it’s late the perfect time to creep into Kiss My Poetry and yank her by the hair with my poem


my hands through your red hair give me 3rd degree burns

I thought I finished

mourning, I thought my puzzle pieces fit together with no seams. But then I found the letter he wrote before he left us. I’m not as tough as I would like to be. Something left to break me, hidden in a box.

i was 13

i was 13 on a Halloween night, and me and my friends were out stealing pumpkins off porches in a great big night of smash and run and nobody ever chased us except this one old man who ran us down the block, around the corner and into a field, where we lay in the weeds, laughing, while he stood on the sidewalk and yelled: “i know you’re out there. i can...
When the mountain is dismantled from eons of wind and rain, how can I say it’s gone? When it has fondly spread itself throughout this earth re-shaping the terrain. When the raindrop falls to meet with its demise, how can I say it’s gone? When it serves to power those living things that forever will survive. When the log transforms to...
you can see a trail of thrift store treasures asking for another chance, shelter kittens mewing for you to take them home. You, an empty cardboard box battered, holes taped shut, a mouth that isn’t satisfied, you fill yourself with everything abandoned, then leave it all behind, a boulevard of breadcrumbs to mark a path you’ll never take again.
trash day I’m always a little saddened on trash day— the accumulations of a lifetime tossed on the tree lawn naked and broken for your neighbors' viewing enjoyment and passers-by the grocery store clerk, the mayor the man going for gas butchers, factory workers, donut makers the sisters attending morning mass they all know you better than you know...

Perennial Garden

it's quiet inside the black iron fencing and ornamental gate tending a small plot of perennials while speaking the silent parlance of inscribed stone when what is and what was fondly hold hands in rumination.


the british love of aching lawns stretching out in suburban paradises aching to gardeners the garden cities laze criss-crossing patterns in the pools of your tracing lawns of aching the british love to ache for you're in lazy pools lazy repossessions hint that under the lazy pools blood and sinew ache the garden cities ache paradises ache the british love the lazy repossessions tracing lawns of...

Ant farm

if you look out the window from the 37th floor of any building past the mayflies, or muckleheads as we like to call them here in the midwest, which is neither mid nor west past the spider webs clinging fiercely to the marble corners over the neighboring rooftops beyond the darkening clouds and morning fog nestled among the...

Author alley

I’m sitting at a table in the alley awkwardly talking to strangers about all these poems I have written young people, old people smiling, staring, looking down, fidgeting carrying purses and umbrellas people with horribly boring stories about their lives I am sitting at a table alone, as usual while all the other authors have a tablemate it wasn’t supposed...
when my brain is idle trying to think of poetry i end up thinking about sex instead then i write a poem about sex other times if i can’t think of anything i just sit there thinking about sex until i can’t take it anymore and I write in my journal: FUCK ME PLEASE but i barely ever...

Bus Stop

A woman sits beside me on the park bench, she has snow white hair and wrinkled pixie-face and deep sea blue eyes she is waiting for the bus, she says to take her elsewhere. Elsewhere is where I want to go as well though the park looks good today in shadow and sunshine-- unlike the people, most of them out of shape big...

brown liquor

is fierce in the sun I drank half the pint coming down from the mountain. holding on to the guardrail the metal hot in my hands puking bile and brown liquor into the bushes and vines on the side of the hill, all I want is to stick out my thumb catch a ride find my way home


knew his poems weren’t going to change anything or move anyone, but he kept on writing, even when the bills came due, his friends gave up and the dust on the table was thick enough for him to lick his finger and write his name.
there is a scent in the air of fresh tomatoes floating in a pot of water ready to be rinsed, cooked down and poured into glass jars mixed with the smell of a musty dank basement where the daddy long legs call home the cars on the highway are big steel machines I watch the numbers...

Anxiety Milkshake

1-1/2 cups ice cream ½ cup milk 2 overdue bills 1 layoff notice 1 voicemail threatening divorce 1 note from creepy neighbor slipped under the door 3 days of no sleep 1 pot of coffee 1 bottle of Kahlua Pour yourself a cup of coffee. Add Kahlua to taste. Maybe more Kahlua. Add ice cream...
ANDREW JACKSON IS MY PIMP it takes exactly 4 beers before I will approach strippers with my $20 for a lap dance you'd think I was asking a girl to prom I’m so terrified she will reject me funny thing is they never do THIS SQUIRRELLY LOOKING STRIPPER GIRL… sits next to me with her eyeballs in her iphone and blabs on about "negative energy." in this...



