Never Smooch A Brooch



Nancy Cunard
Nancy Cunard

Always walk arm and arm

With a purse. They’re insecure

And get addicted to junk

Don’t listen to babbling bracelets

They get caught up in the apparel

Never hang out with a trashy trinket

Necklaces will fool you

With spoiled-ass sweet talk

Keep them behind buttons

Or they’ll wink at any old dog tag

Don’t let a ring control things

Anklets can be footloose

Make sure they wear bells while jingling

Earrings think they’re trapeze artists

Dangling high, unless their studs

Then one’s fine, two’s ok

Three or more is an orgy

Toe rings stink

Don’t give into those

Snotty little nose rings

Divulge nothing to pinky rings

They’re not mature enough

For indiscriminate indexing

Can you believe the gall of the tiara?

Never let a choker get its hands on you

Bangles are for bums and beehives

Rosaries want to wait until they’re married

Then all hell breaks loose

Never smooch a brooch

Heavy Woman In Costume







Found on
Found on







Beanies Are Babyish



Hairnets keep things in place

Caps are con artists

Indecisive little shits, who

Don’t want to be pinned down

Derbies are dumbfounded

Stovepipes are bearded with warts

Stocking caps muffle their words

Then get lost in the snow

Unless they have a tassel

Then they cause a hassle

Hair ties hate scalps

Fedoras sing like Sinatra

Drink like Dean, Dance like Sammy

Trucker’s caps have stinky-ass breath

And wake up with hangovers

Bonnets are prudes

Berets fake French

And are prone to Be-Bopping

Nightcaps, really, is anyone that perverted?

Turbans turn the facts around

Pork pies are chubsters

Veils don’t know how to do their makeup

Fezzes hide their bald spots

Helmets beat things up

Then claim self-defense

Are into a cult called Game Time

Where priests dish out penalties

Panamas reek like cigars

Stetsons talk very slowly

Like they mean something

But it’s all just sweaty nothings

Visors are all the wiser

Unless it’s raining

Then they dumb down

Beanies are babyish




Distant Trees Know No Names



The look feels the distance, travelling

Upon waves of heat, blurring perception

Future weeks are lost in the haze

I am the lost street, blocks scrape my skin

And cannot be disconnected, unplugged


I am only electricity, a time excuse

For the ways and means of my light

Watts and bulbs burn, emotion cauterized

A tangy burnt metal, my night’s tongue

Distance buried somewhere in the Wild


I am a head full of wilderness, burning

Firebreak drawn in the dirt, to distance

Flames from jumping, tree to tree

Body spits, sizzles and cracks blood

Paints my face a fallen gravel dance


The gutters sweep me into the drain

One slippery finger on the grates

I am the one who sees you pass by me

Your anger trailing behind you

Mine always, always forced into distance


You grab the coniferous branches

They regularly snap back in place

April makes no difference. Deciduous

Always the cruelest month for words

I am the distance of winter, city birthed


Distant trees know no names



Earthen Heart



Sacrifices are in plentitude, fruits are abundant, mist will always hang on highest of ranges. But, to promise another your heart indefinitely takes an acceptance of the ground, feet steady, smart eyes, and a heart like earth.


