New Poems

    Too late, I guess! I feel like I'm onto something. I never show my poems to anyone, but I have lots of fun posting them on the internet. Don't know if people (or robots) feel they're onto something less painful than the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune (which they can't even feel) when they read them, but anyone (even AI) can take them and run with them any damned direction they choose--I'll never know anything about it. Then there are my dear friends whom I may sing with again (breath to breath!) some day. We'll be totally onto something when we do! Won't you give me a ring, my friend?--a nose ring if you've got one! I feel like I'm onto something, but I'm not telling anyone.

Should I work on my poetry, and my fiddling, every damned day? Well, maybe take Saturday off from fiddling, and definitely from poetry too. Feeling like a castaway whose scrape-y fiddling, every damned day, totally gets in the way of the flirty-er fiddling of the grim poetry obsessives playing keep away with death, who's fiddling all the damned day himself. Riddle me this, fiddling fate: You choose the damned day. I'll bring my fiddle.

OK, my shrink didn't text me, but my fairy-elf did. Can't wait for what comes next! I'm feeling such a tingling in my feet, but I ain't taking my socks off! OK, my shrink didn't text me, and it's taken years to open this rift, mostly because I've kept myself so well-hid from my shrink. Got no clue what comes next! If I'm hexed by my fairy-elf, I'll take all the locks off all the doors. Surely my shrink will text me then! I'll be multi-sexed, but I'll never put my queer poetry books in hock. Huh, I think I know perfectly well what's coming next! I'll finally jam again with my best beastie--they're my wilder half-- the wild animal that I'll think of next when my fairy-elf texts.

I get such satisfaction from looking at my own feet! I'm sure I've already written this poem. Poem rhymes are always such a treat! S ō ls meet (in a poem I've already written) and take each other home! I get such satisfaction from looking at my own feet!  I have a sweet friend who's always barefoot. Barefoot rhymes with poem, right? Barefoot friends are always such a treat! I put all my footsie lust  in a poem and published it online. Will others get satisfaction from looking at my feet? Why does that seem doubtful to me? Wanting cute love coos, I'll get growns-- but poem rhymes are always such a treat anyway! I'll take my seat, pick up my feet, and come! Poem rhymes are always such a treat! God, do I love looking at my feet!

I can't get myself to print my books and give them to others. Who'd want to give my books a look? I won't take one solitary buck for them, anyhow. If I had my druthers, I'd print and give away my books for free--what the fuck? But I don't want to bother others into giving my books a look. Well, I've edited them, and all it takes to tempt or prevent me is my father's voice. He loaded his books into a big black dodge You could smell the poesy burning when you gave those books a look. Can't deny, I'm fast-stuck up here listening to the choppers. Will Charley want to give my books a look? Yup, some day I'll print and give away my books!

I'm a closet drag queen-- that's clear to me now: Too modest to be seen. I'll writ[h]e and preen. I'll especially show my tootsies, 'cause I'm the Footsie Queen! But I'll dance on my own screen, mostly. Won't take a bow, 'cause I'm too modest to be seen by others. I blow the scene, but the screen comes hard, and how, 'cause I'm a selfy drag queen. I'll remain shut behind this fourth wall-- always too modest to be seen. I'll display my sexy feet (winning Best of Show!). in my own dog show. I'm a bone-ified drag queen: Too modest to be seen.

OK, I'll write, sitting out here on my back porch. I'll fight my reluctance, trying to get my gorge to settle by writing. It's alright-- I'm not forcing  you to read it. I'll write for my own enjoyment, even if it's too cold to take my socks off. I'll join the fight for no one's attention but my own. My torch pen burns to write. It's always like this--why life scorches me with this urge to write, against which I can't fight.

Having been stood up by everyone-- even by myself-- I'll never be the pretty one1 I've told myself I can't have fun-- even as an elf-- because I've been stood up by everyone. Well, why did they all run away from me? 'Cause I didn't show myself-- didn't even try to be the pretty one. But I'll never take a gun and shoot mys'elf  (God forbid!) just because I've been stood up by everyone. What more can I do to make everyone shun me? Well, hide myself so there's no way I can be the pretty one. Time waits for no one, but, happily, I love myself because my fairy-elf will never stand me up. They're the pretty one!

ff I want to pretend to be a woman, what's that to you? I've been pretending to be a man all this time! Lizzie Lee hardly looked human, walking in that woodsy glen. They were a bonafide woman, I'll assert, assuming all you've assumed about the differences between women and men from the beginning of time. I guess we'd better look for changes looming after you fall fast asleep, only to wake up again finding you've mysteriously changed into a woman. Whose ashes will we be exhuming? Wipe that silly grin off your face--you knew you were a woman all the time! Gender identity depends mainly on rhyme-- which star in the constellation Orion (Beetlejuice?) you favored at the time of your birth, you crazy woman!