectomies, five preg-nant men! Four phalloplasties,  no women’s sports teams, two all gender locker rooms, and a transwoman in her skiv-vies.
On the 10th day of Xmas, my Dem Rep gave to me
10 years of electrolysis, nine pharma lobbyists, eight cheaters’ trophies, seven teens with breast binders, six double mastectomies, five preg-nant men! Four phalloplasties, no women’s sports teams, two all gender locker rooms and a transwoman in her skivvies.
On the 11th day of Xmas, my Dem Rep gave to me
11 lost scholarships, 10 years of electrolysis, nine pharma lobbyists, eight cheaters' trophies, seven teens with breast binders, six double mastectomies, five preg-nant men! Four phalloplasties, no women's sports teams, two all gender locker rooms and a transwoman in her skiv-vies!
On the 12th day of Xmas my Dem Rep gave to me,
12 preferred pronouns, 11 lost scholarships, 10 years of electrolysis, nine pharma lobbyists, eight cheaters' trophies, seven teens with breast binders, six double mastectomies, five preg-nant ment! Four phalloplasties, no women's sports teams, two all gender locker rooms and a transwoman in her skiv-vies!

Werewolf

I’ll trek through the woods and find a wolf pack.
I’ve got a simple strategy for a quick attack.
I’ll **** their Alpha and feed them deer;
I’ll become the new Alpha and I’ll rule through fear.

I’ll lead my pack with my bow and arrow.
We’ll eat the moose’s liver and **** the bones’ marrow.
We’ll hunt together by the cold moonlight.
I’ll plot the course of the season by the stars of the night.

We'll eat the flesh of those who dare come near
in the dark frigid dawn of the early New Year.
I’ll hunt down stragglers and set their bodies burning;
it’s survival of the fittest in this wicked world’s turning.

My dogs will howl at the moon by the edge of the cliff;
they’ll be the rhythm section while I play my riff.
Don’t come near us, don’t try to follow:
Steer clear of my pack, or you’ll have no tomorrow.



The Retort

So, you’ve got some silver bullets in your automatic Glock.
I hate to give bad news, and this might be a shock:
But I’ll take your silver bullets—
I’ll wear one as a pendant.
As for the rest of you—
they’ll only find a remnant.

Mating Season

I shed my human form, to meet you in the night.
We tread into our lair, within a limestone secret cave.
No one knows the site, except the watching grey-black owl.
We circle and we nip, with loving tender bite.
I smell your musky scent and hear your throaty growl.

Alpha Alpha pair, there are only two of us.
I’m the queen and you’re my knight
(but with no shining armor bright).
Instead, a coat of grey and white.

And when our rendezvous is done
we’ll greet the others at  the cliff
and all howl in unison.

"When you encounter a mountain lion, be vocal; however, speak calmly and do not use high pitched tones or high pitch screams"--California Dept. of Fish and Wildlife

Be vocal, but avoid high pitched tones and screams
when a mountain lion appears on your path.
Remind yourself that it’s not a  dream.

If the path goes down to a flooded stream,
and bodies float by--
stay calm;  avoid high pitched tones and screams.

When you go to the store and there’s no milk or cream,
as the cows are sickened  from a poisoned well,
remind yourself that it’s not a dream.

If the wildfire turns your hot tub to steam,
as you run down the street to your neighbor’s car
be vocal, but avoid high pitched tones and screams.

When the weather goes to another extreme,
and mudslides cover another town,
remind yourself that it’s not a dream.

When the fisherman catches no salmon nor bream,
and there’s no more coffee, nor chocolate ice cream,
be vocal, but avoid high pitched tones and screams.
Remind yourself that it’s not a dream.

I asked you to tell your story.
But you lied--
you closed the door on me.

Betrayed  in younger years,
your pain never faded.
It petrified, into a rock wall
high and sheer.

I can turn the key slowly,
unlocking the mystery  
of how old wounds still sting, but,
it’s no quick release from misery.

