We Regret to Inform You, Bitch

Your Services are no longer needed in the Garage.


Chica has her vagina to thank about that

Corporate Restructuring that happened right


when she ran out of toothpaste.  They couldn’t believe that


I can play man just the same as them, better even.  The phallic

must always retain power


if it is to be the base of everything.  Chica’s name is


Jocasta.  The men who were in charge of the Economic Survival

Restructuring Program—for the newly


acquired CEO— found that they were indeed mother fuckers,


cause Jocasa and her boys all just got screwed.  All these men

never bothered to learn the tragic story of their own mother’s.

Life’s too Short for Passion Flowers

A single day—possibly

this one—is all

they ever have.  That is

why they radiate

still serenity.  They have

been known to steep as a slow

hot infusion: the soothing

affects of alleviating tea.  The sweet

swirling under the tongue

is tranquility.  The most decorative of blooms

knows the best medicine comes rooted

in the earth, rooted in the clues of days

before this one point to.  A flower whose beauty lasts

for a single day tells its admirers just go

where the decades of misguided days have lead you,

to that great expanse of moment by moment

living more fully, more open

than you ever have before.

The Fine Line of Beautiful Living

Walk out past the stacks, rows, aisles

of books, where memoirs of battles slowly gave way

to case histories of molestation and abuse.

—Larry Levis




Your grandest gestures remain

unnoticed.  You have

a hand which can part oceans,

but cannot save you from the desires


of men. Girl, you are to be useful

in moist ways.  They care nothing for

the goings on in that mind of yours.

Don’t even try to talk.  Unless


to advertise for sex or violence.

There is no God.  You are all

that you have, & that body may be able

to find you some bread to break.  You can


always obtain wine to drink.  You have

the right frame for that.  They like you

intoxicated.  Under their weight,

you imagine Kafka, become the Hunger


Artist.  Hungry to find any meaning

to the needless sufferings you are

so gifted to witness.  No man cares about

the story of a girl deflowered at an age too young





to acknowledge.  No one wants to know

such things, but there you are:

seedless & hollow.  There are

things people do not know they have


until those things are gone.  You

did not know you’d be the poetry

of a boiler room romance with a man too old

to be your father, & you too young


to know what you possessed.  Too young

to do anything but bear witness to your own ruin.



Truths of an Embarrassing Movement of Lips or Pretentious Poet

The things done by the mouth
on that woman

standing in front of you are infinitely
possible of anything. Every word is

unpredictable as it comes
out of her. Sometimes the most eloquent

thought is communicated by her
speaking in tongues
made of red-neck, trucker,

and embarrassed sailors. She speaks: These words
I have are really all I have, but they mean

more than anything ever known.

Call for Submissions:


Yuyutsu Sharma’s Eternal Snow: An Anthology of Poems originating from Yuyu’s interactions, Readings and Workshops

Edited with an Introduction by
David Austell & Kathleen D Gallagher
Fellow poets and writers!
If you have had the pleasure of meeting or interacting with Yuyu or had the opportunity of attending this internationally renowned Himalayan Poet’s  workshops, you are herein invited to submit to the upcoming  anthology, tentatively named,  Eternal Snow: An Anthology of Poems Originating from Yuyu’s Works, Readings and Workshops.
Please submit your work for consideration to 
Kathleen D Gallagher to
We look forward to reading you submissions.
More details follow…

Folks, it’s time to start editing.

I’ll be back in a while.

The Draught that ends the drought.


Shawn my dear friend, you honor me so much.

Originally posted on Taxicab of thought:

The draught after the drought.  For my yogaliscious cheerleader (yeah I made that word up and im proud of it)
Being alone is like being out of touch
with your own tenderness.  You drag
 it behind you through the desert
sand.  It weighs you down at first, but 
as the arid air begins to desiccate the
parts of you the others have loved you
come to terms and make friends with
the shriveled cocoon of your romance. 
Some nights as you sleep you might 
think to reach out and see if you still
are capable of feeling loved/wanted/
needed/desired/cherished, but as soon
as you grasp at it, everything turns to 
dust like the remnants of a fall leaf that 
you dragged into the house, squashed
under the sole of your shoe.  Love exists
in the Mojave of your heart, a very vivid
and tempting mirage.
A near life…

View original 102 more words


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 395 other followers