It’s not a wall, it’s a fence. We all like fences… right? Just look at your backyard, there’s a fence.

Look at your annoying neighbors, who sunbath naked… oh, right, you can’t see them because you have a wonderful border fence between you and them.

Fences are as American as treating ladies as second-class citizens. It’s as ‘Merican as baseball. And strangleholds. It’s not a wall, it’s a curtesy blind… between Us and Them.

Backyard border fences all around, for one and all.

Pagan penance

maybe I’m accustomed to penance
something comforting about kneeling
patellas in castles of hominy
yes, you might be bruised
but the grits exfoliate your heart
and maybe whatever god you find
will think your thighs enough
(but not too much)
newfound pagan girls
really needn’t supplicate
but the music of home
and books on the nightstand
make her want lumber
to build a prie-dieu in her garage
singing hymns she can’t believe
for an unbaptized child
wishing for church hats
and the promise of absolution



From a seed, the cotton sprung.
Grew up in soil and in sun.
In the summer heat it flourished
And with water, it was nourished.
Filled up with life, the cotton was.
So it made a little ball of fuzz.


The cotton then was harvested.
Balls of fuzz, spun into thread.
A textile made upon a loom.
All from a fuzzy cotton bloom.
A little plant, grown in the dirt.
Filled up with life from Mother Earth.

A plant sewn into clothes you wear.
Is the life that filled it up still there?

The Procrasti Nation

I am part of the Procrasti,
Which is the designation
Of the patriotic put-it-offers,
The proud Procrasti Nation.
There’s no task that a Procrast,
Cannot put off till later.
I have a much more pressing matter,
One that cannot wait, like…
Looking up the words that rhyme,
With procrastinate.
Abbreviate, attrition rate,
Evaporate, equivocate.
Such procrastination bliss!
I’m doing it right now,
As I’m writing this.
But, alas, this Procrast,
Must get back to work again.
The putting it off comes to an end.

There is something very wrong with US

He’d rather vent,
And sulk,
When he’s angry or frustrated.

‘Cause being president,
Is difficult,
And often complicated.

But he did not run for president,
To fight for human rights,
He ran for bragging rights.
And with our allies, pick some fights

He did not run for president,
To lead or represent us,
But to throw us under the bus.

He ran not to preside over us,
But simply to ride over us.


little one
how would I know
of what a man is made
I’m sure I’ve met them
but I don’t know them
the men I really know
either throw their masculinity away
or let it beat their hearts broken
and how can I explain
that I’m not like you
but that we are entwined
your responsibility partially dictated
by what’s between your legs
not your choice or mine
but birthright is the starting line
and though your fate is your own
your mother tongue is gifted
as is your name
and those things do give you
your place to begin
I don’t know what men are made of
but I know I made you

A Tiny Trace of Her


“It all comes down to that.”

Four pounds of pulverized and fragmented pieces of bone.
Packed in a plastic bag labeled with the coroner’s information about the contents.

A plastic bag tied with a rubber band.

Several tiny delicate urns had been prepared, each about three inches high, each containing a small bag of grandma’s ashes. Keepsakes for me and my siblings, my cousins, my mother, and my uncles.

My brother saw those urns lined up on the beautiful antique tea cart in our mother’s living room. The tea cart that had once been grandma’s.

He said those words above, and turned his face away. His cheeks were wet with tears. My amazingly tough and strong brother wept at the sight of those tiny urns.

A larger box containing the remainder of grandma’s ashes will be scattered over family land in Colorado.

Mom showed them to me. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to look at them, but I did. I poked at the bag with my finger.

They didn’t feel like ashes at all. They were hard and granular, like sand flecked with with small bits of white bone.

“It all comes down to that.”

Grandma was the granddaughter of Norwegian immigrants from the west coast city of Bergen. She once journeyed there, along with my mother and cousin, to trace her family roots. She found her grandfather’s name in a church registry.

One day I will go there, to scatter my portion of her ashes. A tiny trace of her, delivered back to her ancestral home.

For now, however, grandma is with me.