2011 Words AIDS Day Poem

December 1st...
I mourn millions,
celebrate survivorship.

Today

(inspired by Feed, a Newsflesh trilogy book, authored by Mira Grant)

Today
I listen
to this book
wonder what it’d be
like to lose everyone you
love and didn’t want to bury.

Thankful for

(a Thanksgiving poem)

My friends,
my family,
my colleagues in the struggle
to free our people.
The people, everywhere, who are Occupying.

The knowledge that the arc
of the moral universe is long,
but it bends toward justice,
according to Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

The fact that I have been around
to witness so much of it,
when I was supposed to die
a bunch of times,
but I guess I inherited
my mom’s stubbornness,
Because I'm still here.

Poem in 60 Seconds

(Actually true today, but I kept my word to the Center for new Americans)

A minute
to write
short poem,
keeping word.

Marching...

We marched by multitude
of Wall Street Banks
Some got arrested
for occupying the inside
of ATM
large burly white men,
not a brown face
among them and I looked-
hard.

Funny that,
because this was the
most faces like mine
I’ve ever marched with
in hundreds of marches
during the previous two decades.

Post TDOR

(in honor of Transgender Day of Remembrance)

How could
I not realize
that 221 trans people
were murdered in 2011?

How could
any sheriff think
that a murder involving a shot
to the head and possibly being
dragged behind a vehicle via rope or chain
is not a hate crime, even in Arkansas?

How can
we dare to think
that marching with candles
and songs
will ever be enough?

Nov.18th Poem

Note: Scott Lively is an American author, attorney and ex-gay activist. Lively is the president of Abiding Truth Ministries, a conservative Christian organization located in Springfield, MA.[1] Abiding Truth Ministries is classified as a hate group by the Southern Poverty Law Center.

Some white, male counter protester
when I gone to join friends opposing bigotry,
homophobia, and other bad things,
dared ask, “What are you doing here with these people?”

As if someone in a wheelchair
couldn’t possibly think for herself,
have opinions,
have sex
possibly- oh, my gosh-with someone who also had a vagina or
double oh, my gosh- was also in a wheelchair
or- triple oh, my gosh- both.

What I should’ve said is,
”Because Mr. Lively is misrepresenting Jesus,
and I object.”, “Because these are my people,
not these people.”, or simply, “Fuck you!”

What I did instead,
was say, “I bisexual.”
and watch him take
three steps back.”

It was most satisfying.

Another Occupy Poem

Hacker housemate
tells me about violence
at UC Berkeley Occupy.

I rush to Facebook,
check on friends…
feel reassured…

Can breathe!

Weird, Little Poem

Observation
beam… noise…
Toys… royal… turquoise…
violet screaming…
occupy… brag

Today in Literature

(for Katrina Douveas)

I opened a check for six quarters
from a fellow spoken word diva
with a disability, who manages
to spare some change for new Americans.

I wrote a poem,
read a book,
and finally add over 500 words
to my Nanowrimo novel.

It is a good day.

One Poet’s Lament

The muse has flown the coop;
departing along with my air
and last week's restful night’s sleep.

The Day of Laze

One a day of fire though my airway,
I have written 47 more words
of my novel, zero articles
(even though I have two that are vital to complete)
and finished this poem to support the literacy programming
I respect.

Hopefully,
tomorrow will bring easier breathing
and a re-energized wordsmith.

Just when (again)

One no show, new assistant
an ex- friend who is apparently to busy binging
on alcohol to care about
his future stepchild’s well being,
and being found in my PJ’s by the “I’ve fallen
and I can’t get up” necklace repair woman
who a headache caused me to forget
was arriving this morning.

I recover my day-
I get another copy of last year’s taxes
in under 30 minutes from the IRS,
learn a new bus route,
eat pizza with fellow transit revolutionaries,
and print out stuff to take protesting tomorrow
only to discover I’ve somehow lost
my barely used roll of scotch tape.

Today

Useless day
of illness and naps, mocks task
completion.

Power outage

(a Center for New Americans poem)
Pencil gliding across paper,
graphite over smooth, new notebook
is more elegant than the quiet clatter
of laptop keys.
I realize,

as I imitate Susan B. Anthony
crafting word that will beguile
the revolution’s enemies
by candlelight.

