I'm here now

Now I can tell the truth. Now that I am not me, I'm free to be who I am.

That's odd, but by not being me, I can be me.

The whackos are out in force this week. They plan a protest of nuclear power on March 28, and they're the hardcore I-think-we-should-all-live-in-caves group.

Not that any of them actually think that. Instead, they support (or demand) unsustainable, unachiveable technologies to generate energy: wind and solar. These whackos say that all of the energy that America needs can be supplied by wind and solar.

*sheesh*

Not a one of them has a clue about how an energy goes together, nor how many wind/solar plants it would take to replace even a small nuclear plant.

EXAMPLE: The five wind turbines in Atlantic City generate 1.5 megawatts of energy, as long as the wind is blowing. The Forked River plant, just a few miles north of AC, puts out about 650 megawatts of round the clock energy. That means that we're looking at almost 300 turbines to replace Forked River -- and FR is a small (very small) plant.

300 turbines would cover Rhode Island. Completely cover it. And solar is even less efficient.

Funeral arrangements for an oxygen thief

It's been a while since I've written anything, a while since I felt anything, a while since there was any kind of burning. And still that while persists.

Funeral arrangements for an oxygen thief

When you're finally dead, I'll keep your skull
and bones: one to remember your grin; the rest
to frame the hell you dug into my life.
Your tongue I'll keep sheathed in my heart --
where you left it – and take it out

only to skin those few who held you dear. In a pickle jar,
your heart, preserved in its own piss: I'll serve it
on special occasions, with toast, cream cheese and hot pepper
jelly. Your last breath I'll give back to the world
you stole it from. The rest I'll burn with Monday's trash.

The Goddess you forgot

A lot of my poetry is about religion and anger. An exploration of the crap organized fools keep shoving down the throats of the unwary and unaware. This one is just plain fun.

The Goddess you forgot

I remember when you splashed my legs upright,
and plunged your face into waters pure
and thrilling. The chill stimulated
beard growth: It stubbled My cries
of disbelief at your skill in worship.

All growth is me. My arms wove blue

above you and the snake
I'd come love: Did you bring the apple

this time? One day we feasted
on your fear, my wisdom and his
jealousy. Writ large

in torpid blue skies,

he watched, his eyes fire
as I recalled the ancient--
and you crawled. Before another sun,

I was forced to close my legs
because he saw me,
and you were ashamed.

In god's hands

This poem explores my own struggle with the patriarch, and my disgust with its leanings on the male. I don't have much more to say. The poem is what it is. Like it or not.

In god's hands

I am a doll

He dresses me funny
sometimes
and takes my head

for His son
who has nothing
but a poorly made
crown

I don't mind the cow who shares our table
at tea: he keeps his hooves to himself

but the snake wants my womb:
she remembers who she was
before Christ

made her a cock


Under my dolly dress
God's fingers
adjust
my attitude and slip


My being a girl keeps Him aware
of who I was

and who I will be
one day
Now I lie under him

(and Him)
and take cocks
because that's the way
it's supposed to be


My plasticity forgives
(That's what I tell Him
when He asks about His be-all
end-all)

because that's what He wants
to hear beyond murmurings
of snakes and cows

who remind me of my nature

I have a vagina

The world has too much bad poetry. Silly, sappy rhymes about love lost or found. Emo poems about cutting, dying and dismal things. So much bad in the world. This is good.

I have a vagina

you have a wish

A boy thinks it's a cunt that makes a woman
less than he. But women know the truth
of teenage tarts pushing dicks
between their legs. Standing

in front of a mirror, they see the promise
of trinity. A woman never pretends
to have a cock, even when it's yours. She takes it

because she can. And you don't really want it.

I hate you

This is a poem I wrote for a dear friend. As a child, he was sweet and positive-thinking. Now he's put the child aside. Time for the new man that I hate so much.

I hate you

I think I'll kill you now,
and keep your skin and bones,
like teeth rattling in my mouth,
until you scream for me to stop

killing you now: death is never sudden.
When you stop to drag it out, drag it down
the streets, and smear asphalt with a wide red
streak: It's you, your ribs spread to catch stones

and hold them. Now, every scream is another joy
of icy jewels rattling loose in my pumpkin grin:
Jack doesn't know shit about how much I hate you.

She Knits for all of Us

I don't have much in the way of religious kow-tow in me. There may be gods out there, but I don't bend my knee nor mind. I do, however, believe that the universe is inherently female: it gives birth to us all. Goddess poetry. I write it.


She Knits for all of Us


I'm not yet done with the world; It isn't green
enough for Me, nor for those whom I would create
and leave, pulling yellow corn from threads.

I think I'll make those people
shit green at birth, brown through life,
gray at death, so they remember to fertilize
after I've pulled them from the tapestry.