They are scattered,

Maybe all but gone now,

But I wish for a hint

Of them

In seeing them shine;

and maybe now

A beautiful kind of embarrassment

for you,

and not for me.


That first day, I was trembling hard

Away from mommy, the first time, pulled

From her smile and mommy’s tender-warm love

to the looming pale-green dome

of bus number 46 in ‘76.


Toward the cold, stern and tired eyes of Mrs. Katiner.

I spell it wrong now, and would get Mr. Yustock’s paddle.

Him, too, I misspell, but I don’t misspell you,




But she put me with the tall and pretty blonde,

more like a mantis than a unicorn,

but so pretty was she,

with long powerful

And lovely legs, for a child.


She knew I would not cry or tell,

so she kicked me hard for my sins

I had yet to commit.


Black and blue shins

All up and all down.

Her eyes flashed with a hatred,

I know not why


But I summed up the courage and stood up

No longer peeing in my pants

Too afraid to ask

I said, with big eyes and trembling voice,

“May I sit next to Renee?”


With long red hair and timid, shy face,

Glaring down at her coloring book,

I and she never said a word;

For 9 months

we sat together.


You were the first girl …

I asked.

You were beautiful Renee






lived at the

END of Grisold Road

in ‘76.


Whenever I see a little girl

With red hair and freckles,

I think of you,


Long-dead childhood roars back.


She is iridescent, like you,

And I, the hopeful child again,

Just wanting to have a true friend.


Just a moment,

our youth and beauty is tentatively back,

one lost through time, poverty, and neglect —

a fading —

AND persistent freckle of our childhood’s past.


Listen to the podcast of the poem here.

The Death of Density

Nerd and internet addiction

Clickity, click, click

On the simple myth

Click bait, click bait

Why wait?

It’s a click or no?

A yes or a know?

Is that so?

What’s the difference really?

Spell check, spell check

Tell me that.

What to

Clickity, click, click?

We don’t want density

But simplicity.

I can click a life.

I just might

Download a woman here,

A man there

A click for a Clit

Or a click for Dick?

What’s the difference really?

One’s inside out, tucked in

Nicely done.

The other hanging out

While keeping it all in

Not a person really but a myth

An artifact that we

Clickity, click, click

To stop the pain.

If I can’t love you,

I will click yet another.

If we don’t agree

Simply delete.

Yes or no

It’s so?

We can find it all in a

Clickity, click, click

Except a smell,

A taste,

A touch,

Or a feel,

Or a feeling.

No, I want to be free

From destiny

Or is it density?

Spell check, spell check,

Which to clickity, click, click?

Malware, was that you?

What’s the difference really?


Billionaire Indian

“Depressed Statue of Liberty” Copyright [Petrol]

What if there was a billionaire Indian?

Nah, not India, an American Indian?

Would we have white-boy mascots

Surrounded by white-cracker artifact?

Would white dudes be encased

With their gun racks and pickup trucks

In the National Museums

In honor of their or is it our traditions?

Would pizza, beer, and wings replace

Frybread, beer, and fear

Of the outside

Or is it the inside?

Would they work for nothing in the red-privilege casinos

selling cigarettes and boos to

All those blanket-white Yahoos?

Would Sherman Alexie be

Washington’s and the world’s

Poet Laureate?

Would they finally see the color of their own skin

And lighten ours to a friendlier shade of being seen?

Would they stop yelling at us for pointing out their offensiveness to us?

I’d think, I’d like that, a Native American Poet Laureate

A storyteller that can dream as much about Billionaire Indians

As a blonde girl dreams of unicorns.

Nah, not a blonde girl, cute enough to sell stuff,

Or not some nasty-raging syndrome consuming us

but a Native American

that’s truly one of U.S.


Click here to listen to the poem. 

A Beautiful Dancer Magnified

dancer – young beautiful teen girl dancing at studio, series (

What is it like to be a beautiful dancer

Of ballet, of jazz, of modern dance

The traditional tutus and gowns the midriff and scantily-liberated playfulness

Of Dance shorts booty shorts and gymnastics leotards

Lace, bobby socks, stockings and stocking-less-ness

And dance shoes, boots or bare feet

The celebration but visual dissection of the body, tightly clothed, barely

Clothed translucent in its femininity and grace but ever present in the instant

Wonderfully natural in free movement and tauntingly fluid

In being unnatural-classical?

The pointed toes, developed calves, but the lovely long legs,

Kicking out legacy after legacy

The feet in the air, toe-tips holding the body

As if boneless but still standing

Strong, taut stomachs glaring with sweat

The pumping pelvis, swaying hips and the booty popping

Never stopping but hardly once only to smile in blazing lights,

The heat of being viewed under visual amplification

And through the makeup and the tears of perfection

I see her then in the “preamble” the still pose in the beginning before the


She is statue like, glares at the audience with a surety, with a classical

Confidence this time

And she holds out her hand so much so that one often misses that she does

Not have one

Yet, she’s the premier ballerina, center on stage, under the magnifying glass

I am moved with I-cannot-help-it tears.

