i die in the end

When I dreamed of Roosevelt

When I dreamed of Roosevelt
laying in my unmade bed
the light addressed my lonely head
and made me circumspect

And then the old and crippled man
whose vision danced and made me sad
was all America had learned instead
and tears were in my dreams of lead

Oh poems write themselves today
There’s not a pain that goes away
There’s only sorrow signed with dread
When people’s riots join me

They say I’m mad cause I’m trangender
but then I think I’m yet disabled
And all it takes to bridge the day
is crying in my dress someway

I’m rolling in my emotional wheelchair
I’m listening to some mournful strings
there’s not a person anywhere
whose smile warmness to me brings

I’ll call the flowers softly
I’ll let the pain unfurl
I’ll miss my William dearly
and sit and ride the world

Want from a holy choir

There is no voice
There is no voice
There is no voice
There is just choice
but honey we need times like these times I’ve seen rhymes
and say what you want to, but here now is right, true
There is no voice
There is no voice
I love my God freedom, but he’s on the run
I think that we might have a new redemption
I’ve heard angels calling
and they’ve said their fun
There is no voice now, but
there will be a run
oh Virginia
the first state
the make peace
the caliphate
I love you
I NEED you
so please lord
bring me them


You people don’t get it.
There is something more.
You’re lost and resplendent
and fluttering fore
You’re all just unending
and placid and more
there’s no sense in thinking
it’s “hey what’s the score?”
go fucks up your bounties
you’ve all hit the floor
screaming more

and what for?
you’ve lost your senses
but it’s still just a present
and a match on the poor


Because you can
because the dream was empty when you woke up screaming
believing all the sages songs
were right
were right and yes!
you were the king
the old nobeled thing
the harked head angel ringed with wings
and songs where wrongs were paths to dawns
you sang
you sang
you sang the song

oh bitter ended pity’s pile
the place where shit gets sent so rightly

the fool
the anti-march
the little ghoul


let’s smile and shake the world again

Christmas in America

Drink this in remembrance of me
said Christmas in America
and overstepping bums like trash
who need and want and die like ash
is can you spare a dollar past
for Christmas in America

oh Jesus, Jesus! come and vent
let all the children feebly rent
what little left has not been spent
and huddle round the cindered tent

but oh oh the mistletoe
it’s 6am in the ghetto show
make sure the fuzz can’t hear your woe
for Christmas in America

can another die?
well jail is full, so bullets fly
but who really cares
he was probably high

so what’s around the Christmas tree?
the sparkled drenched nativity?
where Jesus mangered sinned for thee?
a little bit of pity rots
and all the bums back in their cots
slurring drink this in remembrance of me

heavy sighs

The sighs I leave here
as a transgender woman
are full of stares and glances
and so they fall
heavy like lead
to the dirty floor
where no one cares to look

The floor is full of heavy sighs
that once were buoyant
fresh from highs
but now are bloated bags of woe

I wonder if I’m living in the bonus round
since suicide was skipped
and now I’ve got the heady chore
of rounding up these memories
and instead of an epitaph
you’ve got a surly, pretty poet
singing requiems of time and place

so I’ll sing some song for those that passed
and catch their sighs up in this lonely glass


Nobody knows what it’s like to be broke
that feeling you get at the end of the rope
where you listen to people in the next room go
blah blah blah
and you can’t say shit because you’re broke
and you just roll your eyes and keep writing

But being broke is illuminating
like turning the light on and watching the roaches scatter
at least you know they’re gone now
before you just tried to believe you were alone

When you are paying in food stamps, change, and a debit card
you know you’re broke
you have to decide what’s really important
and you definitely can’t get drunk
but getting drunk is old news anyway
on the grand list of drugs, alcohol’s near the bottom

It’s not that nobody knows what it’s like to be broke exactly
it’s just that the people who get to talk don’t know
all the broke motherfuckers basically have duct tape over their mouths
so they just get to sit and listen to the richies saying
blah blah blah
while they roll their eyes and keep writing


I don’t love you anymore
and maybe I never did
because I’m shell-shocked
ravaged by the passage of terror
the little ticks against my eggshell
that left me cracked and rotten

the world has turned me into an entree
so I’ll dream of just desserts
writing poetry without titles
fending off the subtle hurts

In my hovel of a room
the little gnats go buzzing
if I had a microscope
I could see the dreams in their eyes

New City Fear Sound

The thoughtless whisper through the ether
said the end of all her dreams
was done
and done so
did the dirty one
I had that dream she was the son
where flying sleeping lessons won

where is now, not yesterday
where is love without a razor
where is walking on the street so same
the silly little white girl game
the hearts erupting fountains rain
where is now, not yesterday

She’s leaving epithets in little pockets pressed
that say
nothing old is new again
your dream is dead
your lonely head
is spinning

Heady Hits

Shut the door
I’m testing soon
But they call it a screen
when the smoke is queen

Can we write about the heady hits?
The long and steady, breathy bits
The shit that’s old before it kicks

Shut the door
I’m grabbing the moon
I’m laughing at your silly spoon
You horse head nebula goon

I don’t know if I’ll pass
But that’s just my class

Shut the door
I’m testing soon