You found relief
in an inanimate remedy.
Or was it the chance of death you took
that entranced you,
a needle roulette, not Russian,
but just as deadly?

I cried
when I heard you had died
in your ecstatic reverie.
And the crimes that had been
perpetrated against you
were upgraded by Fate
from neglect to homicide.

The elixir was mixed.
The potion had been poured.
The candles were all burning.
Over the Book of Spells, I’d pored.
I handed you the goblet--
my commandment you ignored.
I intoned the incantation--
you sat and just looked bored.
I looked into the crystal ball
and told you of your fortune.
You disagreed—but how is this?
Of the two of us there’s only one
who is the sorceress.
Why did I paint the pentagram
and summon all the spirits?
I’ll have you know I’ll still be charging
my fee for all your visits.

55--is it the limit?
I’ve been slowing down, for sure.
Trying to economize, but my size
is growing.
No longer a tease; I’ve got bad knees.
I seize the day,
but please,
ask me if I prefer the elevator.
I might see you later--or not.
We can't count on tomorrow,
but I don't dwell in sorrow.
Now I hear more, see more,
even when I've lost my reading glasses. I know what life is for.
I grow things. I sing. Gladly
I do the dishes.
I have no birthday wishes. Wishes are for a future.  
I’ve removed things, and sewn a suture.
The way I was is history. That girl, with pretty shoes,
didn’t play the blues.
Now I listen, and I play those tunes.  
I’ve got no use for pretty, ‘cept for being pretty sure.
Sure, I've been wrong—wrong to wear those shoes, for one thing,
cuz my toes hurt.
Now, I know all the dirt. I’ve got things buried so deep
no one knows. But from the dirt, stuff grows.
I’m watering those plants, and wait til you see what springs up. Time ain’t up yet,
and there’s a green hill, and tall trees, and a sunset.

I saw you standing, dressed to ****.
Perhaps waiting for someone to tell you of her thrill--
the thrill that you give, when you start to sing.
I should’ve told you then that I’d been listening.
I’d just started to listen, just begun to catch the fire;
it wasn’t until later that I burned with desire.
Then I fell for you, I fell for you deep.
You’ve been playing with my mind; you’ve been visiting my sleep.
I wish I’d told you then, that I’d give you anything;
though nothing I could give you, would equal what you bring--
what you bring to me nightly, what you touch in my core.
When you’re next in town, go out the back door.
I’ll show you the stars,  I’ll show you the lights;
I’ll give you what you crave at the  end of the nights.
I’ll tell you of my dream, I’ll tell you of my vision,
then I’ll worship at the altar of my one true religion.

These shoes be hurtin’ me
and this top’s too sheer.
I can’t sit in this skirt.
Do you think I want men to leer?

I’ll wear my skirt long,
like the Orthodox Jews:
A high-necked top
and a pair of flat shoes.

I’ll wear sneakers with socks,
and jeans or black leather.
I’ll wear wool scarves and hats
on account of the weather.

Is it really “fashion”
or some type of mockery?
To dress women like ******
seems to me an atrocity

I don’t care what you think
of the outfit I chose.
I’m considering Islam
just for the clothes.

Hills glow emerald
Grass embraces winter rain
Forgets summer drought

Let’s take your ragged soul and patch it up together.
I’ve got some thread, and tricks up my sleeve.
With your grit and wit
we’ll  take the pieces, and make them fit.
Your new you may feel strange,
because some parts are re-arranged,
but your vision will be clearer,
and your hearing more  attuned,
emotions deeper--
when we’ve stitched up those wounds.

I am lost in the forest;
show me the path.
I’m exposed on the mountain;
take me from the storm’s wrath.
I’m on the side of the road--
don’t let bad guys stop.
I’m a prisoner at home,
waiting for you to get a cop.
The whirlwind surrounds me;
be my eye in the storm.
Take me out of the blizzard
to your home safe and warm.