Quick Thoughts

So busy with power outages and catching up on work;
opting to honor Oakland’s general strike even though.

I decide that poetry and fiction for once
won’t count as work ,
more like sanity producing,
especially since it’s for charity.

I talk to Sarah, am relieved at her good spirits,
Can't help but onder how Anita steered
so many young, girl gimps into adulthood
without seeming to sweat,
even slightly.

Invocation

Note: This is the first Occupy poem I felt good enough to share. More are coming. Enjoy!

This marginalized American body
is a descendent of multiple rebellions.

I invoke
colonists throwing chests
of tea overboard on a cold Boston
night in November.

I invoke
women who realized that the baring
the next generation of Americans
should give them double say
in the country’s future, not none,
and went to jail for the basic right
to cast a ballot.

I invoke
the year long bus boycott in Montgomery
after they arrested Rosa Parks
for deciding she simply wasn’t
going to surrender
her seat another time
to another white man.

I invoke
the spirit of NYC drag queens and queers
who saw cops once more
invading the only safe space they had,
a little bar on Christopher Street
on the last Saturday in June
in the summer of ‘69
as the final straw
and opted to rebel rather than surrender.

I invoke
a too little known occupation
in San Francisco in 1977
in which people with disabilities,
some of whom risked their very lives by participating,
occupied an Secretary of Health, Education, and Welfare’s
in San Francisco for 26 days, the longest siege of a federal office
in the nation’s history, which resulted in the signing of Section 504,
a law I still depend on daily.

I am occupying
so when future generations
need someone to invoke
they will have Occupy Wall Street,
Occupy Springfield, and Occupy Together
to remember.

NJ Pride Parade Poem

An acrostic poem in honor of
the first NJ Disability Pride Parade
and Celebration


Newly blooming offshoot of
Efforts first planted in Chicago then on the
West coast.

Joyous proclaiming that we demand right to
Embrace our bodies. However they’re designed.
Regardless of
Someone
Else’s opinion as to our being’s correctness. We
Yearn to turn this

Deepest wish
Into
Something we experience
As daily reality,
But we know there
Is much to accomplish before
Living that dream
Is possible. We must struggle
Together, remembering the pitfalls of
Yesterday’s lost battle as we

Prepare to
Reengage in endless, small wars to achieve the
In and inter
Dependence we so desire. Believing
Each moment in the power

& strength of our

Collective, self-determined, wisdom above all
Else. Directing whatever resources can be spared to
Liberate both ourselves and
Everyone else from
Bondage we never chose. We
Realize this fight will be long
And may last generations, but for
Today, let us say/sign/whatever
Into the heavens that we are here as
One community and we are
Never turning back.

Lost & found & found

Yesterday, I lost my postcard poem.
30th in the 2011 series. Damn well know
I saved it. Such actions are automatic
after years working with words, even if
you're running out the door.

But somewhere,
between keystroke and hard drive
command was lost or garbled.

Horror discovered later
when seeking to post poem
on twitter and Facebook
to earn a few measly cents
for day's poetic effort.

Search proves useless
as far as incommunicado poem goes,
but thankfully finds some lost fiction.

Poem later located
in car of assistant I'm for once
glad was lazy in timely mailing.

Running Ragged

(a postcard poem)

I do the money dance,
rob Peter to pay Paul.
Pay employees with money
meant to purchase a computer case.
Because I don't to shop much about Wal-Mart
for ethical reasons
anyway.

Buy myself a little more time.

Take the bus instead of the van.
Save $2.40 and pray four working lifts
and made connections.

Call in an old loan
to acquire $7 round-trip
fee to doctor's and back.

Hurricane Haiku

(a postcard poem)

Green leaves cling
to trees, withstanding for now
Irene.

Irene

Note: This poem was to be written yesterday but it wasn't.

(a postcard poem)
Rain, wind, and weather
makes 24 month old injury ache.
I sleep much, forget daily postcard poem.

I do my homework,
read a book,
binge on honey nut Chex Mix.

