The manic stamp of my poetry will not go unnoticed.
It started with the ego and then it turned into empathy.
I saw the photo of the children crying, their eyes wild with confusion.
I repeat: their eyes wild with confusion.
Holding, each other and bloody small arms.
What was my problem again?
Do you really think I care if your art organization gets funding?
Do you think I care about your branding racket on NPR?
No, I do not.
I care about the moon, spinning in space.
Half dreaming and stupid as it hangs in the air.
I had a thought like a basketball, suspended in time.
The panthers that Delacroix drew still haunt my mind.
The river of the Old West is spinning too
through the canyon of my heart
in a late night text LOL was I really to be the angry bride
bent like a fender on an old Ford
crying and moaning with curlers in my hair
and a frying pan to boot
with leather pants and a sword
trying to take back your heart?
OH, hardly.
Again, the moon in me shifts.
Was the well-timed turd that Amber Heard laid
did she know that that moment would be her undoing.
Could she have possibly known.
I have a friend who sends me pictures
of Marvel Comics, people larger than life
but I am small
I am a mouse in the wall.
I want to be big, but I am small.
A tiny in utero child
Cloaked in sour milk and winging it
on stage
kissing the lion
and coming up to draw breath.