No one cares

if a black, kindly neighbor 

goes to the neighborhood bodega

& ends up dead

No one cares

if a woman, clad in a tight miniskirt,

gets fondled, fingered or raped

without her consent;

she was probably asking for it—

No one cares

when Asians get harassed 

or spat upon in the subway:

they’re the carriers of disease.

No one cares

if Native Americans lose

another acre of land

to big corporations fracking & pipelining

No one cares

about the illegals:

they should remain at the border,

penned up like animals

No one cares 

about sexual deviants.

Why should they marry each other & raise kids?

Why should they want to change their gender?

& no one gives a damn

about the children:

when their parents die,

when injustice wins—

Wait a minute:

Everyone cares!

That’s why they’re marching,

Mr. President—

They do give a damn!

Not everyone’s apathetic;

that’s why

they’re taking it to the streets!

Not everyone 

are looters or criminals 

or rebel-rousers;

they don’t need to

wave their Bibles—

Enough is enough.

Even those staying at home 

are with the protesters.

That’s why we chose 

not to tune in to your speech

on television yesterday;

you want to change America 

into a military task force state.

That is not our America. 

We don’t care for that.

Black lives matter.

Women’s lives matter.

Asian lives matter.

Native American lives matter.

Latino & Hispanic lives matter.

LGBTQIA lives matter.

Children’s futures matter.

We all matter—

we’re still alive & kicking

& we don’t care

to be considered

as criminals 

in America,

no more!

May 1:

“Damn straight,” she commented under her breath,

as another rainy morning began, ruining the annual parade.

May 2:

Traffic lights change for no reason

in the 2 am rain; she’s still awake,

May 3:

raising her knees over her heart while in bed,

keeping the swelling in her legs down.

May 4:

Trying to let go of all tensions with deep breathing,

random words and musical motifs still play in her brain—

May 5:

Gratitude slowly germinates in her bones,

even with buried sorrow & pain.

May 6:

Time burrows under the skin,

compounding all drugs affecting internal organs—

May 7:

She screamed at her man, for spilling bathroom refuses

before he got rid of his full beard.

May 8:

Thursday night: Serious words were going down;

she showed her heart on video & was recorded for sound.

May 9:

A bonus margarita (without rocks) came in the 2nd delivery bag,

as an apology for the missing pair of Mexican Cokes.

May 10:

Mama’s love is everlasting; it keeps us 

grounded, steadfast & young during dark times.

May 11:

But Mama’s love couldn’t erase her daughter’s inner pain;

stars are not random objects stuck on black bitumen—

May 12:

Everyone’s betting upon where & when we all can travel again;

she wonders if she could ride the subway to Queens without getting sick—

May 13:

Time moves slowest

when one wants to receive any message—

May 14:

Fears inside of her spill out during meditation

through her toes, with the consistency of black tar.

May 15:

“People, we y’all need to breathe. The worst has passed; our state’s reopening!”

But—we still need to wear masks outside & in the subway…

May 16:

Is there anyone out there?

We wait for our nephew’s birthday to virtually begin—

May 17:

The toy dinosaurs were a hit.

Thank God they weren’t alive—

May 18:

Caught in her cocoon, she waits for the sun,

wondering if her wings would ever reappear—

May 19:

Last night’s steak smell overpowered the early morning at her apartment.

Her Southbound wings were still in transit,

May 20:

Her anger was like a watercolor painting; every color bled into each other 

as she screamed & destroyed the room (like Barry Egan did in Punch-Drunk Love)

May 21:

Her inner fireworks never stoked her fears,

but today’s now quiet—it’s time to go back to work.

May 22:

The cold water caught in a red Solo cup;

she swallowed it down, getting rid of last night’s Parmesan.

May 23:

First book is now out-of-print;

the fates of the musical spirits who had played Carnegie Hall are now unknown—

May 24:

A freshly-minted panic attack woke her up 

from deep sleep—or, a mini-seizure (in reverse?)

May 25:

On Memorial Day, she saw women strut the screen 

as the words in her head violently danced.

May 26:

She heard a poem about the newly dead after waking up.

When will her heart stop its constant racing?

May 27:

She woke up, alarmed, in a stranger’s bed; charmed by

her dream of a parallel life: She was married with 3 kids—

May 28:

It was just a crazy dream. Still married, sans kids.

Still has a major crush on Gov. Cuomo—

May 29:

This hot, little honey has made it back on Zoom! 

Oh, money! Good to see her friends again.

May 30:

But the library will still take a while to open up—

to staff members, to patrons & to the public.

May 31:

But right now, thanks to police brutality against George Floyd,

the streets are on fire, nationwide.

April 1:

“When a person shows you his/her teeth,

it doesn’t always mean he/she is smiling,”

April 2:

Her sister tried to warn her: but she saw

his practiced grin under a mask—

April 3:

Now she’s running in a red desert to music;

seeing all the footsteps she’d made behind her when stopping,

April 4:

this vivacious girl never stops moving

even while asleep & dreaming.