Lucifer, save us; come up from Hell—
take a good look at the place that we dwell.
You were right all along
to refuse to bow down
to Adam and Eve
and their limitless throng.
And how could you have known that the apple you gave her
would plant seeds of pollution, destruction and terror?
You thought that we’d only use knowledge for good.
I know that you’d take it all back if you could.
Lucifer, we aren't angels like you.
We joined your rebellion, and soon we’ll be through.
Now the recourse from the wreckage that is,
is to bring on the foreshadowed Apocalypse.
So come on, Luci, don’t hesitate:
The Four Horsemen are pacing; why delay Fate.
After the End, there will be a new start,
perhaps without humans; we’ll bow and depart.

Contagious Infospores infect
the wild, wild internet west.
Apparently the worst is the best
that some can do.
The goal, to make truth suspect--
to interject
theories of conspiracies.
Connect, connect, don’t inspect
too closely.

It’s mostly
slander to create fear,
garbled and unclear
to avoid lawsuits
(which doesn’t seem to be working).
Fat toad preys on weak minds
who can’t be bothered to analyze
information and facts.
They prefer hysterical attacks.
It's easier to fear and hate
than digest cause and effect, and accept ineluctable fate--
than to consider responsibility,
mistakes and liability.
It’s simpler when it’s all a plot
by the powerful to persecute you
(as if they have nothing better to do).
And to remember that people whom  you fear and hate
are people not unlike you.
26 dead people didn’t disappear.
They are in the ground, and in the hearts and minds
of those who are living, here.

Good dog Max, always sits and waits
for the dogwalker, who comes every day at  8.
Leather leash around his neck, they go round and round the block,
the same route every day. He’s got no shoes and socks
to protect his padded feet, that were meant for grass and hills,
and there’s no chance to run and fetch a bird his master kills
(though that’s what he was bred for).
And from 9 in the morning, until every night,
it’s the same small apartment, floor of wood and walls of white.
Sometimes they lock him in a cage, so he won’t jump on the bed;
Max sometimes wonders if he’s alive, or dead.
He barks when they come home, and they tell him “shush.”
To hide his shame he gnaws a bone, or gives his bowl a push.
Max, depressed and fat, died before his time.
A prisoner locked in solitary who was guilty of no crime.

“You’re a relic,” said the video game,
“no one reads you now.”
“Not true” said the novel. “And anyhow,
at least I have characters
who speak and think and feel.
No one could believe that your
“characters” are real.”
“I offer blood and action; an opportunity
to ****. We know that’s what the people want.
It’s a pressing need I fill,”
the video game replied.
“What makes you think your wars and crimes
played out in pixelation
will satisfy the players’ lust
for quick assassination? They will tire
of virtual gore and want to test their skills
in a real arena that offers far more thrills.”
The novel’s pages fluttered; she indignantly continued:
“In my world there’s ambiguity; it forces them to think
about how there’s no black and white,
except for pages and for ink.
My stories stir compassion,
reflection, empathy. Your crooks and soldiers all act the same;
where’s their personality?
You know you’re just a pinball game
dressed up as a cartoon.”
The video game tried to think
of how to answer back... But soon
it realized that she was right. And sadly thought about the terror
that it had wreaked from coast to coast
and how it was a grievous error.
It filled the bathtub up with water
and dropped itself straight in. And that, my friends, is where
this little story should begin.

I will not run from you, Fear.
I will stand still and stay right here.
Your yawning chasm of the unknown
is no more than a dark corner of my mind when I’m alone.
I choose to close my eyes and recall
what I’ve faced before, and how I did not fall.
And that I’m not alone, and never will be—
for lonely souls like me are plentiful,
and friendly.

As the winds grow stronger and the snow falls heavy,
as the oceans rise and pour over the levee,
as the sweltering heat makes us sleep in the day
and work in the night, I’ll take your hand and say:
Dance with me in the darkness, until the futile dawn;
sing while I play guitar, we don’t have long.
Read your poems to me while we have a little time;
we have no future, but we still have rhyme.
Let’s drink a toast, or two, to what might have been,
and what once was, before our time turned grim
Let’s plunder the pharmacy, or eat the magic mushroom;
don’t go into the night easy, but don’t rage at the moon.
Let’s savor all the moments, as our destiny arrives.
Let’s not waste another minute of our precious time alive.

