He’s the Man, All-righty

Otherwise known as a supervisor, what he is,

is a talker of shit who smears anyone’s name

to make his own look good.  It doesn’t matter

that he ain’t even bright enough to pass the personality

test which opens the door to the Corporate

managerial hierarchy, keeping him in his place

as the stupid “yes” man.  He’s a duped

dummy: a Corporate puppet.  Solely a lifeless thing

controlled by strings.

Systematic Sterilization

You see. There gets to be an emptiness,
a hollowness in the place
where my uterus once was. That place that brought life
into the world now feels the void of nothing
there, only the numbness of my sex ongoing.














Inmate John Doe: 1 Year Incarceration for Having No Home

for Peggy Honeydew

That’s not his name. At the time,
it didn’t matter much what his name

was. He was being

incarcerated, because his existence was
an insult to those compliantly comfortable
Caucasians in Richland. His cardboard

shanty, garbage can fires, tree grown
                    cookware, his fingerless
                                    gloves, holes in his shoes
                                             during the very cold winter was

all too offensive. No one wanted to see him

and learn his name was the same
as theirs. So they threw his ass in prison.

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.

Pride for School Colors

At the tender age of 13 ¾, she wanted
to be all grown-up. She snuck red
lipstick and black eyeliner her mother said
made her look painted and cheap in the inside
pocket of her cheerleading parka, on school
picture day. She was the Captain
of the cheerleaders from first quarter of 7th
grade on, it was more because of her
bendiness and less so for her spirit. The park right past
the elementary school was where the morning
walkers would cause the most mischief. The first abuse
she faced there occurred the second week of 6th grade,
when a broken branch of a maple was wielded by a boy
who had a crush on her. It left a welt down her back
for weeks. That is when she learned
insomnia. It wasn’t for months later
that she threw down for herself learning
she was stronger than she had known. Only one
girl was bleeding, yet both were deeply wounded
by the spectacle of Girl Fight. But this day was
special, it was for the yearbook. Every last smiling
pimple nosed kid would be remembered for a lifetime
with can you believe that haircut. The pride of color photo
means that you would be moving on in the world. The next
color photo won’t be till senior year. It was snowing
all night the night before, so everything seemed to sparkle
in the sun-rising walk to school. The group she walked with
every morning all met in the park, then proceeded
to rough-house throwing snowball after snowball. There
was always collateral damage of some sort, a poor 5th grader
would get caught in crossfire too afraid to cry
cause the big kids would make fun. A girl walking with her high
school boyfriend was the innocent bystander who caught a stray
snowball in the back. Before anyone knew what was happening,
the snow turned all red. Redder than any named red
ever seen before. Red. One of them died that day,
but every single one of them was scarred by news
cameras, and given a yearbook
with no smiles to remember it by.

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


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