Americana analysis art beauty behavior fucking life love physics poetry psychology Uncategorized


the only things

i don’t blame him for

are all the earrings i lost


my lip gloss

every part of you
should taste
of it


his smoke will rise up forever

he was
the cigarette
i didn’t have
a match for


the first time

he made love to me

i had nothing

but frilly socks on

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends writing

you may come

i find him in my library
pouring over volumes
on friendship

his dick is wagging
in a confused huff
but he says
it’s my mind
he wants to fuck

so i borrow
the archangel michael’s armor
so that he may see
my heart full of reverence
burning through gleaming breast plate

sword of vengeance unsheathed
cloven hoofed rudeness
beneath my high heeled feet

as i explain
i was born on the day of michaelmas
this shit won’t work
if i’m more of a man
than he

i’ll be his passion
and priest

i shall deliver unto him
a pole dance upon the mount

in the end
all i want
is for him is to know

how to go about each day
living in his own skin

the secret is learning humility

compassion granted
to those around us

a mind opened to receive

do not speak to me of god
or sin
heaven in the state of your soul
at the hour of your death

if you understand
then you may come and ride
your bicycle beside me

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends writing

blood and sense a torrent

it happens somewhere in the moment

when you gently intrude your fingers
upon the back of his head

allowing them to wander his hair
stimulating willing skin

withholding all but your tongue’s tip
teasing him with glancing lips

your womanly softness
defined in that sacred place beneath the breast
pressed into the full length of him

that delicious instant you feel
the dam of his passions give way

all his blood and sense a torrent insisting
your thighs relent
to the poetry

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends writing

the perverse hand of ruin

the perverse hand of ruin
has raised my skirt
too many times

i should know better
than to look the monster in the eyes

my nightmare
has become
the manner in which i make my living
that which makes me passionate about living
are in direct opposition

my vengeance takes the shape
of william blake’s
“Death on a Pale Horse”
go make yourself ready


i shall burn the sky

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends writing

lucky strikes and wasted time

running off to feed my meter
outside the restaurant
i bumped into
a mutual friend of ours

finding the frigid city night
unfit for involved conversation
beyond hurried leather-gloved waves
icicles dangling
from steamy hellos
and goodbyes

when a thought stopped my boots dead
on the sidewalk

a head turning notion

i should have asked him
if you were still alive

kentucky frost settled into my hair
when i realized
i had ceased to care

your heavy handed judgment
how no one is spared
the lucky strike meter stick
of your drunken mother’s eyes

it was that moment i cried

not for you
or us

but for the wasted time

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends writing

i have lived

black and white photos
of my ancestors line the walls
of my mother’s lavender bedroom

standing stoically on the farm
or in front of the church
aged beyond their years
their eyes filled with poverty
the fear of god
and pine boxes

not much separates a kentucky wedding
from a kentucky funeral

the country steals your innocence sooner

if love is a little girl
who emerged alive
from a tree lined morning
after being left behind in the darkest woods
to be eaten by wolves

then i have loved

if life is pain
exposed to the bone
so excruciating
i must write it down
sentences from it
to help me withstand
the weight of existence

then i have lived

and given the world two sons

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

no country for old women

you know what’s funny is

even as you were burying
your pen knife in my back

the good woman inside me
the part given to me by my grandmother
was trying to save you from his bloody sword

you can never say you weren’t told

and i am thankful to be reminded
how beautifully brutal life is
when we become our own agents
of instant karma

there is nothing left of your face

i guess some women just can’t get enough
of self-mutilation