Definition Truth

v.t.  1.  subjective;

constant changing 2. human





Obstruction by Some Other

The irony of a woman invisible to her

keeper, yet studied by the man


down the street.  She wraps herself

in scarves and swaddling fabric to hide


her tiny frame, heads out for a stroll

of quiet contemplation.  Questions manifest


from balmy air: a boulder of answers

forbidden to be asked for is found in her


path.  The woman, slight in stature,

with eyes that engulf all things around her,


stands at its edge.  Her hand timid with a terrifying

tremble to feel the cold touch of stone.  A reach


with shaking fingers.  But the stone is a marble that guides

the hands to embrace.  Then she sits, pulls out her notepad


and begins to scratch pen to pad. I have to reach for you

with the resistance of fiber, the viscosity of liquid because my journey


is obstructed by these questions that will not move.  Under

all of her hiding, every layer of cashmere and silk


peeled away, she has skin smooth as butter.  Slick and soft,

she leans on the cool surface of the object


in her path.  She imagines how she’d melt if touched

by the man forbidden from her by the ritual of ceremony.


Her skin takes the temperature of the stone she leans on.

She wonders if her name were to appear in ink, does it


wash off like smudges on his left hand.  In the waves and bodies

of the surrounding universe there is no wrong, only she worries


she’s mistaken.  Using her legs, she pushes all her weight

against the boulder.  No use.  Yet, the pull of her path


cannot stay blocked because it’s gravity pulling her in

the direction she’s going.  So she writes more, I feel


the infinite meaning of these questions that halt me. 

Every answer is lost.  I am the only dying animal


 I know.  My body feels the draw of your lines. 

So far from my reach, yet you’re so close


I could reach out to touch you.  I can only embrace

these questions.  I hope you do the same.


Sand slides forming scales over her shoulders.

In the Sight of Her: A Revision

What made her let a man (one of those

who had stripped her of so much

that was hers) illustrate the trauma in her.


Oblivion is the only constant.  But now

there’s a book with both their names

immortalized by her


vision.  His sketches could never

understand what floods the heart of a girl

child split in half before


she even knew her own sex.  She let him

assemble a mosaic of her

brokenness into the only vision


any man can see.  She doesn’t want

his depiction of her to be

anything less than a sacrament of communion.


All she offers is the sight of her

flesh, in all the crudeness of nudity

skillfully covered with stories


about creation made from dead languages.

His brushes can’t stroke

the harp’s strings.  Someday


her catgut will seduce the strings

like Mozart, and she’ll know

why anyone would choose that.

