Trump’s Wife Packing Luggage
I dreamt I was Donald Trump’s wife. We were traveling.
He basically kept me in the dark about our itinerary.
I didn’t know where we were going or when we were going.
I had an enormous amount of luggage.
Many little pieces that needed to be fitted into larger pieces.
And of course every place we went, I had to unpack the little pieces,
lots of jewelry and cosmetics, little jars and bottles and boxes.
Epic Political Suicide Poem
Suicide plans on post-it notes
scattered on surfaces,
pieces of furniture, countertops
throughout the apartment.
Stashes of pills stockpiled,
knives sharpened, razor blades
bought in bulk, handles of
bargain brand vodka.
A cozy robe.
Should you force yourself
to wash the sheets? Change
your underwear? Does it matter?
Should you care? Could anyone
care less than you? Suicide
as backup plan when
you can’t think of anything
better to do.
Facebook is Making Me Depressed
Facebook is making me so depressed
I don't know if I can write this poem.
Born Angry
Some family stories get repeated over and over, become the stuff of legends. One such story is about when my mother was pregnant with me, and, from inside the womb, I was kicking so hard that I kicked the newspaper she was reading off her lap. Writing this now, I wonder if it was possible that the news was making me mad even then.
Angry is My Happy
I like being angry.
I like being pissed off.
The oppressor is not going
to trick me into being complaisant.
Postmenopausal Pretty Hate Machine
I don't care if you hate me.
I'm not one of those women
who needs constant approval,
to be a people pleaser
...that the act of taking photos of yourself is the height of vapid stupidity and unchecked vanity. I wanna see a picture someone else took of you looking like a fresh bag of shit. Then I can know who you are.