On Being Me

(Note: 13th postcard poem)

I am aware
that my black, bisexual, broken,
feminine, Christian, American,
left leaning activist body
marks me target in certain circles
to some people.

I could be quiet or lie,
but have discovered
either is slow suicide
from inside to out.

A Somewhat Odd Sabbath

(This poem, is PG-13)

As Tom Brokaw War World II documentary provides
most humbling of background, I smell chili
cooking in kitchen and discuss the whys and wherefores
of masturbation

Ponderings on Shakespeare

Note: This the 12th postcard poem

“He’s not on some shelf gathering dust. He is alive!”
So said actor Kevin Spacey to Mary Carillo
in one her last Olympic reports from London 2012.

Me thinks, one poetic workaholic
has a new ambition.

Unsettling

Note: This should have been posted on August 10th, but it was a bad day)

We needed the rain
and yesterday it fell
and I melted
as both my calcaneus
and my personal care assistant
grieve me.

Too tired to write poems.

A Day in My Life

I dealt with the same insurance issue,
for a fourth time.

I read and wrote work e-mails.
I counted blessing that in maximum 12 days,
and hopefully less, I’ll get new wheelchair
that actually works.

I made poet friends smile,
reading a slightly insider
poem at group.

I put money where
mouth was, donating
a heaping (for me) $50
to help fellow disabled women
move to safer housing.

I watched the Olympics,
aiming to get caught up
on all things/people/events disability
and London related to compile an article.
Finally, I am actually writing
about Thursday on a Thursday.

I hope this makes you smile.

An Untitled Occupy Poem

(dedicated to the members the
Occupy Wall Street Disability Caucus
who participated in the
Occupy Gracie Mansion Action today)

At 10:15 this evening,
a gimp sister’s Facebook feed
told me she got arrested for crashing
Mayor Bloomberg’s party to
honor the Americans with Disabilities Act
held 10 days late at Gracie Manson,
along with a woman I’ve called
mama since we met over 15 years ago.

I read
about citations,
court dates,
and arrestees’ wheelchairs
tried to metal poles
for reason I can’t fathom.

I smile.
Think, “Go you!”
Grateful for social networking
for letting me know
they are safe.

Retelling

Note: I forgot to post yesterday's poem

Bartender relates story
of man who asked upon first visit,
“Can you tell me the ratio
of sluts to men here?”

The man, pouring alcohol,
stops… stares… replies,
“I don’t tend to call women sluts.”

Customer- aghast- inquires,
“What are you,
a feminist, or something?”

At nod, he departs.
Force of thunderstorms
quicken pace.

Bartender smiles