I wish my kids/
could write/
and speak/
about shit,/
and their bodies,/
drop the F-bomb/
into a mic;/
pour their hearts out/
like water on the fire/
of their pain,/
the way you,
brave young souls,
do,
shaking at the mic,
shaking your torments out,
so we,
your friends,
can hear,
digest,
honor,
and crush
your Angst
under our wandering feet.
I wish my kids
could write and
speak and
vent
about shit,
so they wouldn’t feel
like crap.
My mother started/
to shrink at Stonehenge, but then/
moved to Wisconsin.
Lips which kiss in love/
tender, not passionate lust,/
are yet innocent.
Kind words falling from/
pure and innocent lips must/
just bring happiness.
Why do we put/
restrictions on the Muses?/
We should open up.
Or
always let them in
OR
Why handcuff Muses?/
Let’s always invite them in,/
where and whenever!
In honor of my/
child and her mom, I let the/
Harlem Shuffle play.
OR
In honor of my/
daughter, I didn’t turn off/
the Harlem Shuffle.
We ought to be strong/
hosts of our happiness, not
servants to our fears.*
Taken from a poem read by a young woman at Speak For Yourself open mic night, Enliten Cafe’, Provo, Utah
Every photographer/
should have/
a photograph/
of themselves/
photographing/
photographers/
with/
their photographs.
They minister to/
us, because we minister/
to them: A fair trade.
When the temple’s closed/
for cleaning, the feeling’s not/
the same. They aren’t there.