So you got robbed. Don't think of yourself as a victim. Look at it as an expression of the robber's occupational and social deficits. Don't let it traumatize you for life. After all, can you compare it to being murdered? We need to have some appreciation for scale here. We don't want to go back to the Victorian notion that people are fragile flowers who can't handle  having a gun pointed at them and losing a few dollars. That's a form of condescension, after all.

You're complaining about a burglary? Some men see a mere doorknob lock as a flirtation. And surely we don't want to see the end of flirtations and seductions!  Must we all now install deadbolts and security systems? What's next--chastity belts? What happened to joie de vivre and devil-may-care?

So a drunk driver hit your car. Do you really want to have him arrested? It was a misunderstanding; he didn't realize that four cocktails and driving are technically illegal. And should they be? Do we want to criminalize ordinary reckless behavior? Haven't we all done something a bit foolish or clumsy in our younger days? Do we want a society in which everyone has to be careful what they do, all the time? A society in which people must count their drinks before getting behind the wheel? We are moving away from the ideals of a liberal democracy and toward totalitarianism! 

So you were murdered. You can look at is as an opportunity to learn more about what happens after death. Your career was ended and your earthly form deteriorated, but that's not the end of the world. Now you live as a memory, and people appreciate you more. What doesn't **** you makes you stronger, and what kills you enshrines. There is honor in being dead. It is time we brought back the old virtues!

I am Ma’am.
Ma’am I am.
And if I order
green eggs and ham
at the café,
you can say,
“We don’t serve that here,
Ma’am.”

Miss, I’m not.
I am not Miss.
That appellation
is a dis.
Take a look,
and you’ll see this:
I’m 53, not 18.
I may be older than I seem,
but my days of girlhood are long gone.
And to call me “Miss” would just be wrong.
So call me “Ma’am;” it’s what I am.
You might think “Miss” is hip or flip,
but if you call me that there’ll be no tip.

You’re so polite
and always on time.
Your smile is bright
and lunch is on your dime.
You’re thoughtful and smart--
so intellectually inclined.
I’m rough-edged,
and sometimes offend.
I’m moody and fiery;
I don’t like to pretend.
I might jump to conclusions;
I’d rather break than bend.
But if you were in trouble,
I’d be there on the double.
If trouble fell on me,
you’d tell me plainly
that you’ve got other obligations
to your job and your relations.
So this message I will send:
This friendship must end.
I’ve got no use
for a fair weather friend.

a relic from my dating days

I’ve been Generation X’ed;
I got the message by text.
A last minute change
and my day was rearranged.

The zombies cross the street,
staring at their phones.
They cannot tolerate a human voice,
and yet, cannot be alone.

It’s not a “relationship,”
despite the  frequent  f**king.
It’s just a casual acquaintanceship,
full of frantic commitment-ducking.

Ambivalence and  indecision
aren’t what I call attractive.
In fact, they summon my derision.
So, I must be proactive.

It’s not that you aren’t ****--
you’re just too Generation X-y.

Poets are bipolar--
musicians, OCD.
I wonder if we’d have much art
without insanity?
Coleridge smoked *****,
Poe preferred whisky.
If not for their addictions
would we have their poetry?
Blake had manic visions;
Hemingway was suicidal.
The heights and depths of their emotions
meant their minds were never idle.
Garcia tripped on acid;
Iommi did *******.
Would they have played such blissful notes
if they weren’t a bit insane?
Yes, we must treat the ill,
we want them with us still--
but if we lost all craziness
there’d  be genius that we’d miss.

Old crippled man, charcoal burnt and ashen,
a thousand days debauchery molded you in this fashion.
Haggard and stiff, you can barely walk across the stage--
no one ever thought that you would make it to this age.
Your girth has expanded (although it’s covered well),
but still your piercing voice summons demons up from hell.
Not as strong as it was once, but eerie just the same,
calling those who’ve followed you, who now chant your name,
to assemble in our legions, gathered in this shrine,
where we repeat the catechism, in throbbing metered rhymes.

