21st Century Woman

Silicone goddesses, melting in the sun
Skin showing, skimpy attire
Flat bellies, fat breasts
Pouty lips
Risking surgical slips
From nose to toes
Fake breasts make you best
Eyes to hide lies
A tummy tuck
So you don’t have to suck
Your belly in
Shave, wax, wrap, and tan
Slave to the attention
Of man

What is Poetry?

What is poetry? Poetry is the love child of the poet and the world she lives in, the wold she observes, desires, tastes, and touches.

Goddess

I wanna get drunk

Like in the old days

Drink whatever my hands touch

Let the giddiness set in

Courage and its troops invade my veins

And hold my blood’s purity captive

Warm flushed skin alerts

That transformation's happening

and I become beautiful

and I become sexy

and my ass wiggles and waves hello

As my voice becomes silky smooth

And I become a goddess

Meet a guy and take him home

Or go back to his place

Have an animalistic fuck

Or make love to a stranger

Be whatever I want

Because no one sees

Behind my mask

To know that I am a mere human

And then morning comes

And my stomach feels the devastation

Caused by poisonous intruders

As it, in a revealing reprimand for my fallibility,

Impeaches me and strips me of my divine title

I wonder how often Ma, Isis, or Aphrodite

Dropped their heads into a

Porcelain bowl to make their own

Offerings to the gods

As I look at the floating bile-brown remnants

From last night’s escapade

Memory begins to infiltrate my brain

Piece by muddy piece

With pounding anxiety

For those places still empty.

Squatters

There are words ensnared within me

Ducking and dodging, hiding in deep dark places inside me

Like squatters, leaving debris and tags marking their territory

Never showing their dusty, grimy, disheveled faces

Faces that are probably radiant with a good scrub

Like an infestation, overwhelming,

Frightening, but never quite conquered,

Unsure if their presence is good or evil

It’s the uncertainty of their motives and

Their next move

Sometimes they seem to show themselves

Apparition-like, wafting in and out, watching

Wandering to No Destination

I drive on a warm, 75-degree late night in the summer, the window down, the wind whispering in my ear, licking my skin, and running its fingers through my hair, the bass in the music on the stereo rhythmically pumping and pounding into my body, reaching into the deepest parts of me.  I am eager to be a vagabond—aimlessly wandering to no destination—destined for nowhere, yet everywhere I go is where I am meant to be.