The geography of everything is changing.
The network topology of skin cells across my face,
creasing and pressing against each other,
wincing while hearing another artists’ space
can’t afford to live in an artists’ neighborhood anymore.
Off the stage faster than you can say
twenty times fast.

Twist your tongue for me
while I sit here and wish
that I could just sit here and wish all day,
and watch the waves of traffic honk at each other.
But alas, I have stabilized rent to pay,
and now that your tongue is tied,
I wish I had never asked you to do that,
or I wish you had just said no.

I rock and roll myself to sleep each weekend,
and wake up to find another For Rent sign on my block,
and another apathetically received lie
from our thief-in-chief on the morning news.
As if it were okay, because our own office buildings
still stand in everywhere but lower Manhattan.
And though the paychecks are thinner,
there’s still a TV to watch
and the states of things to ignore
in this ever-changing geography topology of things.

Erupting tongue twisters turn my fire to water,
thick and slippery with the love I have for you.
That’s why they call it poetic license.


the rite aid


i need help up front
help up front please
help me up… front

i’ve had enough of the 9-to-5-mohawks
and the tip-top-tight trucker hats
that change colors faster
than the leaves around this time of year
faster than the tone in that
testosterone-infused performance
that would almost be poetry
if he’d just admit it

admit that you’re a man, man
cuz you meant what you said
stop spending more on your hair products
than you do on your words
and notice for once that the woman
behind me in line
is antsy
and frustrated
because she’s got a pregnancy test
clutched between her dog leash
and trembling terrified fingers

pay attention
just this once