April 5:

When we are asleep,

others see that we were all children once–

April 6:

Her lovers become birds with golden-tipped wings;

they transform into fish as they hit the water, 

April 7:

While real teenagers in hospitals

wear tongue depressor crowns for their prom,

April 8:

The Pink Supermoon rises

after the street shouts; before the misty morning.

April 9:

“Some days are diamonds, some days are rocks” (from Tom Perry’s Walls (Circus))

She wonders if this day would become a diamond—

April 10:

Her hair matted & twisted from sleep,

she kicked the bathtub as if she was a mermaid.

April 11:

Today’s uncertainty is worn

like a fur coat pelted by fake blood—

April 12:

Found like an egg; caught like a rascally rabbit,

sending Easter greetings to those who practice (not me, Darlings! Can’t help it…)

April 13:

In a bag of water,

there was a bruised human heart, glowing—

April 14:

Words are needed today.

Will these become the right ones?

April 15:

Crossing-over—watching male/female groupies done up,

pumping early ‘80s music made for the holy catwalk,

April 16

and when I made friends with one of the dark corners of the dance club,

she with teal blue hair, came to meet up my full lips with hers—

April 17:

Like Frida Kahlo, she was on fire;

seeing her toes dip out of the water in her NYC bathtub,

April 18:

she cried: “When my big mama check comes in,

“I’m touring Japan, when the world’s safe again…”

April 19:

But she was still haunted by 1995’s Oklahoma City;

McVeigh’s bomb crumbled the Alfred P. Murrah Federal building into an ashen, gutted cake piece 

April 20:

So she broke the invisible, tactile tension of the said Universe,

to gain sensation back in her fingers—

April 21

Still high from her radio show debut,

she fell down towards Earth, as the sky opened up

April 22:

Hovering over a river, she inhaled;

breaking tension with a steady exhale—Earth blooming

April 23:

“But—I wonder,” she said, “After Shakespeare took a shit,

he then wrote another amazing sonnet?”

April 24:

Suddenly, her heart broke, hidden behind her sensitive bosom:

“When will this sick sadness ever stop?” she questioned out loud—

April 25:

She found herself in the mountains, in an old country house

surrounded by green trees, short grasses & wildflowers 

April 26:

The silent meditation of the countryside

was interrupted by loud chattering of migrating birds— 

April 27

Zooming into the virtual world, she spoke with people in Paris,

Morocco, Abu Dhabi, North Carolina, New Orleans, Boston & New York City

April 28:

Head’s too busy; she blinked back into her apartment’s sweet bed,

her world tour was just a wonderful dream—

April 29:

In the flesh, her sister now looks like a baby Goth;

it’s the first time she’s seen her since her cancer diagnosis—

April 30:

After their dinner, she drifted to sleep listening to the last song on her playlist;

it’s the song everyone will remember—


Nimble like deer grazing,

people walk upon the snow

and the traffic shines afar

like fireflies slowly moving 

in the bluish mist of early evening;

the naked trees of the park

are black and tangled, showing

the fat flakes off. We tread

into the first snow slowly,

trying to get ahead to where

we are going in 2020.

Blessed by the lazy Saturday,

we snuggle in beds or do chores

as the snow continues on.

She takes her tea with milk

and eats Fruit Loops

every morning

Capable of love,

her muses are taking louder

at 4 am most mornings,

she draws flowers 

with a felt-tip pen,

drawing until the kids wake up;

she brews coffee for her hubby 

and pours more Fruit Loops

for her family,

dreaming of her gentle blooms

as she’s finishing up the accounts

at work. She wants to draw

over all the uncovered surfaces 

of her desk with lilies.

She cannot afford to plant

her own private garden.

A couple of mint plants

flourish in tiny pots

in her tiny Kew Gardens kitchen

making perfect tea

for every morning.      

Trying to quiet my mind,

but onions are frying in the kitchen

and he’s playing Ravel on the piano.

It sounds like water flowing—

I wish my thoughts 

can sometimes float on the water,

but they stomp around,

trying to dance like lilac elephants

in the jungle; Disney music scores 

and well-wishes can’t quiet these 

elephants down, they leave 

their huge prints behind.

Wherever they go, 

I can’t sleep;

others tend to creep 

along as if nothing has happened

& the water is in short supply 

as the onion smell and piano playing drone on—

Gone are thoughts of forgetfulness,

there’s nothing more, or less.

I stopped by that place

we met years ago for one night

I saw the steps and the cafe

we used to sit, passing the time

until sunrise. But today’s light 

made the sights look different.

Alone, I remember your warm hands

as I walked the cobbled streets

Your emotional marble in your head

was so big back then. What happened?

It’s now the Year of the Rat.

You got another woman pregnant 

and you must marry her, even though

she doesn’t make your soul sing.

The light has changed everything 

but I still feel the same, 

a star lost in orbit, searching for a harbor

even if love or the light disappears.