“Stop calling their vagina a flower.” Advises an article online from Vice.com. “Vaginas are no more like flowers than penises are like popsicles. A better comparison would be like…pie? Tacos? Hotdog buns?”
My Favorite Poem About My Dad.
“You’re a piece of shit,” I told my dad over the phone when I was 12. My mother was smiling and whispered, “Tell him the other thing too.” “You’re not a man either, you deadbeat,” I parroted, hanging up the phone.
In 1987 I played hide-and-go seek in St Raymond’s Cemetery in Throggs Neck of The Bronx with six of my siblings and my mother. Our oldest sister Lisa was it and she was hiding in the Garden of Innocents.
“You know, the first sign of being a man is going into third grade, and that’s where I’m going.”
** “Few writers are so expert that they can produce what they are after on the first try. Quite often you will discover, on examining the completed work, that there are serious flaws in the arrangement of the material, calling for transpositions……do not be afraid to experiment with your text!”
A poem about the soul.