Malnourished America — A Poem

The boy is twelve. The man raped his mother and shot his dad. He was eleven two weeks before. He was happy with two happy parents and a happy little brother two weeks before. He’s twelve and three days old now. He’s down to one parent, who has lost her…

“Hey, you.” The woman from across the street yells, her eyes glistening with rage, her hair in a frizzy ponytail — the look of a hurried job. Margo turns to see the woman walking, speedily, in her direction. Margo swivels around to face the angry woman, a Whole Foods bag…

Lazy finger Street talks Point It’s a black man Eyes gawk

Can’t sleep Mind a wonder Dangerous thoughts Come to plunder

I don’t know how to do this. But I’m going to give it a try. My words are a kill zone. If you’ve read that line. You’ve been shot.

I love your apology. When it’s backwards. Words come forward, meaning in reverse.

The voice has been her best friend since the age of twelve. It comforted her through her parent's divorce, through the countless teasing as a teen, through her many breakups with assholes as an adult. It’s her voice of reason and strength, sometimes of better judgment, but always a voice…

Happy 37th birthday to me and what a grand birthday it is. Divorced with two kids. A brat spoiled piss-ant for a son who doesn’t want to play football because the helmet will mess up his hair. And a debutant runt for a daughter. She takes after her mother and…