Definition Truth

v.t.  1.  subjective;

constant changing 2. human





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.

Matilda’s Fea…

Matilda’s Fear of Men


After a long night’s work, Matilda never
really could speak to much more

than the occasional momentary
angel smelling of whiskey and smoke. She had

a thing for danger. Moreover, she had a thing
for Russian sailors—one of them painted her

head to toe with various tattoo snakes scaling
roses, and a single fluke

anchor engraved with the words Carpe Diem
to remind her not to forget to seize the moment

which turns her eyes all on poetry.


Dear Juliet

There are very few things in life which one should fight to the death for.  Love happens to be one of them.  If it is fierce, and reciprocated, there is no poison too deadly.  But if that love is itself not  reciprocated, then it does become quite lethal.  Star-crossed happens not often enough, but there are apothecaries to save you from that terror.   

Children Who Walk Among the Pieces

She is nothing
if not simply
complicated.  Her
skin deep beauty is something
despised by her.  There

is something greater within.  He sees her
as she longs to be. His

arms offer only peace in
an indifferent world
where children cannot survive.

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