In and out of the Garden

When children pretend it’s called imagination. When adults pretend it’s called religion.
In Charlotte we wanted to fuck Carrie John would be on Facebook or something and I’d say, I don’t know why but for some reason I really wanna fuck Carrie and John would say, yeah me too neither one of us got to fuck her though but we sure wanted to as we shat away the hours in our...
I was on the fading edge of wakefulness when he told me he bought a handgun— then asked does that bother you? I hesitantly answered no- but honestly? it had not had time to sink in you know in case there is a coup he added Later as he fucked me I looked in his eyes hoping to see a killer— thinking it...
five years she starts with i've missed you and an old photograph left leg slightly contorted painting her toenails a slip of ivory panties innocence of a remaining bare nail under an apple red brush and him? heart— seized nerve— pinched jesus jenny they cracked my chest and the metal— the metal parts everywhere they even stuck a scope up my penis my wife dead...
I don't know why but you do you get so freakin' horny when you're homeless that you actually believe even though you don't have a place you could get a girl to come home with you


After reading "God's Inkwell" by Jan Harper The night spills out, it seems, on whatever plane we dream. It lives and dies in living things, is poured or drained from lips that sing The beginning and the end of dreams.

out of order

I made a list who to shoot first my fuck-you gun fully loaded I lost my list no order now so step right up fuck yous for free fuck you racists fuck you fascists fuck you maga’s fuck you nazis fuck all of you America does not want you go fuck yourselves
the other night I coughed so hard I blacked out I enjoyed it because for a few seconds I got a break it was horrible coming back tho— like being born out of a woman’s ass
I was on the fading edge of wakefulness when he told me he bought a handgun— then asked does that bother you? I hesitantly answered no— but honestly? it had not had time to sink in you know in case there is a coup he added Later as he fucked me I looked in his eyes hoping to see a killer— thinking it...
Always backfires. Better be a bastard To everyone, Gaining respect And recognition, Not to mention A phantom lover, Since for you Love is the acceptance Of mutual abuse, A cancer, Whether benign Or malignant, Eating away The core self. The solipsist asks, Why love someone else When you can Love yourself? The schizophrenic Responds with Multiple answers.
William: capitalist fraud like your sister—all love and light broadcast podcast of pillaged Eastern wisdom pawned on women in two hundred dollar yoga pants with extra ass padding and a scent guard crotch acrobatic fuck he is spent but my energy is still buzzing I never learned the names of pressure points I just know I just feel I press blind on his palm and wrist release then pull each finger slowly he moans "oh my god Jennifer it is like you are pulling out all of the unnecessary...
I’m down to $34 I've checked for the government stimulus check 7,000 times it’s almost like it doesn’t want to enter my bank account does it think I’ll waste it on cigarettes? I didn’t raise the taxes on cigarettes so it’s not my fault if that happens it will be the stimulus check’s parents who...

My Misfortune

began when I believed Cogito, ergo sum made sense.

Alone Poem

As I lie the hand strokes                 smooth as the inside of a girl’s thigh                 touched And yes the hard flesh                handed        tracking these sheets is lonely as the sun-warmed           beach sand brushed                              from her body                              softly As I alone         stand firm                  tracing         this image         the clean lines                        only

Last Call

Pink amoeba, puddle of puke on a sour sidewalk at four in the morning; rejected booze and bar food, violent explosion of shots and wings; last call for night birds.

Self Promotion

I am higher on the evolutionary scale. I will not ask you to shave my back. My cutting-edge smooth cheeks will not scratch you when we nuzzle. My highly developed hairless chest will not scrape your nipples when I am doing the missionary, while you are being converted. But if we go camping inside your tent I cannot promise not to howl.
I just got a rejection I checked the status of my submission and it said "rejected" I had been checking and checking the status and it had kept saying "in review" I like "rejected" better than "in review" I don't like the feeling of being unsure now I can say they don't know what they're talking about


The directions on the shampoo bottle: “Wet hair thoroughly before applying.” Someone got paid for that? Why not me? Here’s my resume. Published Poet. Will work for food.
suicide was a gorgeous woman I desired she was like bubblegum that got stuck to the bottom of my shoe I peeled her off with a knife

in the park

no one takes any notice of me, if I speak my truth it’s just a junkie garbling nonsense a disease carrying scum chasing tracks another fuckin’ wino, soiling his pants, watching clouds roll by hear what I’m saying cos you could be me like I was you before a couple of wrong turns, barely a misstep at first it happens slowly then you watch it...


the publication of my latest book, i looked at the short stack of poems that remained in a pile on my desk. i threw them out. free, at last, i turned to the keyboard and smiled.


had a tooth missing in front, and when she talked, it made a whistle. Peggy Whistle was 43, loved Scotch, and worked nights at the D&J Diner. she also loved her little dog, Blue. Blue came to work with her and slept on a ratty old pillow in the back, lifting his head up every time the door opened and the bell above it rang. Peggy never whistled any tunes, although you can’t say she didn’t...

one of my first

publishers is retired and living in France. he’s on his second wife and lives on a farm in the country. every now and then he sends me these long, long e-mails talking about the wine, the food, the people and how much he loves his life since he ditched the first wife, gave up writing and moved away. in relative terms he’s on the near side of rich... i...