I tell myself
I will indulge
in caffeine and chocolate,

melted center cookies
as I wait for Irene to kill my power
as she’s done to 90,000 others.

In Praise of Technology

This poet's brain
was cursed by
forever neurologically slowed
typing fingers. Digits never meant to
keep pace with quicker than average mind.

I dealt.
I hired other people
to supply surrogate, fast fingers.

First for $7.50, followed by $9.50, followed by $10.12,
and, lastly, the somewhat princely sum of $12.48.
The state brought me scribes
with the same pile of money
that it paid people to clean my bottom,
only it wasn't always aware of the transactions.

I did what I must
to be myself, follow my muse,
obey my own soul's song.
And I don't regret that choice
for even a moment.

One must seek freedom
however one can, with whatever one can.

On Friday
via UPS for just under $50,
came a miracle to my house.

Program frees me
the type at 2 AM
if the muse finds it amusing.

It learns my voice,
twisted though my words sound to most,
and saves my fingers,
which I had feared soon destined
for the surgeon's knife.

So pardon the poet
if she is momentarily giddy
at latest incarnation of strange –
often denied – word, "freedom."

Waiting

(a postcard poem)

Yesterday, I opted to forgo
free weights class
because the weatherman
said anyone going out
risked getting hit on the head by hail balls
I wasn’t going to take chances my precious gray matter.

Of course, all we got was gray gloom
not so much as a droplet of precipitation.

I send my assistant on a mini-food run.
She gets frozen broccoli with cheese,
popcorn, elbows, and more juice.
I’m ready for this much overhyped storm.

I smile at friend’s friend Facebook comment,
“Irene is facing down
three cities full of the meanest people
this side of the Mason Dixon.
Bitch has been warned.”

Working the Weekend

I’m undertaking a full scale effort
to make up a month’s lost productivity
in 72 hours-

a speech recognition program to train
to comprehend my God instilled gimp accent,
three articles to finish,
almost a dozen reviews to begin,
4 videos on magic to watch
so the magician/prince in my novel
doesn’t seem quite so foolish.

Then it’s time to revisit the outline
for the story that’s been percolating
in my head since Christmas which I must
dictate to poet friend in 72 hours over Labor Day weekend
in order to possibly win publication
and enough fame to make my mother stop
inquiring what, exactly, I think
I’m doing with my life.

Any spare moments
already devoted to preparing two
separate submission packets
due on the same day
as well as trying to make payout
on an internet Q&A site by Wednesday
so I get paid next month,
even though the odds of making over $8
in 4 days means answering or posting
about 800 questions and my schedule
just doesn’t allow.

Plus, because this emo poem
got to long for a postcard
I now have one more task to pile
atop my pile.

I Worry

(a postcard poem)

About childhood friend
who seems to be falling apart
by inches.

That Climate change is evidenced
by earthquakes, hurricanes, and other
weird for New England weather this week.

That Dragon NaturallySpeaking won’t come tomorrow
or work with my personal CP accented voice
when it arrives to free me to do all my scheduled work.

This Morning's Questions in Trio?

(a postcard poem)

How could my alarm go off at 9AM-
as scheduled- I hit snooze just once
for 10 minutes more sleep time-
but awoke to Charter guy pounding my door
at 10:14?

Am I the only
person who finds it creepy
that the 4 new history books
that came into my library this week
revolve around 9/11?

Why does a memoir on coaching intrigue me,
when all I want to do is teach writing
and breed organizers?

Shaking (somewhat)

(a postcard poem)

Today,
there was an earthquake
in New England that I slept
through and discovered later
only by reading friends’ Facebook statuses.

Rush, Rush!

(a postcard poem)

Faxes sent and received…
paid by PayPal…
Retirement card brought,
all it needs is a note…

Lost a reading contest to take a pretty girl,
who always pays for our outings,
to a fancy restaurant, but don’t mind so
much because the guy who won
wanted to take his wife out for their 27th anniversary,
but couldn’t afford it because the live on a fixed income.
I’m a bit of a romantic, you see.

Homework’s done,
writing group assignment’s all read,
comments aligned in mind to spout
when time comes.
Even poetry postcard is ready early.

