to be a poet this day

i suppose

i’m too happy

to be a poet this day

happy people tend to write

bloody awful poetry

however

i’m not drunk

i’m not high

i don’t need a spike

i like working in the city

i’m not heartbroken nor homeless

i’m not lonesome

i’m not horny

i’m not at war with god

politics

my childhood

or a neighboring country

i’m not married or divorcing

i rather love my imperfect children

this is a poem for my fellow writers

heavy bleeders of ink

succumbers to whim

dancers of vehemence and fury

freedom fighters of the fantastic

who dream in crusades

look how beautiful you are when you smile

you smell of lavender

newsprint and vanilla icing

all this

and i get to say

tomorrow is my birthday

primitive

my desire becomes primitive

when i consider the way

loving him is more than emotion

it is biological

chemical

our own space on the periodic table

elemental

i want him

with the parts of me that desire

to nurse children

eat meat

wear fur

find warmth in firelight

especially when

i am beneath him

skin wet

my hands in his beard

watching the muscles ripple

from his shoulders

down his arms

certain

i could remain there

until the next ice age

a thousand times this

so much was lost

to lessons i had not yet learned

however

it is impossible for me to regret

wedding dresses unraveled

children i never had

thousands of miles traveled

had i given my whole heart

to those who came before

i would have nothing left

for you

beautiful man who has

redefined kissing as

your lips touching mine

redefined loving as

my hand holding yours

until the end of time

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

blow on it

we don’t need to talk
we speak to each other
in the steam rising from
our coffee cups

war

if mothers’ tears
could build palaces
the whole of humanity
would live as kings

dad’s gonna be pissed

my generation had no great war

until the towers fell

and the government invented one

then we were told

it’s not our fight

beyond the departures gate

at the airport

our struggle is removing our shoes

and grabby TSA agents

we never grew a victory garden

we never salvaged all our metal to make bullets

or watched the soldierly  Vietnam death toll

march across the bottom of our television screens

we were raised by Atari systems, Pop Rocks, Sweet Valley High books,

and Bob Barker’s skinny microphone

so forgive me, my fellow

generationally x’d out americans

if i don’t give a shit

about your opinions on the upcoming election

melting pot

america
melting pot
if by melting pot
you mean
everyone is boiled
down to their bones
to be consumed
by rich white men

trick candle

when life has taught you

all love ends

in pain

it becomes easy

to extinguish every flame

but not him

he’s my trick candle

he burns brighter

the more i try to blow

i have learned

to stop blustering

enjoy the party

and eat

the damned cake

t’ain’t shakespeare, folks

i knew it was love
when i laid my head
on his lap
and he said,
“oh, that feels good,
my dick in your hair…”