MAKE AMERICA MAKE THE BED

there is no good outfit 

for inauguration day

pants stained, eyes strained

on inauguration day – eat water

drink coffee made by a man 

who sleeps ten trillion 

your million

my men, they empty dish racks

my women, they give their mucus

to their young

this poem is to 

the barely boys

the sad men

who lose us to

the world

Dirty mama

Looking for a shirt that isn't stained to wear to my mommy meet-up.
And pick a v-neck dress to wear 
Given to me by my little sister.
It still has the salvation army smell
Even though I washed it.
I nurse before heading out and,
Despite a strategically placed towel, 
my nipple leaks and stains this dress too,
But I wear it anyway.

The Barrys

The squirrels that learned

all the tricks of the garden,

with nature's persistence,

she came, note after note after call,

a time lapse of honeymoon text,

with all the pluck poured into her.

What, she wanted for me? 

I retain what I retain, I move in the present

with somnambulant precision 

I talk when I talk

so what. You want.

I find myself making less excuses;

history is not fond of her,

and the counterbalance? 

Forget it.

I can't be arsed to think about 

myself, then.

I was reasonable,
but it was untenable in its practise.

I gaslit myself. 

Forget it.

My practise, since, is my masterwork,

but her recent email,

casual enough,

relentless enough,

what I'd read between the lines,

the hubris, the automatic neck and necking
of my tasking.

Years of becoming more reasonable,

so I could discount myself, then.
New youth, my youth seems abstract,

she, less relatable.

When the corollary of time,

should have, "Oh, and what of?"

No round O

I discounted myself, then,

so nothing couldn't open me to the missive.

----------------------------------------

Years of masterwork,

Erin needs not to hear of

all the pluck,

the Barrys poured into me.

Pasha we love you are you ok

1. it’s pasha on the footbridge to the cemetery
2. we see him through the leaves and branches
3. but can’t reach him, can’t call to him
4. because he thinks nobody is watching he takes out a picture from the inside fold of his worn-out wallet
5. he tears it in two then fours then sixteens
6. until his thumbs are too big to grip to further rip
7. he drops it all from his palm onto the field below him and turns before watching the papers spiral forever, not falling
8. we are the ones to stay and stare. we don’t leave until each piece has landed on the ground.
9. at home that weekend we watch pasha’s eyes
10. for hints of feeling
11. but he looks the same as always.

ol' blue eyes

it's always strange to me when i see
a man whose eyes match mine
i've never been all that attracted to a blue eyed man
unless he's paul newman but
only when he's in a movie with robert redford
i don't know why