I give myself a moment to breathe.

Falsehood

(a postcard poem)

I find lost manuscript
and breathe deep, thankful breaths.
I finish watching The Laramie Project, twice through,
and find I like my televised horror
better against the bright day
than before I go to sleep at night.

That's an important life note.

Fact acquired from viewing
means memory real as my hands
could not have happened.
And the manuscript
which never seems to be done
takes another step backward.

Reawakening...

After watching part of The Laramie Project
on my DVD player, I feel again the fear I thought I’d banished
to the primordial part of brain back when I was 22 and
finally getting over the event.

I’m too shaken to leave the house,
mail the postcard. I see villainy
anywhere. I want my happy,
post-cancelled picket line
self of 120 minutes ago
back.

I'm on Strike, too

(dedicated to Lowell McAdam, Verizon CEO)

Holidays that honor martyred bodies
are not bargaining chips whether the body
be Dr. King’s or some wet behind the ears
18-year-old fresh out of boot and blown to bits
in Iraq, Afghanistan, wherever we’re making war this week.

And when some Verizon big shot
thought he could get away
with turning someone’s deceased
son/daughter, mother/father, sister/brother
into a tool for negotiation

Your fellow Americans spoke back
in one and many voices
“We will simply not pay; We swear won’t see a cent.”

We will picket your stores.
Tell others not to enter.
We won’t buy your upgrades.
We’ll find new providers.
You’re stock will fall.

And if you really want our money,
you’re going to have to come and jail us all
from 91 year old World War I vet to the single mom
to me, complete with electric wheelchair that only moves when I tell it to
or when several uniformed officers attempt to move it’s500 pound, plus me, mass
with the gears still engaged.

But you’ve come to your senses-
rescinded offensive demands-
and the union’ called off this picket line
having more faith than I do that you’ll keep your word
to bargain in good faith.

But don’t think we won’t be watching
and won’t be back next time.

Rhymes of Solicitude

Disembodied voice reads me Brave New World.
It sounds like Kyle, or Darvit, or Jenny- the computer voices
reminding me of long lost friends.

After the near disaster
of mailing books to Texas
so they can be at The Abilities Expo
I can’t afford to attend.

I feel like a parent sending a child off to college,
unsure what will happen.

I also realize
that I- again- will
not finish the Summer Reading challenge,
another failure.

This Day…

(a postcard poem)

I walked the picket line with a dozen or so
striking Verizon workers, community members, and grad students
today doing “5 times a year” service to others in struggle.

I lifted free weights
and did 120 minutes with the hand fashioned theraband,
too much in retrospect.

I organized my Texas shipment,
and at suggestion included a portrait.

Joy in the Simple

(a postcard poem)

Talking.
Dancing.
Sitting in sun.
Reading a good book.

Remembering that you’ve got good
got your back friends.
Writing a poem in rainbow
just because you felt like it!

Forgotten

(a postcard poem)

This poem slipped
from mind after too
long day, but I recall
duty with mere 18 daily minutes
remaining.

My solitary typing finger
hurries through rough draft words
to make deadline.

I breathe
after finalizing ending couplet.

The Poet's Lament

(postcard poem 8/15)

I’ve kept my rainbow
scraps, awaiting verses,
but I’m too sick to
compose
a pretty poetry postcard today.

I tell myself
it’ll keep.

To Meet the Ghost You Want

(a postcard poem)
inspired by Jennifer Finney Boylan

I long for you as I write the poems,
send them to unknown poets.

I long for voices, familiar and singing
unheard in days, months, years, decades
in some cases.

But I must keep on keeping on
with or without them.

Bending the Arc of the Universe

(a postcard poem)

Assistant reconnects dying desktop
so I can migrate data. I make $43.
Break even, marking a better day than most.
Listen to memoir of trans
woman's childhood, adolescence, adulthood-
self finding era by era .Dare to
wonder if I will ever be that brave in telling
my own story.

Tomorrow, I have a fund raising e-mail to write,
and a Verizon to picket as part of partnership
with Jobs with Justice.
I take my “I'll be there five times a year”
in service to justice very seriously;
After all, I've called on that network
more than a few times myself.

