This is where I post all of my impromptu poetry. RPEG stands for Real Poetry and Extraneous Garbage. It's a quote from a conversation with my hypnotherapist uncle. He said that poetry was the language of the subconscious. "No," I corrected, "GOOD poetry is."
He laughed and said, "True. There's real poetry and then there's extraneous garbage."

So there you go.

It's our own personal rain cloud, sunshine

I was on the phone with her when she made the first incision
Felt the knife slice,
Heard her flaps flip
And I knew the skin was gone.
A wince at the wound escaped her lips.
Then she sipped her w(h)ine and went
Right on talking about the Weather.
“Bella,” I said, “Bella, what you done?”
She laughed: “There’s so much pain, there’s no room for pleasure.”

When the paramedics got there,
They found her passed out, pants down,
Blood pooling around her hips
And what used to be her lips.

She said she’d been listening to the wrong mouth,
And she was tired of getting killed by triggers
From the south.

In the ambulance, she reached for me,
“Be my Midas,
Make me yours,
Make me gold.
Carry me in your pocket
Wherever you go.”

I wanted to.
Believe me, I always wanted to.
But I knew she wouldn’t fit
And I didn’t want to take
The piece she’d cut off for me,
So while she was sleeping in the surgery,
I held her hand and let God hold her heart.
I reached in and ripped off
A sliver of her pain,
Tied it around my waist,
And let myself turn emerald.

We are your wounds,
Your lost loves,
The ones who promised they’d never leave,
Then left.
No matter how much you try to slice us
Out of your hearts, mind, and skin,
We are still there because you loved us once.
And we loved you too.

I gave her hand one last squeeze,
Got my coat,
Turned to leave,
And asked God if in the future
Her weather might be better
And come to better ends.

Brahman, all man

Baby boy split the ocean of my womb.
"No, really, I love(?) you, I just don't remember you."
I,I got the steady shakes.
Caught between man and woman:
Truth be told, I couldn't stand to live with either one.
Dichotomy's too sharp a word for me and "balance" doesn't account for all the falling.
Baby, I'm just too many things to be one word.


Playing roles like tracks,
All fine, as long as you know who's got your
Back up.

Baby girl, grown women, don't sweat the mosquito's:
Your farmer boyfriend just wants to run with the herd because he wants to be heard and you won't give him anymore milk.

I don't know who I'm talking to: the room won't sit still,
And after an hour and 45 minutes, your faces all look the same.
I get so confused by the words, the noise, the faces,
I just want to curl up and be born again in the spaces--or better yet,
become the space for someone else.
Because I'm just a cog in the machine of the Monster-Maker factory, and I never know what to do or how to be, so maybe I'll just let someone else become.

It may all be the same script, but we all got different parts to play.
Maybe if mine's not The Liberator, it can at least be the Mother of One.