Social Justice Warrior Call To Action


Shoot them all dead. Break down their doors, drag them from their beds. Break their necks with your bare hands, steal their goods, inform on your friends. Become the monster you pretend to hate; conquer, pillage, rape.

Talk until your jaws are sore, slap them around and then talk some more. Convince them at the point of your sword, sell them goods they can’t afford. Keep at your righteous game, keep at it until we all look, talk, think, feel the same. Break the bones of the resistance, crush the dreams of the artistic. Beat the Jesus follower into submission, force the atheist into religion.

Change their vocabulary, destroy their individuality. Bleed them of their freedom to pursue their own liberty, happiness dies in collective mediocrity. Destroy their hope, annihilate their faith, teach them to post and hashtag, to bitch and brag, to collect hundreds of faceless friends, teach them to lie, to manipulate, to pretend.

Draw a line in the sand, assign each a party line to defend. Allow no reason, give heed to no wise instruction, seek not peace, nor love, nor charity. Create new reasons to hate, create chaos and call it, “debate.” Scream and yell, make them attack. Offend, deride, mock and humiliate until they retaliate. Then strike the fatal blow. Call them, “bigot” and, “racistsexistqueerphobictransphobicnazinarrowmindedantieverythinghater.”

They will fear you, they will follow you, they will beg for your affection, offer the obedient your mercy, grant them your protection. Any who dare speak against you, mow them down where they stand. Bash in the brains of any who dare to think, rip out their tongues if they try to speak. When the world is silent, then you can rest. You can rest when all free thinkers are dead.


Stream of Consciousness–Sail


You’ll follow the wind before you’ll follow the stars I keep pointing to. Let’s dive in and swim. Why stay here on this unmanned ship, this SOS transmitting calamity? I’ll fly like a kite bound by human hands, tumble down, I’ll find the earth without your help, I’ll find my ground. You can float away, sail all day to the island of your dreams, I’ll lean back and watch you sink, I’ll watch you drown. I, too, have heard the sirens call. It sings retreat, it sings flee, you only hear the wind you breathe, calling you out to sea.

I Will Always Break My Promises


I broke it again. That little bit of integrity I carry around in case of an emergency. I took it out, I wanted to have a look at it. Of course, I dropped it. It shattered into more pieces than I could count. I’d say it was a disaster, but it really was more of a hassle. Such a mess.

I remember the first time I held it. It burned like fire, blistered my conscience, nearly killed me. Intense. A whole lifetime it took to heal, it’s healing still, but I have finally gotten the hang of coping. I have learned to let it drop. To break it. Otherwise, the fire might consume me and leave me in ashes. I’d blow away but my words would stay. What would be the point of that?

Still, it might be nice to die at peace. It might be nice to die with honor. It might be nice to make a vow to be parted only by death and to die having kept my promise. Or it might be a lifetime of burning torture and death a welcome relief. How would I know? I can’t stand being burned anymore.

I will always break my promises. I will always protect myself from being bound to him and he. I’ll never be a them or a we. I’ll be Mary. A liar. Alone. A vow breaker. Alone. Alone but unmarked. Alone but unforsaken. I will always be alone.



Bye, My Brother



We carried him through the miserable streets. His broken leg bleeding, his consciousness fading. We carried him to the overlit corner store. We begged and pleaded with the man behind the counter,

“Call 911, man. We got a real problem.”

“Get the fuck outta my store. Get the fuck out before I call the cops.”

“Yeah, man call the cops. Call the fucking cops.”

There’s a gun and we’re trying to get out the door. His leg is slammed against the metal frame and he screams right before he passes out. What we do? Where we go?

I don’t remember where we left him. He never came around again, I hope he was found by a concerned citizen, but I never heard. That night friendships ended. That night was the last time I ever asked for help from anybody.



There are too many parts of me turned inside out. You want inspiration? Let me inspire you. Here is a woman. A walking womb. I receptacle of all your wishes and dreams, your millions of potential minions. They will take your name and all your shame and they will build for you and hurt all over their little beings until they are grown and can hurt their own.

You want pink on the outside, look at the inside. Red and raw and livid and mean. Look at the ache and break and heartache. Backslash hashtag fuck off forever and take your insecure, broken psyche with you.

Tell me again how to be a woman. Tell me about my fate, my face, my force fucked embrace. You know nothing, poet. You paint, you play guitar, you sing, you work hard. You are a man for what?

You exist for pink flesh. Because pink flesh. You run in circles.

You run pink, you sicken and die. You break nothing. Hearts belong to women. Bright and strong. We live and live. You die.

We live on and on.

Fill Your Boots, Mary.

We both stand at the jukebox, me with my borrowed money, you with your eyes full of hope and devotion. I play the same old songs and you wonder if any of the songs remind me of you. They don’t. I only play songs that remind me of me. I’m self-centered, you know, and I don’t believe in love so please stop trying to make me believe you love me. I would never say this, of course. I smile at you and pretend I’m playing songs I know you like too. It’s pity. It’s the best I can do.

