If only there were more wine in France.

There is a hum
Where my gender is numb
My mind fell asleep
|       at the dashboard
Feet propped
against the grain
A consortium affair
Like a cat stretched in the sun
|        in a child’s pose
Sensual touch on foreheads
While married men glance away
fear on fingertips
as our mothers speak of their rape
unforgiven, we then sleep
in the dark of the street lamp
for question of sexuality
|               pause and push
|     pull and go
Because my words were tired
I mailed you a message instead
Sent in a bottle
from across the sea
To see if you were alright
Without postage, without sight
You have to but smile
to see the glow of refracted light
yet all that glitters is not of value
sometimes it’s glass that cuts our feet
in our TOMS shoes and waxed mustaches
Gold woven into hairsprayed designs
painted eyebrows to match
My dear,
|     You must be a model
|                       in the magazine you follow
But all that’s left
|         are the Kitty Genovese
We are left
as shimmering futures
in reflected puddles
from yesterday’s rain
traveling forever onward,
in nonexistent measures
the more drastic
|             daring
Make musical masterpieces
The symphony
|          of matrimony a lie
|                                 of a bent penis
|                          and an unfortunate pregnancy
the social contract
that all relationships are
Forged under a blood oath
On the wedding night
and the family story
Written by the au pair
Is hidden in the art of the old
in a crypt without a guardian
in a language unknown
a sturdy found entrance
|     of gender bending proportions
the love poet in me
wishes to take flight
in your skin
a fearful runaway
without shoes or a pen
because what is modeled before
only speaks to the din
of ill-laid shellac
and misplaced metaphors
writing your long sigh
as you dragon-curl yourself
around the down pillow
into a soliloquy
needing only kisses for clothes
the pronouns carried on the backs
|                                 of crocodiles
the journey away
|                                 away
carries more for dinner
a postcard to many
a suicide note to some
the debtor on fire
and they will all attend
a march on the paved passageways
with planted flowers strewn
plucked from the sky
let’s be kind
|           let’s be kind
|                           to Juliet
I’d give you the moon
yet these bangles have heavy whispers
and they related the tale
by way of the grape
I know, you forgot me,
|                             as did I.

Power Walking for Mother’s Day

I wish I could tell you
The tragedy of being outed
Fighting a war with society
While fighting the battle within myself
The trainwreck of being betrayed
Losing a war for an intimate circle
While losing the battle against personal shame
Seconds tick
Minutes tock
This is for the women who choose not to have children,
And this is for those who are unable to.
New beginnings aren’t picked off trees
Gender and name are difficult to change
On drivers licenses.
This is to all the mombians,
The nice and wicked stepmothers alike,
And those dads who played mom too.
Learning gender: tea parties and shaved legs
Learning skills: cooking dinner and walking in heels
What future could be wrapped
In a pink fleece cloth,
What future could be seen
In a pink scrubbed face
This is to all the mothers,
And those who mother themselves;
For the mother who was disowned and the mother abandoned;
For the sex-worker and the professional, the incarcerated woman, and the hippie all balancing motherhood.
Universal opinion colored by societal appeal
Laws of the marriage finger and uterus made then repealed.
This is to the daughters, the orphans, the lovers, the fighters
And all our sisters
This is to the families that adopt, foster, love
And those honorary mothers, grandmothers
Days tick
Months tock
Speak from the diaphragm,
Not on a soapbox or from the door mat
Told backup singers come in threes
Much like husbands and good luck charms
I wish I could tell you the heartache
Of burying another
Of being on welfare
Of bending regulations
Seasons tick
Years tock
This is for the mothers still in hospitals and left in morgues
This is for the mothers still in wombs and left out of the will
Can you hear the seashells sing?
Do you fear the landmine ring?
Refugees,
In a fourth world class war,
In a first world locale.
I brought you an apple, a platinum and diamond band,
Flowers, a baby carriage.
This is for my mother
Who risked her sanity, to save my soul
This is for my grandmother
Who lost her soul, trying to stay sane
This is for my adopted aunt
Who loves with no words
This is for the unknown woman on the street
Whose ugly hands are suddenly beautiful:
Your grays,
Your wrinkles,
Inspire admiration.

Penis Envy

Brain damage
And the Oedipal Complex
Did Freud research
Just his sociopath tendencies?
More socially accepted
As you raise the dependent variables
Interested
Innovation
And blocked
By bureaucracy
Are we protected from ridicule?
Or transported to another time?
Regression
Is the place to be
Pit stop
To tie you shoes
Please, tourist, move
Abuse your headphones
The city taps our a rhythm
With meaning
Selective hearing
Honking at a girl
Doesn’t inspire self worth and beauty
Just makes her feel like
A walking vagina.
Time’s up
Second date is over
You tried too hard
And your mask slipped
Before you barely tried at all
And my mask hardened
Timing, timing
Your words mean nothing
Because your lack of action speaks volumes
When I became a doormat
You manhood comes into question
I’ll be your motivation
I’ll be your muse
And feel used.
The stone is cold beneath
In the cemetery
Secretive escape tunnels await
If you won’t help me
I’ll flush your crazy-brain drugs
And find closure with a $10 cure
I’m a professional,
Don’t you worry your pretty head
¡Si se puede!
The future is now:
Fully educated
And double-dipped in debt
Questing for a love trilogy
Couched in better terms
Shun comfort, sex, and companionship
It’s only a threat
When it touches the middle class
Preach to me,
Then marry me.