This is what it means to be a girl on “being-seen steroids”

But she handles it with hand-less arm outstretched

In a beautifully vulnerable but tough-as-steel moment

While her parent seems doubtful, unsure, and protective

Whisking the girl away after, a blur of peach-colored nylon

A glimpse of a blushed face and double eyeliner

An act of being tentatively unseen-seen

She was there, she was classic-classical but intriguing

Boldly confident within the confines of adolescent uncertainty

But with a poise of a mature women

Where we peer at her, magnify her, and assess

If she’s good or not, cute or not, pretty or not,

Fat or not, skinny or not, or noticed or not.

Click here for a podcast of this poem. 

Coming Fast Or Slow

Ebola Virus Disease Outbreak and Crisis Art (

I thought he’d come for me, uh huh;

Come fast you see,

But Ebola too slow,

and that may be good, uh huh,

No Ebola;

No blast of vomit kissing my virgin eyeball, oh yuk;

No lost chunks on my door knob tempting sticky fingers, you see

and flickering tongues, uh nah;

It’s the wrong hole for me, but any hole he likes, you see.

I like the darkness in Ebola, his affection on me,

The bad-boy fatality where water comes out like it comes in;

He like depression, you see;

The pain is in the cure

True and simple;

Death need not be complicated, uh huh,

But living is


you see, after he,

that bastard, always hard

so hard on thee.

No worries, there are other lovers lining up for me;

I am hard to get you see, and they hardly ever hard on me.

Changas came for me,

such a boy was he

but a good Latin kisser, you see;

Past lovers’ stomachs permanently in knots,

for life, they say

but not me,

so silly to be with he,

and, yeah, there was Ziki, or Zika, sorry;

He not for me but had me scared though

Not any more for my barren soul, uh nah,

Not hiding out in any testes I know, you see.

But I have a confession, uh huh,

A regular undress’in, you see;

I love chikungunya, uh huh;

She’s so sweet on the tongue, oh yeah,

Makes me want to dance to chi-kun-gun-ya, yeah!

Come with her slow or with her fast

No matter if it feels fast and free with a hint of deadly in thee;

Such a pretty dancer is she

A deadly-like and alluring bite

not a bad boy but a nasty she, you see,

that one can wake up from.

I was heartbroken then, you see,

and had this fling with Dengue,

but he be with nearly 400,000,000 in a year,

and no longer with me;

I feel shitty

but am free now, uh huh;

No lover to contaminate my bloodstream, you see;

but maybe that influenza,

whose sometimes a girl and sometimes a boy;

Doesn’t matter if it be a she or he when it feels fast and free with a hint of deadly in thee,

more deadly the longer you dance with him,

or is it her?

I’ve got the chills now, you see;

Gonna lie down with me and my fantasy, uh huh;

They come for us

be it fast or be it slow.

We all have these lovers, you see;

so no worries, now,

go to sleep,

and I,

or he,

or she,

will come

and kiss thee …

Please listen and share a podcast of this poem found here.

Resurrecting Phoenix: How University Writing Programs Exploit Student Writers


I always loved the written word. However, after many years in higher education as a professor at two- and four-year institutions and an evaluator for the Middle States Commission on Higher Education, I have come to the conclusion that two things need to happen. First, the English major as we know it must be scratched, and all PhD programs in literature and most in writing should be put under moratorium for about ten to fifteen years. My following explanation of the first should give clarity to the second.

What I did not know when I entered community college with my spiffy GED in 1994 was that most English professors don’t actually write, or let’s be fair, they don’t have time to write. Or let’s be fair, if they write they usually write the academic essay, and they teach us to write — not my intention to offend anyone here — students the dumbed-down version of the academic essay. These are the essays that professors would write for journals, journals, mind you, that don’t pay them a dime, on a dwindling promise of tenure or of what used to be prestige. These publications are not focused on the profession’s advancement of literature; instead, the focus is on the advancement of the individual professor. Harold Bloom comes to mind, for example. It you are an English major, you know him. If you are important, you have no idea who he is.

Simply put, what is missing in literature and writing programs is creativity. Writing is a form of art and writing is not teaching people how to write; rather it’s allowing them to find their own way to write. It may be more effective to ask students to plagiarize an essay first and then ask them to write it in their own words. After they do so, then tell them to write their own story but use a similar structure. After they write their own stories, then tell them to try a different form, any form that comes to mind.

What I just explained is pretty much how Geoffrey Chaucer started writing as did Shakespeare. They were motivated. Is my student motivated enough to look for another form? Probably not. She just wants to get a good grade so that she can get through and graduate and get a good job. She may not even know what job she wants. If I can inspire her with provocative subject matter, something colleges and universities are cracking down on, she may get motivated and that’s how art happens. That just may be how a career happens also. Creativity pushes limits, and that is the key to good critical-thinking skills that are useful in the real word.