Flannel Likes Your Grandma



Comforters are insecure

Blankets hide in between secrets

Muffling the truth of the matter

Pillows make lewd suggestions

To any side of the head

That happens to take an interest

Sheets are cold at first

Until they warm up to you

King, Queen, Full, and Twin

Are an incestuous family

Linen loses it around bedtime

Bedspreads are nice at night

A ruckus in the morning

Throws miss the spot

Quilts always get confused

About life’s bits and pieces

Coverlets and Duvets argue

Endlessly about standing alone

Memory Foam never forgets

a shapely ass and a good boob job

Thread Counts weave tall tales

Down begins all fluffy and nice

Then becomes one big prick

Flannel likes your grandma










Sacred Clothing



Suspenders are oblivious

To their importance

They hold shit up

Panties can only be pink once

Bras are too self-involved

Gloves never lay a hand on anything

Belts are for the buttless

Tightening up when uncomfortable

Loosening up after a few drinks

Jock Straps think too much

About Athletic Support

Jeans are multitaskers

With concentration problems

Especially if they’re hugging hips

T-Shirts only want to play

When it’s time for bed

Unless they’re a Pocket Tee

Then they have an identity crisis

Nylons can get along with anyone

Until their toes get stiff

Or their conversation skills sag

Zip ups are perverted ass pinchers

Buttons get too attached

Scarves are spiritual masters

Of Body and Soul, Yin and Yang

Unless they are 100% wool

Jackets are pretenders

to the throne of Coats

Turtlenecks are creepy

Pajamas play hooky

Drink Spanish Coffee

Lay around watching soaps

Ponchos live precariously

If they are fringed

They might be seen at night

But quickly disappear in the day

A blouse is a blouse is a blouse


The Floor Is So Cold Tonight



The floor is so cold tonight

The dust scurries, moves, hides

My palm takes the pulse of linoleum

Wax, dirt, desire, finish,  surface,  sealer

Remnants of shine, all but a bug skeleton speck

We were the warmth, the life, struggle, the stumble

Laying here, cold floor moved into heat, a ghost sheen

I turn my palm upwards, as if to control something gone

Wasn’t the air the heaviest that night? It pressed us down

What we left is now unlocked—floorless space, — abandoned


The floor is so cold tonight

As if it has misplaced the words

My spine. I cannot lay flat upon you

Your plastic skin has been manufactured

Pain was not real, that night, or any other night

Only the imprints of our bodies, evaporating quickly

Lost all signs, signifiers, meaning and meat, bone and skin

We are a candy wrapper skinned sweet, scent of survival absurd

We could not stay here, it isn’t ours, it belongs to the larger rooms

Tile that mingles, inner juices hold the universe at bay, floor is spinning


The floor is so cold tonight

My feet are getting dirtier, dirtier

We cleaned together, clung, to our heavyness

I am a crumpled paper, phone number named me

Our bodies—gravity, whirled—beneath the skin, floor

Sunk, muscle—pushed up, propping my arm upon you

We came here for the moments, motions, our starving plans

Pieces of tile, adhered, adorned, measured, while yet becoming

Worlds are found in rooms, they are claws scratching the flooring

We remember the feeling of the room, the air, our bodies, the cool, cool, cool, cool






The Rope (Portrait #3)



The snow is blamed, it always is, as mad as you get at it, as mad as it makes me. But, I know, like you do, now, it’s always the rope. The others don’t realize the rope’s properties, as a living thing. They aren’t mad, just frightened. They see me smile and relax. Fear rises then slips from them as I let go of you. Your weight is the weight of all of them, tethered together. Their trust is a grasp and mistakes made within a clasp.

I worry about you. We came this far. I have control and why not? I can’t hold on, or, should I say, I won’t. I mean, These rocks are our lives now, cold, rough. Can’t you see our lives through the others? As if their skeletons were glass and their skin invisible. If you could, you would see my reasoning. I have so much warmth for you, that’s why I let go. Surely, you understand. I tried to tell you before, when I said, “In the middle, I straddle both sides, I’m unsure of the footing.” It’s an attempt at balance. Slipping, You wouldn’t let me, I’m slipping, why would you let me? Let go. 

They teach you the ways of balance and trust, even as you fall. Belief steers people higher upon the mountains, digging caves, stashing bones, earning interest. You, like them, become dependent upon the grasp. Even in these last seconds, I would come with you, down to the foothills Play with you in the rain, rub softness into your heart, wander in a world without holding onto to it tightly, let the water run through our hands, swallow life in one motion, not to nibble it down into to pieces until bones are exposed. My hand burns as the rope slips, what did you expect? I cut the cord. I have to.

It makes me. It speaks to me. The rope is sound, a happy voice, playing games. Your voice, so weak now. I hear two voices. I get confused. Is it them? They can’t fool me. It’s the rope. It will always be the rope, my friend. They are only echoes. I’ve been here so many times and heard. Different kinds of voices, clashing rhythms, tightened microtones, struggling with the climb. I’m sorry. You don’t believe me. Yes, you are right. I can teach them about the snow How tracks get caught in them. How tracks disappear when lingering, clouds scraping precipitation, higher upon perception. But, The rope must speak in its own tongue. I can’t ask you. I can only understand you.




Casuals Don’t Fool Anyone



Slippers are for cowards

Slip-ons are for Christmas

Morning hung-over dads

Sandals are for white people

forced into dreadlocks

on their way to burn a man

Dancing out of their money

eating spiced tempeh fries

disguised as Jesus peyote

offered by the naturopath

Indian guru of gluttony

Socks are for holy days

Pray upon the sacred hamper

Perform the rites of Wash Day

Resurrection is in the dryer

Boots are for the blues

Galoshes are for the lonely

Pumps are puking in the

Ladies’ room with panties

named Pink, lost in the midst

of the jumble of mesh

Sneakers run unaware everywhere

Dress shoes are in the closet

Clogs are fakin’ the feet

Into performing lurid acts of

Knee highs, leather, and straps

High Tops are for hook ups

High Heels are for the cranky

Swollen members of the crowd

Floating on twisted ankles

Casuals don’t fool anyone


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