Maslow’s Fire Sale

don’t you worry, working poor

the richest people

will always have access






god’s offering plate

drugs to feel good

meaningless trophies

abortions too

so go on fighting

about the right

to wear a gun

but not a face mask

in your red Trump hat

and Walmart shoes


Paris in the rain

a woman’s life

is too tenuous



spider web

close call on I-75

in preterm labor

on the way to the

Paris airport

in the rain






for bad friends

bad family

bad coffee

bad shoes

bad mattresses

bad jobs

bad husbands

bad debt

and bad dick

learn this by 30 for maximum





of a dying planet

Dinner at the Sizzler

if purgatory

is a soup kitchen line

in a catholic church


is serving up grub

on the corner of 8th & vine

southern baptists

pulling up

in their tax exempt jesus wagon

to serve homeless people

hot chili in july

heaven, happens

in Cincinnati

when pigs fly

My poetry is being held for questioning…

My poetry is irreverent, prone to sentimentality, and prurient behavior.

My poetry hates your mother.

My poetry worships humanity.

My poetry stuck a finger in your wedding cake.

My poetry made a blonde girl cry in Starbucks.

My poetry wants to overthrow the government.

My poetry misses her father.

My poetry screwed your sister in the back of a Chevrolet.

My poetry can’t sing, but she can dance, baby.

My poetry took a shit in your designer handbag.

My poetry is piss shiver art.

My poetry laughs too loudly.

My poetry thinks god has run out of excuses.

My poetry weeps for the dying world.

But mostly,

My poetry hopes

you’re enjoying the ride.

after the quake

trudged out of bed
late this morning
not willing to join
this new shaken world
to find my twin sons
seated on the couch
with furrowed brows
tears in their reddened eyes

they’ve endured bullying at school
for being autistic
the whole of their twenty-year-old lives

how horrified they were earlier this year
when they saw a presidential candidate
make fun of a disabled person
during a campaign speech

now that candidate has won the presidency
my sons asked me,

“Mom, we’re scared. How could this happen?”
“How could Americans elect a bully?”
“How will we be safe?”
“Will we be allowed to go to college?”
“Will we be institutionalized?”

answer them, mr. president-elect…

i am a mother
i am a woman
i will unleash hell
before your eyes

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

war makes murderers

there are but three

unchangeable forces


in our meager lives


history is indestructible


and the passage of time


that having been said

no wrongful death

may be avenged

with the death of another


if history has taught us

nothing else

it is that


makes murderers

of all humankind


50 year plan

keep my mother proud of me


give my sons braggin’ rights

love in their hearts

and wisdom in their minds


be the reason my father’s sooty

fallen angel wings

spread wide

closer to the throne of god

when i do something right


perform a poem

at the inauguration

of the first female president


allow my  deeds to accomodate

sleeping well at night




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