private justice, love and the public

This comradeship experienced through desire
The broad chested climate movement boys, espousing feminism with hesitant machismo,
The tough jewish brunettes. loudly in salvaged button-downs and queered up dresses.
The tough nods of racial justice leaders, quivveringly unattainable across coalition table.

I've written this poem a hundred times before, love is justice in private
lusting for that better world beside and inside me. The work we need to do, in the flesh.
Do not be afraid of the details- without objects of desire we are only ideology.

I launch in to nervous pacing whenever I hang up the phone, mutter to the world- I love this work. I love this work.

College Days

we saw each other every day
seven years ago
communal meals
and lots of beer
inventing games
and laughing so hard you pee your pants
and it was like we never went our separate ways
like college never ended
we played the same games
the one where you pretend to be my hands
and shove multiple tiny cupcakes into my mouth
my face covered in frosting
and I try not to choke or spit them out
yelling "I just love cupcakes so much!"
remembering what if feels like
laughing so hard
in a bar
having only one drink
because you don't need anything more
when you're among friends

Media Can't Handle Us

Incredulous;
What is this?
This self-awareness.
Ability to do the right thing the right way for the right reasons.
You didn't throw cash at it?
What?
There is no home here for that,
nowhere to hang the hat,
peg retracted.

To Sloop John B:

Eddie has a dream,
on minus 17,
we had no money,
so we signed the players on loan.
We play from the back,
with pace in attack,
he went to Burnley,
but then he came back.
Let him come home, 
won't you let him come home?
It's grim in Burnley,
let Eddie come home.

Sun,
footy,
sea,
footy,
sex,
footy,
blue rinse,
footy.

Harp on, journo.
Harp on.

o amor al cuello

tu cuello es una
caracol

curling and guarded
slow slow slow
in the night

THE COOL GIRLS

The cool girls agree there needs to be a fund for better ambiance. Their latest collective dream is Christmas lights, colored only, squished into messy rats nests, pressed flat across walls. No inch spared. The cool girls slouch into their drinks and talk about deep things without meaning to, huddle with their batons. They have bundles of daughters and mothers and ghosts joining their chemistry,  tucked under collars and stored halfway up the slim sleeves of essential white shirts. They triple the warmth of the room, humor the suave operators, enjoy some of it. It’s part of their job.