Everything in Five Minutes


A new poetry blog. I am grateful to be included.

Originally posted on THANK YOU FOR SWALLOWING:

He says, Everything. After she asks,
What’d ya want? Confused, she just leans over

giving him a better angle. A good angle can mean
everything. There are a few things

Chica knows: what men see in her is not one of them.
What does he mean everything? She grabs the sides of the grimy,

greasy locker-room bench which was once light oak, but now
is stained a dull grey from motor grease to give herself

some leverage. With each thrust she squeezes her eyelids
tighter to clear the mind so she can concentrate

on cumming. Each thought moves like a haunting. Ghosts
from the past appear showing that secret friendship

between the small girl she was who loved
playing on swings at the playground and that man

who showed her what little death means, before she grasped
the word sex. Behind her closed eyes she sees herself

waiting all day…

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Tracie Morell and Claudia Rankine: Better Than Beach Books


A wonderful review!

Originally posted on Five Writers:

*Contributor’s Note: To all, my apologies. I allowed my emotions to get the better of me the other day and I dashed off something political–my Charleston post–in place of this one. Here is what was supposed to be my regularly-scheduled post for this month. Sorry again for the soapbox moment…

by Ron Hayes

Almost a lifetime ago I worked at a small independent bookstore here in my hamlet of a hometown called Erie, PA. It was a great gig. I miss it. One of the fun things about working there was having some say in the displays we’d put together when the time of year called for a change, and I remember the first “Summer Reading” display I set up in the Used Book section, where I spent most of my time. The owner had a problem with it. Where she was thinking Harlequin Romance and mass-market paperbacks, my display featured folks…

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My book is finally released!

Thank you to all of my loyal readers.  I want to let you all know that I have a new book that was just released yesterday and is available for purchase.  Here is the link if you are interested in purchasing the book:


Fundamental Manifestation of Something Called the Self

for Margo

Each one of us, you even and me
too, we are our own

topographical map of emotional
landscapes: the memories of flesh and bone

existing in the rolling emerald fields of feeling. We are
refractions of moonlight reflecting who we really are. Our voices,

stretch out to call, and sometimes even
to scream or weep,
~          ~        ~      at the waxing

shape which fades into itself in lunar cycles. Daily ritual
sometimes becomes smudges on the stage

acting as the world would. The movement of fingertips
gliding along the delicate surface of paper is the record

keeping of an unseen interior space beyond bones ascending
to descend in a single respiration.

The Dark Dancer in Shadows is Called Lizzie this Time

for Margo and of course Shawn

Love can be tuned to a frequency of sound,

a rhythm measured in Meters,

in Hertz.  I just have a different vocabulary

from yours, but my tones are honest,

they are genuine.  Sometimes me getting lost

in myself: that infinite fiction growing up

like walls around me.  Inventing question after question

because she forgot how to listen to now, in a silence

speaking no sounds within the head.

Witnessing Something Soon to Come

The shroud of snow and ice

lifts just enough for more shades

of brown.  There is a fifth season:

The season of snow and mud.  Patterns thin

in delicate layers of fractured

ice show the earth’s color

underneath.  An array of future hues

is hinted in dirty white.  Birds sing the gray

away while rays from the sky cause the filthy drip

down sewage drains.  All will flush clean.  Fresh life

exhales.  Another revolution of the planet

promises not all is lost in the whiteouts plaguing

past weeks.  The ground will soon begin

to rupture in a rapture of crocus.

Baby Bone

If my sons wanted to return

to their mother, there is no longer a place


for me to keep them warm, sheltered.  No

womb to shield their tiny bodies


from the callous, calculated criminal

world that I should have considered


its cruelty before bringing such beautiful

beings into being.  I grieve for my sons.  Their mother


castrated because healers are no longer

healers. Butchers. The healing arts conduct


Capitalist business for all possible profits

to please CEO’s and personal expense


accounts.  Boys, your mother was aching,

sick and poor which lead to profound


pain of being dissected, disembodied, disavowed,

decentered.  Her pocketbook kept her


marginalized.  She sought help

assuming the Hippocratic Oath


didn’t make of those who take it

hypocrites.  She was sorely mistaken, by-effect


became systematically sterilized by the privileged

order of prefixed names.  They told her


it needed done: she would have a better life

if she sacrificed her sacred womb.  Now, children,


all she does is mourn the loss of your first home.


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