Most of the time poetry is better when no poets are involved.

Night at Juanita Beach Park: Bats overhead are darker than shadows.

Today: Sent a meaningless postcard to someone I don’t care about.

Think of all that you can write in seventeen syllables, then write it.

Vaginismus: My vagina’s locked down like a penitentiary.

One thing I suspect: If you’re vacuuming your sheets, it’s time to wash them.

Carmina Burana and Fritjof Capra: another glum Friday.

Why are things more intriguing when they are not to scale: smaller, larger?

Some things look better from farther away, and by that I mean my ass.

A woman carries her bulk pack of paper towels into Pawn X-Change.