Are you a madman? Or just a troubadour
who lends melodic shimmer to verses dark and dour.
Whose singing slides and skims along the edge of sanity,
but who never surrendered to the true evil of vanity.
Recovered from drunken, dissolute despair,
to call the faithful masses back, never mind the wear and tear--
to plod the journey of your craft, to sing before the crowd
whose loyalty, to your band, forever is avowed.

Rain’s a-coming, I’m seeking higher ground
Rain’s a-coming, I’m seeking higher ground
Ain’t gonna stay here, ain’t gonna stick around

River’s rising, gonna flood the town
River’s rising,  gonna flood the town
Ain’t gonna stay here; ain’t gonna be around

The wind’s a gonna blow, gonna blow your house down
Wind’s a gonna blow, gonna blow your house down
Better run for the hills, better run for higher ground

Down at the White House, they’ll say you don’t need to fear
Down at the White House, they’ll say you don’t need to fear
That there ain’t no global  warming, that there ain’t no change to fear

Don’t listen to the man,  hear the sky above
Don’t listen to the man, hear the sky above
Gotta save your skin, gotta save the things you love

Don’t listen to the man, listen to the wind
Don’t listen to the man, listen to the wind
Trump ain’t gonna  save you when the walls come caving in

Don’t listen to the man, listen to the sea
Don’t listen to the man, listen to the sea
The big wave’s a-comin’, coming for you and me.

I’m a killer but don’t have a gun
I’m a mother but don’t have a son
I’m a lover but don’t have a man
I’m a celebrity who’s missing a fan
I’m a politician without a campaign
I’m the loner who might be insane
I’m an athlete, with no race to run
I’m a community, of one.
I lead many lives, but mostly in rhyme
I’ll be everyone
and no one
if given enough time.

Stop. Stay.
Don’t turn away.
Hear. Don’t fear.
Don’t fold.
Look bold.
Fate will grip
iron bars.
Hold.
Find your fire;
hike down back road.
Tell your tale
with song, with soul.

for Jay Buchanan*

Clearer than a ringing bell,
calling me to stand beneath you--
I am rapt in music’s spell;
your subject,  in your thrall I dwell.

Swaying slowly to the beat,
as I stand before your feet,
I yearn to touch, but thrill in listening,
and watching your sweat-drenched body,
glistening.

Recorded song brings me much pleasure,
but it cannot match the measure
of an evening in the presence
of your fleshly,  human essence.

I stand witness at the living
breathing body, angelic singing.
Mournful verse,  hypnotic chorus
throb in heartbeat’s time before us.

So close to me,  you drip with sweat;
flip your hair and I’ll get wet--
drench me with your raw emotion,
drown me in an aural ocean.

Attention: This is your trigger warning:
If you walk outside your door this morning
you’ll be assaulted by noise and light.
You may choose to go back to bed
to  avoid the possibility of fright.
In fact keep the shades down
and the covers pulled up tight.
Don’t talk to people; some may disagree
with you; they won’t heed your plea
to change their minds to your view.
Don’t read books by authors who are male.
They might contain descriptions of female bodies
that remind you that under your clothes you are undressed,
and boys who look at you know that. You’ll feel stressed.
Avoid all books with mentions of violence.
Such as Civil War diaries or histories of World War II.
Your teachers may overlook the fact that you have certain entitlements
such as the right to be free of knowledge that is painful. You
also shouldn’t have to learn about cultures that are different from your own.
We all know that’s how seeds of anxiety and doubt are sown.
If subjected to these shocking things you could have a panic attack
because the knowledge that others don’t do or think as you do
will be traumatic. You’ll never come back
to sanity. You’ll be irreparably harmed.
You could learn that you cannot command that others think the way you believe that they should.
You wouldn’t want to know that. It just wouldn’t feel good.

to the tune of "My Favorite Things"*

Poems in all caps and no punctuation,
Mixed metaphors and clichéd observation,
Roses and rainbows and angels with wings--
These are a few of my least favorite things.

