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Vocabulary Lesson Her poems unlocked words, Hidden in a vault, yet perfect to name the now. A World blanketed in conflagration - in all ways of the word. So to speak. So to write. Encourage all to prevaricate. Keep the bitterest words in the windpipe. Warm, moist, safe, and festering. Ballooning in the larynx. One does not want to be fired - burned like whole villages in California. Enflamed like the rash on my heart, itching more with every thrust.

Cages Slither in no place To be your glass tank Prison. Coiled corner, A false heat stone - victims Dropped from god hands above - Also trapped and doomed. Put a jail in every corner. Add unnatural death. Jail-keeper imprisons To feel powerful. Tombs Of mice left to cannibalism. A gecko that scales walls In a tiny moonlit lodge, Hoping for a patch of leftover Lettuce sky. Raptors Field day. Benson’s Auction. Monsters escape; Clear the room.

Who Needs These Stories There is a reason teachers are Some of the first to go; Vilified in the Propagandist’s artistry. Power is so good at lying. And Poets, well, deny a visa or Cut off a hand. Forget Poetry is an oral art. Songs, Silence them. Buy up the media Conglomerates and fire The comedians or disappear Them. Fascism hates Art for all the Right reasons. It Is the anti-propaganda. Logic to undo the emotional Wreckage and pull Feeble minds from the fire.

A section of Jarvis Rockwell's Us installation at Mass MoCA 2023 Rebel Scum Inspired by Us by Jarvis Rockwell We, a parade of two, the day I escorted you to A New Hope , and The usher gifted you with Luke Skywalker. We could navigate Tatooine Just fine - your tiny hand In mine. You grew to amuse Yourself for hours; as I wrote you Lined up Legolas and Leia; orchestrated Battles between Orcs and Elves, Sith Lords and Rebel Scum. Toys lined up on your bedroom Carpet. Solitar

Untitled Inspired by Kelli Ray Adam’s Forever in Your Debt We all pay for tenderness; Listen over morning bowls Of Rice Krispies popping And the AM radio static. Your coffee pot a spectator Brewing all day long as You dodge upstairs to write A sermon or to read A poem. I am forever in your debt. Those Saturday nights marking the Clickety-clack pace of your typewriter As it quickened and slowed. Scent Of purple ink whirling from your Mimeograph machine. Remember how you’d rea

Murder History So much of what makes it Into living history is death. Battles fought to keep Patriarchy secure. Men And their toxic selves - Seething. Burning houses. Raping girls, Boys sometimes, too, I Suppose. Red runs in the Stolen rivers and They congratulate themselves - In their importance; Draw lines on maps to Distinguish our Worthiness. Make Plans and decide what The future will know.

WUYWABF Nature can be cruel - so, Of course, they decided She is a woman to devour Us, abandoned here By your benevolent god. The little skunk convulses In the yard. What damage Became him? Cursed by Nature, so no one dares To stoop down and sooth His trembling soul. Tiny paws claw at empty Air; he writhes, twists, Tries to escape the pain. We, helpless due to scent And fear, watch and betray. Hoping The number for Animal Control to be the salve To lift us all from Her feroc

Mosh Pit Sol LeWitt - Negative Pyramid - Mass MoCA We are a structure At Lollapalooza - The way you grab My arm and yank Me through, bestie, Beastie Boys, metallic beats, and certain injury. My skinny legs dredge Doc Martens and strive To keep up with you; Your vintage leather jacket, cries to “Fucking move” part the crowd and You rescue me In a way I could never rescue You. Reach out my hand To yank you out of that orange Grove.

Lap Sizzle up on the sand. Land with such monotony - Lulled into bliss. This Is what it is Supposed to be like. Her poem, about love, the One I read this morning, is The most real. Not a war, she offers. But a journey; and though Passports fade and expire, With the correct Simmer the ocean Expands and contracts and Is all it was ever Meant to be.

Poet Mother Narratives leak from pencils. (The speaker is not always the poet.) Remember, you can hide Many truths behind Just one lie.