Those who say they have no regrets are fucking liars & the people who believe them are fucking stupid. Regret free, fucking liars lie to themselves because they are so fucked up they can’t tell themselves the truth— that they are in fucking denial about being pretentious liars & fucking cowards afraid to admit they regret their fucking actions & for being so stupid. Do I have regrets? I could go...


all these poems with attitude a big huge middle finger raised in the second stanza I don't really care about what you're so upset about read a psalm that's the other thing they're always pickin' on Jesus still pickin on Him just like at Golgotha I'm happy just to order a pizza wait for the mail...

Dark Chocolate

Mary's brother, Ethan, is intrigue through a secret splinter. I gawk at him sketching his hands while his ears pour wire. He would taste me. But I'm in love with the raw pink under his blistered fingers, the tap dancing callouses chipping away at their dusty recycled plane. I only want to be the genius in the dark chocolate...
I don't know if the guy sitting next to me heard me try to apologize for accidentally moving his car magazines and taking his spot obnoxious hrrr of the espresso machine I had to talk over one at the books a million reading with Dennis who showed up drunk right in front of my grandparents Hershey zinging sunlight and...

Blackout Sex

you could break a bone you can’t see I decide it’s worth the risk after hours of blackout boredom maybe the candlelight has gotten her in the mood too but how to go about asking hey I’m really bored so you wanna have sex with me? the neighbors will probably hear! don't knock the candle over!! I...
I stood in a parking lot and I breathed evenly through my nose as the sky passed slowly over head and the nauseating machines pumped juice out of the ground and I had my arms spread like Christ against a fence. "I really can't stand this place," said a voice in my brain like a...
I need to fall asleep to the thought of a pretty girl the world is gross and doesn't care the TV mutilates my vomit comes out before I can get to the toilet it's always time for my pills people get out of their cars like assassins but the pretty girl brings toasted English muffins...
My genitalia are exposed, outside of my body, dangling. Don’t ask me to be vulnerable. How do you think I feel? My private parts are not inside my body, like yours, protected by sinew & fat.

Big Jake

Big Jake’s jamoke is almost bigger than he is, & it’s smarter, too, or so goes the standing joke. & the oft repeated story, his winky has a tear tattoo dripping from its eye. Deloris, his ex-old lady, says Big Jake’s problem is that he passes out at the sight of a vertical smile & she’s pissed that he thinks a French withered...

Poems of Germany

In 1984, I went to Germany for the first time. Not knowing much German, I became homesick quite soon and, largely bereft of companionship, settled in with my notebook and resigned myself to composing the following poems. Thanks, Germany I have not yet had a poem accepted by The American Poetry Review, but...


back in the 70s back in LA I knew of him as the uncouth Christ of the drunk-again alcoholics the naked emperor of young trendy-cafe chefs and of the intellectual and the pseudo-intellectual trust-fund kids who wished to be like him by living in decrepit houses the lawns of which they littered with rusting appliances somewhere in the unorthodox mix of the booze and the sorting...

The Exxon Poems

I came there because nothing was happening so did everybody else and this is what transpired... seeds praying somewhere in the hard gravel of Exxon like quicksand ex cons they got away with most of their shit the cops could never figure you out which one did what because they had the same name The fuzz would show up at...
Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic. The recurring theme of the 'plasti' poets. Millions sitting in ill-fitting poetry sites, and vacuum-laden forums making hydrogenated-fatty comments broadcast through a dispassionate, torpid ether, or stuffed into serpentine fiber-optic cables emitting lard laden signals that slow down and clog ever-bored photons grudgingly carrying this vacuous data to burned out screens just to display sent, read,...
another fucking boring night of light blue ripples of poolwater dumb white lights over steam haze black night snooze and what's left of the cheap beer my wife's been passed out for three hours I drank the good wine in the sun of the afternoon that feels like a thousand days ago I'm listening to some lounge chair...
I sent Bukowski some poems, one of which was “Twisted Living” (a 3-pager that later appeared in Hung). He re-wrote “Twisted Living” and titled it “I Know What Love Is” and sent it back to me. He didn’t add anything; he just subtracted. —Douglas Goodwin   I worried about the woman who...

I fucked the poet

He was there at the mic with a glow behind his head like a literary god, so I fucked him. Me, two other women, and this bisexual guy named Frank. It was five-bod-fuck and very poetic: Frank got the whole thing on tape for a project he was doing on bisexual poets and...