All poets are crazy. Listen to them soak sponge in early rain medley notes sounding off.
I creak up these outside stairs to my apartment after an all-night drunk, cheap Tesco's Windsor Castle London Dry Gin—on the rocks.
Most poems are pounded out in emotional flesh, sometimes physical skin scalped feelings.
My life began with a skeleton with a smile and bubbling eyes in my garden of dandelions.
I live in darkness, the shame of those early years.
Who tosses loose coins in their car ashtray anymore? iPhones, smartphones, life is a video camera ready to shoot, destroy, and expose. No one reads poets anymore.
In fall, poets stretch arms out their spines the centerpiece on crosses on scarecrows, they only frighten themselves.
somewhere stranded someone's balcony memories undefined, you will find me there stretched naked, doing the Electric Slide, taking morning selfies
I am a mother, proud. My native numbers are few. In my heart digs many memories forty-one relatives left in 1937.
I’m going to lead the group tonight talking about Rational Emotive Therapy
Single life is Tequila with a slice of lime, Shots offered my traveling strangers. Play them all deal them jacks, some diamonds then spades, hold back aces play hardball, mock the jokers.
Before long apps will be wiping our butts and we, others, our children will not notice.