You asked

Craft something wise…

Something witty…

I resent the request

Sarcasm seeps into the words

and I playfully rhyme trite collections

that make you smile and clap like

a trained monkey.


It isn’t me

It isn’t my work

It isn’t my inspiration

She isn’t my muse.


I’d draft a piece cursing creases in my

underwear and the gray hairs

springing up around my temples.

I’d tell someone unknown to kiss my ass

and focus on using curse words alphabetically.

I’d insult humanity obscurely and never worry

about punctuation or spelling

or grammar or repetition or repetition or repetition.

I wouldn’t let you sit there with a smirk on your

face and your spectacles balanced on the tip

of your wrinkled nose.


But you hold a red ballpoint pen and a grade book

You determine my GPA so I will oblige

I will comply

Only in this instance.



It was never a competition

She made it a


And when you told her the rules

She laughed.


You mouth the words –

You’re wrong…no it isn’t


the truth gets caught in your throat

Lodging between your Adams apple and gums.


1 + 1 = her win

It never meant a 2

because adding you would be

t  h  r  e  e

And that’s too crowded.


She buys and brags

and tosses up flags in your

hair hoping it latches and pulls

the strands from your riddled brain

making you believe female






You hate              to love her

Love to hate her

Hate not              loving her

Love not hating her.

She is    your younger half and


lost in the waves of materials


Is it envy

Is it jealousy wrapped around

your face        and throat

You want to be like her

But not fully her

You still see her                short comings

And realize you want her to

Get what’s coming

with a grin.


You whisper satisfactions of

things in your favor thinking

that the mutterings will make

sense and           gratification will fill

the s   p   a   c   e   s between  your


as they twiddle,

mingle as distraction

From answering the questions


I’m Not Practical Tendencies

Maybe I’m just not quirky enough

to claim a status of creative.

I’m not organic

I’m not shaggy

I’m not zen.

I don’t struggle into tightened depths

where despair becomes a friendly

ex with court ordered visitations.

I’m not bare foot

I’m not in need of child support

I’m not manic.

I may be historically ethnic but my

skin echoes Anglo images that

damage my writings

authenticity     credibility     reputation

I’m not reflecting colored characteristics

I’m not ink deposits

I’m not native tongue.

I don’t commit to the analytical


execution of word collections

subliminally hiding fleshy bits behind

the    “a     b     o     u    t     m     e”

stroking my ego and praising the

size of my brain   the size of my

v o c a b u l a r y

I’m not using million dollar words

I’m not a dictionary

I’m not a rocket scientist.

I’ve ignored global warming

torn lightly cooked flesh

from chemicalled bones


with tomato     ketchup     onion     lettuce

passed on shared transportation and

passed on radical actions

passed on cycling plastic arrows.

I’m not environmental

I’m not green

I’m not sniffing gases.

Does it matter that the words skip

my vocal chords     decanted from

a vial of Muse’s psyche

trapped perpetually in bleeding fibers?

Legs Dangling Down

It’s daylight

It’s midday

and he’s concerned about walking through the alleyway mumbling something about a hobo or a bum who is just skin and bones and filthy dirty bouncing out with a rusted kitchen knife threatening to slice faces and arms and tits and necks if we don’t hand over our phones and money and wallets and shoes.

Why my fucking shoes?

Because he’s homeless and needs a new pair.

It’s a clean alley

It’s a wide alley

and he’s bitching about the smell of stinking trash and urine stained bricks and puke patterned corners forever inconvenienced by denied access by private parking spaces blocked and chained with gates but marked with oily residue pinching his nose against the steaming stink wandering his way as he jumps between stagnant puddles and pointing at graffiti.

Does it matter?

Yeah!  He spelled it FUK…stupid idiot.

It’s a shortcut

It’s an adventure

and he’s never been to the city or seen a hooker or a cross-dresser and seems puzzled by the tall buildings and lazy pan-handlers too poor for food but they manage to access cardboard and a Sharpie to share a sad sob story and stymied by one-way streets and angered at unfriendly pedestrians sprinting for food or appointments or busses or light-rails or cabs and pushing and shoving as he stops to look around.

What is your problem?

Have you ever climbed or hung off a fire escape ladder?

He wants to do it now.  Climb this set of urban monkey bars and I can’t understand why.