Desideratum …

My own father never showed me

the warmth of embrace, nor gave me cradles

to rock away my tears.  He showed me rawhide


on my back side, saying I got what I deserved.   No

warm protection from dark phantasms which terrified

my small trembling self… which would have fit


snuggly in his arms.  No daddy to cry out for

when my nightmares paralyzed me in my

bed, while between my legs burned like ripping.  Instead,


I was told to go to Sacred Heart to the small room

with a wicker screen and a tiny door which slides open

and closed, behind which a man waits in silence obscured


by woven slivers much like the one which bore

their way into my bottom when being told to be

a good girl.  He was to absolve me


of my sins. Bless me father for I have


sinned, it has over thirty years since my last

confession.  When I last confessed, it was my first

confession, and I told you about a blue


gumball I slipped out of the jar next to the penny

candy to glide into my cheeks like a greedy little

squirrel.  That was my first sin.  You told me to say


5 Our Father’s and 10 Hail Mary’s and that my sins would be

forgiven.  What you can never grant me is

the gift of forgetting.  Forgive me for how I did


not protect the things that made me like Mary

Mother of God.  I have sinned against myself

by not fighting hard enough for what


my body possesses.  My wish is to be freed of this

burden of the brain, heaviness in the heart.  Father, my father

just neglected me without doing a thing when a man


who commanded  me call him Daddy forced my hand,

my head torn at his zipper.  I swear, Father, I tried

to resist but my strength failith that day when small


insignificant me needed it most.  I screamed NO,


ME! Instead of stopping, he covered my mouth pushing


my tiny body too close to the boiler where my face blazed of searing

heat from the black coal burning.  I prayed to your God.  I begged

for your Jesus to let me be a lamb. Only He could carry me


away—just like the in the picture painted on the ceiling of Saint

Paul’s Cathedral where we went to High Mass, and I loved

it.  That was when they spoke in the secret language


which is no longer spoken. The dead language.  No one

answered.  I was only given ripping flesh, blood in my Wonder

Woman Underoos.  I can’t remember how many times I begged


your God to take me to sing with the terrible

angels who show me no mercy.  So I write

my own Novenas now, because yours never fucking worked.  Never


worked.  The rosaries all broke from zealous rocking and shaking

while repeating words in repetition taught me that I can at least command

the Voice to say the right words, even if I’m mute to the whole


fucking universe.  I’ve learned from years of crafting words

as beautiful swords to protect me that some words are too short for men

to understand.  Honest to Jesus, I did not ask for it, even though


my own father would tell me so

after he bruised my kidney. You got what

you deserved are the words he’d shoot me with


like a Marine facing a yellow face, while I cried

in pain, unable to breathe.  Even now, Father, my own

father publically shames me on the Eve before Baby


Jesus is born.  Father, my father screamed, “You will die

sad and lonely,” when he saw me

in the grocery store.  I carried my cross


in the form of a grocery cart filled with food I couldn’t afford

which I would never be able to cook. Father, I know now that

I know nothing of your God, because your myth is fable perverted


through the mind far less than

a Poet.  I am the only one here

who knows what God is.

More love for Matilda!!!

Both of my firsts have been nominated for Pushcarts!  My first publication ever and my first book!

First Publication:

First Book:

Thank all of you so much.  My blog readers have been with me on this whole journey and I love you for it!

Dear Nigerian Lawyer

A very uncomfortable English

woman wrote a century ago, “Women have sat

indoors all these millions of years, so that

by this time, the very walls are permeated by their


creative force, which has, indeed so overcharged

the capacity of bricks and mortar that it must

needs harness itself

to pens and brushes and business and politics.”



There are no locks which can save you from the race,

that race of speeding hate, that race


which makes humans behave like rodents: Economics.


If your room is made of mud or scrap

metal, there is no sanctuary


for women sitting indoors in Rwanda, not if you are

Tutsi, not if you are Afghan, not if you are


poor.  The river overcapacity by the volume of blood

flowing downstream from genocide speaks in trickles,

gentle laps on the bank that hums a hymn


about humans having no love for each other. Friends

become targets for hate propaganda.  We should know by now not to

listen to shit. We should know by now the only thing

that ever survives death is grief over lost love. Nothing can take grief

way. The Cradle of Human Kind that cave of wonder where we find

the first known bones of our instincts, reveals itself—where it is decided

if you are prey or predator.  I’ve learned the truth of feathers

flocking.  They, like birds do it, do it either in fear or instinctual survival


or it’s something so corrupt it makes the whole damned race prey

on itself: Money is an inhuman thing.  Inanimate objects like paper

by definition is not human, rather it is just an idea arbitrarily ascribing

more value on one life over another.  Poems have no value

merely meaning.  What you seek also seeks you

only if it’s human.  Poems the fall like feathers from human eyes,

as if the word mother means nothing at all. The landscape of gentle,

caressing, motherly, comfort is love

which should be the name of every God out there.  Love is

something everyone needs, but too many of us are suffering too much

by the nature of Greed.




In a Puddle of Valvoline, She Eats an Apple

He may be soiled in grease

from complicated mechanics

and short

of perfection, but he’s so real

that Chica can’t help but to

notice. Her lips slide over the skin

sinking her teeth in the crisp cracking of a giant

pink and yellow apple, a Pink Lady.  His thoughts

grope her scent in Español. He can’t look

her in the eyes too long because (despite how manly

the auto-mechanics field is) all the dudes

have a flare for drama and some can nose around

squawking about nothing that’s their business.  No

one need notice how he looks

at Chica, but her.  The garage is a place

where a beautiful thing is only touched

from time to time

then it rolls out.  Chica spits a seed across

the concrete as she sees

him watching her.  The seed slips into a crack

in the floor where it could sprout

if it weren’t doused in toxic waste.

Just so you know

I do not want anyone to pay attention to the advertisements which appear on this blog.  I do not endorse any ploy to take away your time, which in this culture is your money.  I am only trying to record the poetry of our time, and warn you of the various forms of hate.  Money is a form of hate.  It takes you away from the things most important in life all in the pursuit of it and makes divisions among our race.


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