My plans are a chagrin to my layabout assistant
who wants to nothing more than lay about on a Sunday morning.
But she knows that giving up a chance
to give corporate big wigs what for
is never on going to be on my agenda
and opts not to argue the point.

A Trio of Couplets Inspired by Brave New World

(a postcard poem)

Twin embryos gently rocking,
inarticulate articulation.
We stamp,
beat our dozen into one.
Her eyebrow mocks.
Odd, odd, odd was her verdict.

In Praise Of

(a poem for the Northeast Organic Farming Association)

All People who know
that livestock aren’t units,
that everyone deserves real food
whatever their income level,
that the revolutionary and the farmer
are more kindred spirits than enemies.

On this annual weekend,
let us rejoice, bond, network
to the consternation of those
who would rather us do anything but.

Thoughts

(a postcard poem)

Colorful scraps of paper
beckon me to compose poetry
on them, but I know I can
not write clearly enough
to do that. Handwriting
isn’t my strong suit,
due my neurological impairment,
but one can dream!
Perhaps my assistants can
help me achieve this odd, sudden
goal…

Offended

(a postcard poem)

I’m used to people
who dare assume I can’t
order food from a restaurant
without help to read the menu
or I spread each day staring
at daytime TV and drooling.

But when a fellow writer
implied that I was lying
about hurting my back while dancing
I was driven almost too angry tears,
because the implication was that,
of course, disabled people don’t exercise
or move for anything other than function.

I opt to poor my anger
out into a poetry postcard poem
instead of confronting the rude writer.

Insominia

(postcard poem)

I never sleep 8 hours unless I’m ill;
wish I could but this spastic, medicated body
always needs to pee, to be repositioned...
The million miles per hour poet’s brain sometimes
rebukes descent into dream land, preferring to stay up crafting verses.

Six is my average, 4 my doable, anything less
and I’m a mountain lion (just ask my assistants).
Yesterday, I pulled barely three.

I pee twice, reposition once
play video games on my new phone.
Finally finish my challenge book,
although it doesn’t, as I hoped,
send me back to sleep.

At 8:07,
when morning assistant arrives
I opt to get out of bed…
hoping to return to it
until at least 10pm
and finally sleep.

Today...

(a postcard poem)

computer consult…
call to mom…
poetry lesson…
writing group- aborted
because of various of computer
and etiquette concerns…
new phone…
and now a poem on a postcard!

Itch Cream

(a postcard poem)

After itching for four days,
non-stop, I finally decide
that my misery merits a call
to the doctor on call line.

He orders me
a new, prescription strength cream.
The one I have is 8 years old, after all.

After applying,
I breathe a well-deserved
sigh of relief
and plan my grocery shopping trip.

Strolling

(a postcard poem)

A library walk
in the early afternoon
leads me past a man (I assume)
lying on the stone wall,
the warm sun catches him
full on the body
in a position I can never attain,
bicycle at his side.


When I roll back,
I find him crying-
and here I suspect
I misgendered him-
shirt off.

I wonder
what’s going on.

Civil Disobedience

(a postcard poem)

Today’s trip to the post office
is joyless. I must
send our lawyer
copies of documents the government
somehow doesn’t have.

All I did
was stand up
for friends, for self,
even though I only stand up
to pee approximately 6-8
times per day.

And I know,
without even asking,
I will do it again, again, again
until something, permanent, changes.

But at least, at the same time,
I can mail this postcard.

Eating

(a postcard poem)

I need to get to farmer’s market soon
or my vow to eat
t only ethically raised and slaughtered
livestock shall yield to my inner carnivore’s
desires for flesh now.

Today, if anyone on the town green sells meat
or Saturday in Amherst (where I might go
to see her anyway if we can get it all ironed out),
or as a last resort, Tuesday before dance
at the gym.

Soon,
I’ll consume a pair of boiled eggs
and the last of my edamame salad,
because it’s time to consume and I don’t
want anything to spoil. Such waste
disrespects the starving.

Doctors and Dancing

(a postcard poem)

Woman on a quest to:
find people.
complete things,
catch up
after lazy/ill/ do nothing much
day that yesterday became.

