Places

I was dropped from a black hole

part hurt fledgling

Wild Thing

bird of swift wing

part hothouse flower

wilting

neglected

in the desert

 

I am square peg

in round hole

way too dense

of emotion

 

I do not fit well

in the world

 

my spitfire tenacity

ruffles too many feathers

while my soft underbelly

is ripped raw

from the teeth of daily

indignities

 

unwelcome

as an overly plump raindrop

plunking cold and abrupt

on a spring sunned bosom

it slides anfractuous

joined apace in feigned ennui

The Story of How Her Life Became a Poem (pt 1, Abridged)

Her life was not always a poem

it was jampacked

intermittently chaotic

sprinkled with impassioned confetti

fundamentally mundane

absent requisite lyrical calling

 

words were ever-present allies

in retrospect, truer friends

than some cloaked in the mantle

 

childhood fantasies

of “I want to be famous” vintage

block printed lists

included grandiose authoring notions

 

attempts were penciled

plots amateurish laboriously penned

creativity doubted

drafts drifted aside

 

life became frenetic schedules

doctorate, diapers

career, cheerioed car

driven duty and

harried housewife hairdo

 

writing ambitions

fluttered

scattered in whirling dervish

whirlwind

The Beginning

It felt like miscarriage.

 There was the requisite agony and attendant

gore – absent the maternal oxytocin glow. This being

erupted from her unbidden, extruding through

dry constricted orifices.

It wracked her – a clamped

down silent caterwauling black hole

wrenching her skinside in and curdling

the yolk of the skies.

This thing was a raw bloody

mangled mess, confounding hope of life.

Expecting putrefaction

it squirmed and whimpered

inexplicably birthed in desolate

Siberian confinement.

At the end of all that was known

she bore a poetess self

Prostitution?

Is it prostitution

when she smiles and pretends

her rebound is to their

credit, not her own?

Is it prostitution

when she silences her talents

allowing them to think

they created her success?

It is prostitution

when she thanks them for

services rendered, genuinely

for their own gratification?

Is it prostitution

when she bites her tongue

painfully censors

to buy stability?

Is it prostitution

when they tell her

where and when to come

and she acquiesces?

Is it prostitution

when she doesn’t scream

that the royal ass-fucking

she received was no good?

If it ISN’T prostitution

why does her skin

clamor with the urgent

need to shower?