I know you’re dead. I can almost smell the decay. I try to rescue you, I want there to be a reason you should keep trying, but honestly, I don’t believe there is. Besides, I’m not God. I can’t raise the dead. You’ll have to wait for judgement day if you want resurrection. You’ll have to wait with the rest of us.

I could pretend for you. I could, but I don’t. I tell you little lies, but I don’t ever tell you I will heal you. I don’t say I will wait or stay or that I will forsake all others. I tell you it will get better, someday. I tell you to hang on, the bad will pass, the good will come. I know it won’t but I hope for a minute that you will believe me. I hope for a minute you will forget how bad it hurts. I feel very magnanimous. I am giving away hope today. I am giving away comfort. I’m a real, live Jesus Christ. Except…..

I’m tired of sacrificing. You’ve bled me. I’ve got nothing left.

So, I let you go. You and a gun and an empty room, a phone that never rings, a head full of needs, a head full of brains about to be emptied on a blank wall. For less than a second, your pain will fill the whole world. And it will pass, and no one will remember. You never happened. That’s life.

I regret what I said. I didn’t love you, but I miss you trying to prove that you loved me. I miss your eyes full of stars. I should have stayed, I should have bought a six pack and let you tell me how pretty I am. I should have seen you, but I was blind. Now, I am you.

He’s short. He doesn’t have any goals. He doesn’t try to be sweet or beautiful or brilliant or kind. His skin is warm and smooth, his reach is long, all the way around me….when he’s around. When he kisses me, I close my eyes and there’s nothing wrong with me. But, he doesn’t know me. He doesn’t want to know me and I know it. “When will you stop hurting yourself?” that’s what I asked. You said, “I can’t.”

Neither can I. But, I’m not like you. I’m made of struggle and pain and determination. I’m made of hope. I was built, not born. I am the result of solace seekers dreaming, I am the mahfucking dream. I am what happens when young people want to be grown people, when marriages need to become families, when dicks need holes. I’m so goddamn useful, I make screwdrivers cry. I’m full of purpose.

And you’re a dead man. A corpse. I wish I could dig you up and take one last look. Just to remember who I once was.

Maybe I’ll play a song just for you. Pour libations, tell off color jokes, shave my head. Maybe I’ll make everyday a festival, a carnival, a topless bar drunken dream. Maybe I’ll say fuck all and maybe I’ll fuck all. Maybe I’ll just live my quiet life, go to work, write bad poetry and wish I was brave.

Maybe I’ll fill my boots.






The Outlier, The Dreamer

How she longed for dead admirers. How she ached for romance without attachment, no ugly interference from work and family and community obligations. Easy alliances made and broken without regret or painful goodbyes. Moments of absolute solidarity easily forgotten by morning, though wistfully brought to mind in lonely old age.

A whirling madness consumed her. Her thoughts were falling stars, they streaked and died in less than a second and she could barely register them before they had disappeared. Only in dreams did she breath slowly, her mind’s eye focused and observant. To be awake was to be on fire, too much fuel in the world, too much to burn.

There was medicine to dull her desires, to keep her thoughts from flying out of her head. They named her, “Rapid Cycling Bipolar Disorder” but she rejected this moniker, calling herself, “Bitter” and “Rebellious,” she threw their pills away and made love to her freedom and called it “Cure.”

She met men who had no effect on her heart and pretended to them that she offered love. Few could accept that it was not love, only understanding, that she would willingly give, so she played at love, her mask always in place. “How sad.” she thought. “Do they not realize that understanding is rare? Love is given and taken back so easily, but who is willing and able to understand the strangest, most twisted, darkest corners of their hearts?”

“I.” says she. “I.”

There is no loneliness in isolation unless one despises one’s own company. She sleeps so willingly. She sleeps and dreams. And when she wakes, she burns.

Daily Prompt–Capable


The money’s gone. You earned it and you spent it. All these full bellies and smiling faces send good job thoughts. They feel content, but your back aches and your hands hurt too much to make a fist. You take a day off to catch up on sleep, but these faces smile and speak and ask for so many things and it feels so good to say yes.

So you’re broke, you are not broken. And your body will adjust and you will be remembered and someday, you will be missed. Good job.

Very good job.


I am not a homemaker or a homewrecker. I am a gypsy and I raise gypsies who flee and flounder and find themselves over and over and dream and believe and forget and stay homeless in a world full of pretty picture windows and empty smiles and broken mirrors.

I don’t do math or theoretical anything though I have long ago mastered the hypothetical and I ask every question expecting I will receive an answer. I never, ever do rhetorical. So tell me:

Why did you send me all those letters?

You have always confused me.

You say yes and no and yes again. You tell me stories and show me secrets and always you are trying to find the words that I will respond to. My strength is my resistance, my unhappy travels through time and space without companion, my lack of need. I never need to be needed. I am forgiving and kind and never remembering. I am everything you ever wanted but you have no idea why.

So tell me.

Why did you send me all those letters?