Today,
I also ache for rest,
but take none,
accept for occasional,
stolen cat nap in van,
as I scurry
from appointment to appointment.

Sick Day

(a postcard poem)

I had a quiet day,
reading under the big tree.

I paid my the library fines
and
got back into literary good graces.

I play with spacing. I like this piece;
I think it’s going somewhere,
even though that where’s
unbeknowst to me.

First of the Month

(a postcard poem)

A trio of bills-
payments to Verizon,
the three day Novel Contest,
and one more payment
toward a too long held debt.

We needed rain
and are getting it
in swift buckets.

I hope it stops,
so I can prowl Northampton
in search of postcards
and a new phone.

Searching

Postcard Poetry 2011 #1

I opt after 15 minutes roll
down street with no sidewalk,
in, according to my therapist,
a town with no able-bodied pedestrians,
not kill myself in search for the perfect
postcard, to start off my 2011
postcard card poetry journey
after the a search of the antique store
next to her office proves fruitless,
as I seek to kill some
too early for appointment time

Thoughts on Food

(a rough draft)

I'm a grew up on meat and potatoes
kind on girl,
omnivore to core.

I dated a vegan once
and discovered all sorts
of new foods
and new ways to prepare old favorites
so we could share a supper.

After watching Food, Inc. a few times
I realize there might be more to vegetarianism
then meets the eye.

That what's on my dinner plate
sports worker's rights violations,
the death or illness of children from Ecoli
in ground meat or-
I didn't know this was possible-
eating leafy greens.

That eating factory farmed meat
is morally wrong as steward of the Earth
as well as helping to create hyproxias 1
on the only planet we almost 7 billion humans
share with the rest of the species herein contained.

Why, I wonder, do we live in a country
where burgers cost less than carrots?

Why do, we, as voters, allow the powers that be
to render the USDA,
the very people who are supposed to make sure our food is safe,
toothless?

Why aren't we demanding that all fast food
be made with free range livestock
Chipotle does it;
why can't everyone else?

Instead, we allow subsidies
to scue our food systems
towards the bad calories,
making it even harder for poor people
to decide to eat well.

It's not just a matter of self control
or family discipline.

It's matter of access to grocery stores,
farmer's markets that don't take food stamps.
It's a matter of the Dollar Menu.
It's a matter of knowledge.

It's a matter of privilege
and power.

The Eugenicist

(April poem a day, assignment 4)

According to Wikipedia
Someone who believes in
“the applied science or the biosocial movement
which advocates the use of practices
aimed at improving the genetic composition”
of human populations.

Noble goal until
I look at my brown, queer, gimped body
and realize they were/are
often discussing my genetic fitness
and ask them who are they to judge
this life, this flesh
they don’t inhabit.

Strange thing
is you can't always spot them.
They hide.
Afraid of the sun
like too many rodents.

The Eliminated

(for Tucker's writing assignment on World II)

Doctors, nurses, and midwives
told parents of schools, of treatment centers.
Later, in letters home,
sudden, child deaths attributed to pneumonia.
All the while they carved into tiny, blameless bodies;
stealing pieces of the murdered very minds
for future medical research.

When some parents,
grown wiser at news
of another facility “pneumonia” death,
refused consent, threats abounded…
Removal of all children, even the able-bodied,
or sentencing to “labor duty” which in the Fuehrer’s era
meant a slow, starved death.

By 1941,
over 5,000 children were executed
according to Wikipedia.
Numerous other sources list death tolls
as impossible to estimate.

Pluses and minuses

Author's Note: This is the first poem from Robert Lee Brewer's April Poem a Day Challenge that I thought worthy of posting. Assignment "What would the world be like without you.

(with gratitude to deceased poet Laura Hershey)

Two more dead 18-year-olds, a decade ago...
newspapers would’ve discovered them
blue and frostbitten one morning
from sleeping in a stairwell at UMass
and make some callous comment about
New England winters are unkind
to the lodging less.
Now one’s a dad.
The other still a work in progress.

One less ADAPT freedom fighter
willing to place body and budget
in cross hairs to secure an end to
institutional bias.

