Touch that Thing that Connects

If there is a different life it is ambiguous
marked with crumbs of self-denial -loathing,
broken little bits of the constant changing world
around your cage. You look to see if you can
find reflection. If there is a different reflection
it must be in the mirror of glistening waters
called Misery Bay. The mirror in the medicine

cabinet lies with all that artificial lighting making
illusions in the dark: the lines
                                and streaks on your face. You long for embrace,

the tender kiss. If there is a caring lover
                               he’s not the one in your bed filling it so much

                               so it ushers your scent to a couch which isn’t even yours.


To Honor and Cherish

I can’t remember the last time I felt
truly loved by you. It seems I am no more
than a burden that has to be ignored. Pushed into
isolation because of your need for isolation.
My body has been mutilated, desexed,
deserted making this animal I’m tied to desolate,
desperate to find something that makes it feel
alive. It’s so lonely being here in need. No
understanding comfort of embrace. When you look
at me with that steely indifferent stare, I die
a little more each time. Reaching out
is futile. It simply demonstrates I am never more
dead in this world than with you.

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.














Beautiful Junky With a Needle Sticking in His Arm

He is the bearer of bones, sometimes dragging
himself with the precision of needle
point, on a confused track along
the injectable parts of the circulatory
system, which only promises the disease
of blood, where he’ll most likely forget
the work of breathing.

Grease Monkey Blues

He said, I hope
you and yours are well. She couldn’t
tell him anything. She never responded with
a word. How could he know that she is
that woman who exists in filth? The garage
soaks into her skin, so she so often smells
motor oil. The arthritic hands of hers are always
outlined in dirt. Fingernails that never come clean,
see she’s always scratching at something.
It is something
under her skin: a seething infected slither. Everyone
overlooks that she is just a small
woman with fine sensibilities working
like a man, so her fit, fay, frame
falters for being forgotten.

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.

The Killing Club

The fibers from the ropes are needles
pricking my neck. You tighten
your finely crafted knot. I
try to swallow my fear, but the noose has
made rub burns all around my neck. It hurts
to think of any movement. You say
to me, You asked for this.