Voiciferous

Voiciferous

Remember working at the liquor store

.            where I wished my voice away

.            wanting not to wrestle those

.            drunk bums rich bastards

.            buying bigger bottles of booze.

Sore throat sick a week since Sunday

.            speechbox cracked and quivering

.           with a cough cough cough

.           it came back crippled limping

.          cringing through my cigarettes.

I used to vent a velvet air of richer tones

.           a dandy deft delivery of

.           something sweet inside me

.           but I killed it with a dirty wish

.          and now I croak veracity.

This voice I have to fight with now

.            does not do so prettily

.            but starts and blurts obscenities

.            tones that try to turn the fractured

.            world. I want to watch it burn.

#DrumpFace

#DrumpFace

Don’t you dare

.          grab our brethren

.          grab our freedom

.          grab our pussies

from where we see you loudly lying

with your face tweeting under our feet

.          hide the asshole

.           hide the stains

.           hide the blood.

We will wear red boots and

we declare that orange is our enemy

.          eat the morsels

.          eat the marrow

.           eat the midnight

We suck the bones of Justice

in the decaying flesh of the Patriarchy

.           we who mourn

.           we who dance

.           we who fight

we are the women in black.

Seven

Seven

I write of things I keep:
soul-ache in boxes with hope,
and family troubles in nesting dolls,
and trauma with Worry Dolls under my pillow.
when I was eight years old.

Everything in my childhood happened
when I was six years old-
-or eight, or nine,
but- I never place memories
in-between.

I was in second grade and I lived in Seattle.
* helicopters * whirlygigs *
I remember my teacher had a curly mess of–
–auburn hair, and was mean to me.
I was misunderstood.
I couldn’t let
the insides out
my peacock bruises.

I put my memories
in a treasure chest made of hydrangea
petals I collected when I was a fairy pink and soft
and I buried them in the backyard.

_________________________________

In the backyard with the hydrangea
bushes green and blue puffs of white–
–and the cherry tree.
(Mother of Switches)
One time I got to pick my own.
I was afraid of picking one too big.
I was terrified of picking one too small.
Small like I was.

Welts live in the chest of petals
with the hurt
and my memories
in-between.

But He
My mother did not keep him with her
and she did not keep him with me
and my mother.
She did not keep me–
–with her.

I kept motherly care in my first purse
lost in a seafood restaurant in idontremember
I kept motherly love in a barrette
lost at Goth Night–
–Embers on my birthday.

I write of things I’ve lost.

Shit Magnet

Shit Magnet

 

A seagull shat on my arm

from a few hundred feet up.

 

My white coat is “water-proof”

but it still catches stains like:

 

coffee, espresso, lattes, chai,

London Fog, and bird shit.

 

“Hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi!”

The PGE man squawks at me.

 

“Do I look like I want to be

said ‘hi’ to?” squawked at?!

 

“I was just saying ‘hi’ and

I was just being NICE.”

 

“That’s street harassment

And it is NOT OK!” I say.

 

I was on the phone earlier

about my sexual assault.

 

PGE Man does not know I am

a loaded gun, a touchy trigger.

 

This walking open sore

wants not to be seen.

 

Shit. I knew I shouldn’t’ve

bought this bright raincoat.