One less person who dared today
to -as deceased mentor put it
in poem that decorates workspace-
“ show something you’ve made
to someone you respect
and be happy with it no matter
what they say."

One less queer, brown, gimp, chick poet
who adores obliterating bigotry
and sharing self story across multiple generations.

An Ode to Ms. Wheelchair

An Ode to Ms. Wheelchair

Sister women, married or not, gather to prove
that no one can our forward progress remove
despite somes mistaken goal
to return us to a subservient role,
but these cannot stop our collective move.

We are as women beautiful
and as advocates dutiful.
We seek to influence the life
of every wheelchair using girl.
We’ll teach them you can be more than wife
and that there’s more to life than polish and twirl.

Across the nation we congregate
the standard myth of beauty queens to disprove.
Strong, wise, souls of consecrate;
we are women finding groove!

We teach others to have a complete
life on wheels instead of feet!

Second attempt

I tried to write a poem with Dragon,
but hellfire and brimstone. Poof! It went.
I guess magical program's
not so magical after all.
Now poem’s wondering around
somewhere in cyberspace nearly completed
and slightly lost;
unreachable by author.

I force myself
to remember
that my computer is only
" a stupid machine
with the ability to
do incredibly smart things",
according to Bill Bryson,
new favorite author
whose name it learned last night.

Despite failures of training-
and there have been a few-
part of me still hopes
to spare the wrists
and spoil myself;
sees new tool
as way to write independently
and still drive my wheelchair
and feed myself
and 80.

Matthew and Laura

Matthew and Laura
(for Matthew Shapard and Laura Hershey, RIP)

He died after 16 hours hung on a fence
in Wyoming in October
a little over 12 and a quarter years ago
According to Weather Database,
it was 30 degrees and clear,
warmer than average although still too cold
for my spastic body, as well as your newly injured one.

She died the day after Thanksgiving 2010
after an illness of brief we chatted on Facebook earlier that week
leaving behind a twenty year partner and a 14-year-old daughter.

He was 21.
She was 48.
He was going to be a civil rights lawyer.
She was a civil rights activist.
He is a martyr.
She is a poet.
I didn’t know him.
I knew her.

I miss both.

Gallery

I spy jelly fish morning glory in blue;
trio of artists who find beauty in the mundane.
I can now share the convert beauty
of pool toys and Big E eateries
because they saw it first and blended it
into this perfect yin and yang of pots and photographs
they have presented for our consumption.

Wonderlustful soul resolves
to remember the allure of the average henceforth.

Beauty in the Library

Beauty in the Library
I listen to a book
in the library
across from a woman
who I suspect, like me,
engages in the love
daring not to speak its name.

Her jacket
Says “Sundance ‘08”
and part of me wonders
if she, brunette waves shining
and she laughs on the phone
to someone, was actually there.

She doesn’t notice my staring
and departs.

Wayfaring

(a Matthew Shepard poem)

I must go see the fence;
even if it’s no longer the one
you hang from.

The old farmer cut that one down;
tired of visitors making pilgrimage
into his land to honor your martyrdom.

Perhaps this year,
or maybe the next,
I make my own journey
to this rebuilt memorial
laying my own offering.

Afterward

(a Matthew Shepard poem)

After I learned what happened
What they did
to your American boy frame-
blond, willowy, privileged-
when they smashed you
into something resembling Cinderella’s coach
meets trash compactor.

I immediately resolved two things:
never to visit the Northwest
and to stop telling people
I wished to engage the love
that dare not speak its name.

But as months pass,
I grow tired of defending
my right to exist and begin to unravel.

A Poem Provided by Facebook

(this is a poem created by my 2010 Status Collage)

Suddenly, I can’t imagine using 5,837 pages.
I sit next to 5,000 sheets of boxed up paper
and think, “God, we are a wasteful people!”

Got back from Pride, very tired, but well fed.
Wonders why straight boys are so often foul?
Going to chill with the special ed kids
who think I’m somehow the coolest person ever.

Altered my profile for World AIDS Day.
Pray let not one more child be born
with HIV after 2015.

I’ve felt like being lazy,
although I wasn’t.