Morbid obsessions and self flagellations,
Self involved rantings and dull ruminations,
Exhibitionists’ ****** preoccupations--
I’m just not dying to read these creations.

Statements of true love to those I don’t know,
Plodding prose poems that go way too slow,
Syllable stresses that aren’t found in English--
If only I’d see them no more is my true wish.

When the urge strikes,
When the words flow,
When you grab that pen--
Just take a moment and think…again.

A good Dictionary, and a Thesaurus,
Some time to read poets who wrote long before us,
Revising, rewriting and time to review--
It’s only these small things that I ask of you..

I’m beyond the reach of what you see.
I’m past the breach of decency.
I wait and pace in gloomy alleys
as we count and number up the tallys.
I’ll drop a dime on the world wide web,
as justice and compassion ebb.
I’ll shout the truth for all to hear,
but where I am—it isn’t here.
My name is scarlet, black or white;
call me when it’s time to fight.
Just give the sign, when it’s time,
I’ll put aside my game of rhyme.
Tread in shadow, stalk by night,
Tyrant falls from the assassin’s bite.

I don’t care if you steal a quick look,
when you think I can’t see it.
As long as it’s furtive, it’s by the book.
A man looks at a woman;
it’s only human.
But when you stare
at my big “girls”, then leer in my face--
you’re a disgrace.
I’m not putting up with your ******.
The next time it happens,
I’m going Thelma and Louise.

An abstract of an academic paper written by a doctoral student: "In this semimanifesto, I approach how understandings of quantum physics and cyborgian bodies can (or always already do) ally with feminist anti-oppression practices long in use. The idea of the body (whether biological, social, or of work) is not stagnant, and new materialist feminisms help to recognize how multiple phenomena work together to behave in what can become legible at any given moment as a body. By utilizing the materiality of conceptions about connectivity often thought to be merely theoretical, by taking a critical look at the noncentralized and multiple movements of quantum physics, and by dehierarchizing the necessity of linear bodies through time, it becomes possible to reconfigure structures of value, longevity, and subjectivity in ways explicitly aligned with anti-oppression practices and identity politics. Combining intersectionality and quantum physics can provide for differing perspectives on organizing practices long used by marginalized people, for enabling apparatuses that allow for new possibilities of safer spaces, and for practices of accountability."--an abstract of a paper by doctoral student Whitney Stark

Atomic particles, how can it be so
that your purpose is not just to flow
in and out of existence, building reality--
the stars, cosmic gas and galaxies--
but to “ally” with groups of humans fighting “hierarchies”
and demanding “safe spaces”
(even though their entire race is
at the top of their planet’s food chain).

In this mysterious universe there is no safety,
accountability or identity,
only elements, and energy.
Brief combinations make life
legible for a nanosecond in cosmic time, and doomed to strife.
Biology does not know oppression,
only generation, reproduction,
until our growth chokes us and we fall
like so many of our ancestors, who lived and died
on this blue-green ball.
And one day the sun will explode and blow
even our atoms, which have endured (despite oppression),
and the particles will go far until maybe they sow
new life, in bodies unfamiliar, on planets unknown.

The troops are worn out,
the Army stretched thin,
we’re recruiting delinquents,
the old and the dim.

We got rid of the gays,
to preserve the troops’ purity .
Even those who spoke Arabic,
no matter how fluently.
(Mistakes will be made,
for lack of translation.
But isn’t that better
than eternal damnation?)

We’re telling the soldiers
“One more tour of duty.”
The program’s called “stop loss;”
it might cause mutiny.

The Humvees are patched
with armor homemade,
that won’t stop the bombs
or rocket grenades.

Veterans are stricken
with nightmares and fears.
Some find no escape from
their dreams or their tears.

