A fine site

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A Schlub women can’t resist


They leave their husbands for this dull French homme.

Not even a funny, paunchy balding guy, Incredable!

Those of us that are women or know women, Certainment

this pencil pusher would have to be nice to be someone’s fantasy.

The screen writer making these sisters falling for his really bad lines.

More than the mirror, never sells. Stay home and do Rosetta Stone.

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Don’t think us morose, but the poet wrote that day

on gazing at a leaf swirling in the river,  distracted

from his suicide attempt, precisely how I ended up in

a limestone amphitheater in my Einstein T shirt

with unwashed hair, self conscious of my footwear

Saving the $40 to tell a therapist that all is not well

in thoughts that swing from joy of giving that child

an unexpected basket to how quiet death must be

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Poetry Makes Me Hungry


So early, I drive in the dark and finely notice an eclipse!

My full moon, without my permission, was it less a power?

These people did not appeal to me until I heard them recite

I sat in the car with a stranger and told him I needed to practice

and I read Ed’s poem with all the Fucks that I had not previewed

How funny that I love the poems of so many, strangers no more

Pickled okra, tiny fermented onions and balls of mozzarella

then one final reenactment with sign language and in Navajo

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Ode to Those Taken for Granted


Those days when my bikini bottom slipped too far south

the white men’s undershirt scandalously showed areola

Now a cupful of the ordinary everyday, don’t look up, tea

dandelions carpet the brand new lawns, with their maturity

Less fawned over, than the lilacs and Easter lilies of spring

Seasoned women are not to be played with, we know too much