Sink Lured forward for years, thorax Exposed, neck displayed. Take what you want. Let My blood. Leeches crawl Across my chest. It is Always this way in the still Part of the river. Calm breeds. Then the storm comes, all Will disrupt and swim, Caught in currents beyond Imagine. Where you are Is not as safe as you feel. Danger always lurks - the Naked man with the butcher Knife, hidden in the bushes. He sees Your breasts with no armor Beyond a shelled bikini Top and your neck

Semaphore June 1, 2025 Every parade this month A scream, a dance, a pyre. Rainbows and leather. Queens And quotations. Short shorts And oppression. Do not Saunter backward. No Matter how the effect Chills us. Keep Waving our arms. Keep Signaling to our neighbors. The flags of our Queer Alphabet; Poles colorful and black. Disco dirge and laws On our bodies; in our beds. Pink triangles. Red pills. Rainbow oceans of roads.

DOGE + Art = Loss “The poets brace themselves for imminent, over educated poverty.” ~ Mona Awad There is no more porridge, and He has yanked medicare Right out from under Your gifted Tiffany flutes, And Wedgewood china plates. A cloth whisked from A cardboard table Held aloft with milk crates, And MFA fantasies. Silly girl. No one really cares about verses. Lined up and enjambing Themselves right Off of tall cliffs And shattered faces. A bouquet

Errors Tour Long before Taylor Swift, we Poets have written about bad Break-ups. Claws dig In to hearts, and refugees Run into empty night. Wine, A Stag’s Leap, like blood Stains our teeth and drips From somber lips, but our Fingers are laced with poison Ink. Glides across Pages. Heals us, Psyche. Shares our tunes in tomes.

May is supposed to be kind. Flowers, A bouquet you hand to me; Smile and the rain’s behind. But, no. The gloom has Followed us, and no relief Is on the digital horizon. Spoil me around a poll, add Ribbons - shiny, silk - to dangle And dance in the breeze. This will never happen. Winter Is resentment, and it bubbles Up in the mud under tires. Stuck here and the trenches Pull. No way to go that Way. Lillies, where are you? Where?

F.t.P. A Golden Shovel after Margaret Atwood You are not better than I. Who are you to judge? I can & will take you Down as We lock horns, teeth. The World through the trees, And all you will do Means nothing by The end when we are all dying. From MA

One True Beauty Finally, where I hoped you would be; now Butchered much to my misery. Locks of glitter and a solid length, Shelved in a closet. My joy it has tanked. Speechless in chair, I let her chop. Feckless, left with fuzz, straggles, a terrible mop. Fopp and tears, folding laundry and such. A night of shifting terrors kept waking me up. Jo sold her tresses to climb. Apples, typewriters, war effort, equine. Her sisters rushed in to comfort her woe, While here in my parlo

Her Own Private Archive: A Found Poem Words from Daniel Mason’s North Woods She dreamed about these Ancient forests. (Glorious Beyond imagination.) She has found That the only way To understand the world As something other Than a tale of loss is To see it As a tale of change. For a moment stillness hangs Over the rubble. And then, It all begins again.

Thus Far A birthday poem Shamed for daring, for growth. There is no satisfying those Who’d never be what they want. When she has reached and realized It’s all a bunch of bullshit, how quickly The game swallows her back up, Into the Sarlacc Pitt. Her tentacles Flail to escape and useless. She is Cassandra. She is Leia, and no one Will listen to her foolishness. Drown in sand and omission Of possibilities bright on the TV Screen. Dream of throwing A ball that is worthy, or Supp

Harridan What I shall call the next Collection. The words we use For She. Belligerent. Bully. Bossy. Strict adherence To rules inflicted On us each when young. How Flynn’s Cool Girl Speech Can be an anecdote For this need for acceptance. She said, we get a rush From men’s attention, Because we have all been taught To falsely assume they Are superior. Ladies, This is a trick. Embrace The labels like your squawking, Newborn son. Swaddle each; Make them your own.