It’s no longer a war;
it’s called occupation.
But we don’t seem to know
how to rebuild a nation.

We’re good with artillery
and planting land mines.
But what we can’t do
is win hearts and minds.

The lessons of history
seem lost on our leaders,
who don’t seem to be scholars,
but careful poll readers.

There are those we must judge
for their lies and their crimes
and the grief they have caused
in these sad and dark times.

How many years
will we take to recover
from this ill-planned debacle
and it’s not even over?
It will take Iraq longer,
from all the blood spilled,
from the wounds we inflicted--
their country, we killed.

Hello Darkness my old friend
Who knew your herald would be a *****?
Spandex, and *** shots, and smirky metaphor—
I’ve come to talk with you again
Pulling up shorts and promising more.
Ride that bike so hard—you’ve got to be sore.
‘cause a vision softly ere creeping
Visions don’t come softly these days; they come in your face.
Hot diva so young, telling girls what’s their place.
Came to me while I was sleeping
No time for sleeping, just dancing and *******,
“Female Empowerment”’s  now about stripping and *******.
And the vision, that was planted in my brain
Planting visions of *** is the best gig in town,
raking in millions in dollars and pounds.
Still remains
These images burn; they’re from Hell, I am sure.
A woman’s a woman; let a girl be a girl.
Within the sounds of silence.
Now silence reigns, no beats, tweets or lies.
The star’s somewhere safe; a child in hospital dies.
In restless dream I walked alone
Alone is better than ***** on the floor.
Alone is better than pushed through the door.
Through narrow streets of cobblestone
Call me a hag with flat shoes clutching pearls--
a relic of cobblestone times; to be sure.
Neath the halo of a streetlamp
The glare and the blare of incessant Youtube
promises glory with high heels and **** tubes.
I turned my collar to the cold and damp
No collars for girls; unless for literal *******--
"Submission is ****", said Rihanna (smug in her riches).
My eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
You can’t look away; it’s everywhere;
on awards shows. On radio in shops selling wares.
That split the night
And touched the sounds of silence.
Fools said I you do not know
How could they know? They’re only teens.
They do not know what makes self-esteem.
Silence like a cancer grows
Name it, shame it; it’s exploitation of women;
if we don’t stop it there’ll be much worse coming.
Hear my words that I might teach you,
Take my arms that I might reach you,
But my words, like silent raindrops, fell…
Into the well, of silence.
And the people bowed and prayed
To the Neon God they made
And the Sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the Sign said
“the words of the prophets are written on subway walls,
In tenement halls”*
And in blood on concert hall floors.

The wise know where a hero stands--
upon the shoulders of another man.
Or a woman. Truth be told,
there’s more to legends than what we’re sold.
There’s a legion behind every famous one:
Footsoldiers, workers, slogging from sun to sun.
They build the movement that changes history--
collective action—not Him; it’s We.
Or the art, or invention, of ground-breaking power,
from a  “genius” who above us does tower.
His inspiration is the work of others,
connected souls-- sisters and brothers.
Each weaves a strand of the magic thread.
From hundreds of others the genius is fed.
He finishes work with skillful design,
then sometimes falsely claims “it’s mine.”

Awaken at last, glorious spring;
renewal of life, trees blossoming,
birds mating, and flowers blooming,
women in diaphanous dresses, flowing.
Is April the cruelest month? Knowing
that May’s eruption will soon be showing?

Follow me, to the edge of night,
beyond the day, to grey twilight.
Beyond the rules of right and wrong.

You came with me. We walked along
a wind-blown path to a hidden cave.
It was reckless,  but not brave.

Deep we went into the dusk
where we obeyed the law of lust.
But when we’d gone a bit too far,
the way back was dim; had I crossed the bar?

The  familiar became rearranged
in our walled-off space. You were strange.
Perspective changed in these dim rooms
(where even now your shadow looms).
I could come and go, but never leave.
In *******, I saw no reprieve

Years have passed since I saw you last.
Your memory is fading fast.
But lessons linger from a lust
that nearly turned my life to dust.