Writing happens when one finds voice, and it may even be more useful in business or in a profession where people have to be creative and think of new ways to get things done. But that cannot happen if we stick too much to form, and I fear that the English Major, the literature major, is too much of a dinosaur. It’s one that is on life support for the sake of faculty members that need to have jobs more than because there are jobs to be had.

Being anal may be a current popular trend in sex, but it kills the creative process.

Literature is wonderful, and many miss out on the experience of a good but difficult book, but programs are only as good as colleges and universities are flexible. Higher education, in general, has become so laden with outcomes assessment that it has assessed itself into being virtually useless. There will never be an English paper rubric that can effectively assess an essay. Creativity is too difficult to assess; so is art. Being anal may be a current popular trend in sex, but it kills the creative process.

How many points do you want to give for my essay on my childhood dog being shot? Emotion aside, impressions are subjective, as they should be, and art is about emotions and moving people to feeling. Grids are not very good at that. Sure we have to use classical argument. Sure we have to be logical and adhere to grammatical rules, for example, but that has little to do with the purpose of the English major, nor does argument take up much time in Freshman-level writing courses. Argument may be one paper or a part of an assignment. Most of what is taught in composition class is outdated and, well, “clunky” and just does not fit well with the current needs of students.

Though there are benefits to this kind of writing for the mind, such writing as a form is completely useless to what most call the real world. It has no application whatsoever. For example, who would use Modern Language Association style formatting in their daily lives? No, we all hyperlink.

To add to this, even in the more foundational writing courses that make up the “bread and butter” work-horse courses for most English faculty in the United States tend to emphasize such things as Comparison and Contrast, Definition, Classification, Argument, Example and so forth modes or essays, and such rigid essays don’t actually exist in the real word. These are combined where useful, so by the time most students finish their English instruction, they learned forms of essays that have little or no practical value, and they learned how to cite in a format that has little to no flexibility.

No, I am not suggesting that we throw away literature and writing. I am suggesting that the English major adapt to the rapidly changing environment, well, more rapidly.

Here is a sampling of the major courses we should teach that are relevant to people’s lives and would make people more flexible in the current marketplace and adaptable in their personal and professional lives:

blogging for seniors, the pleasures and frustrations of Indie writing, writing and social media, non-fiction and blogging, the social media poet, book reviewing online, dealing with trolls, using online sources online, how to fix what you already published, writing when you don’t have time, Indie writing, using social media and literary classics, Tweeting Shakespeare, literature and sexuality, literature and girlhood/boyhood, literature and transgender, literature and Facebook, social media and social movement, using the visual online, using analytics, the visual, and the literary, YouTube and Feminism.

Most teachers would struggle to write well on a platform like WordPress.

See any you would like to add? Writing “on the spot” or under fast-approaching deadlines is more the norm than when our “ancestors” had a team of editors or time enough to bang out something on a typewriter. Most teachers would struggle to write well on a platform like WordPress.

What about creative writing programs?

Most writers that staff creative writing programs are unknown. Even a successful writer cannot make you a successful writer.

In sum, don’t waste your money when you can get a good editor that helped published writers for a fraction of the cost. These are mostly scams, ways that departments look to make money and keep enrollments up. The larger the department, the more funding they get and clout. Less means less. Most writers that staff creative writing programs are unknown. Even a successful writer cannot make you a successful writer. Buy a computer, read literary, yes, literary works, and write like hell. After you write a thousand pages, get an editor, throw out 98% of it, and write it again.

Even your dog, right now, as you are reading this, is writing his six-volume manifesto on “Why Dogs Hate Cats is Misleading: Rover’s Responses to Chee Chee’s ‘Ode To Those Awful Pussy Cats.’”

Unless the Disney CEO looks at you and decides to “Make you a Star,” the only way that’s happening is with a lot of work, a lot of failure, and a whole lot of luck (a nice twerking ass may help). Even your dog, right now, as you are reading this, is writing his six-volume manifesto on “Why Dogs Hate Cats is Misleading: Rover’s Responses to Chee Chee’s ‘Ode To Those Awful Pussy Cats.’” My advice to aspiring writers, advice I would have taken if I would have had it at twenty: skip college, work any job, save money, and hire a good, honest editor, and write a book. You will learn more with an editor with a sharp eye and a BA than you will from four years in an English program. Editing is a gift more than it is a learned profession.

Sadly, the profession is predatory to both our professors and our students. For over twenty years, funding at the state and federal levels has been drying out, yet more and more are going to school. Administrators are under severe pressure to make learning a number, so they are forced to cut classes and credit hours to fit under caps often at the cost of program quality. As a teacher, I see needs, and it is my job to meet those needs and teach for the greater good, but I cannot teach because the system does not allow me to do so.

Most faculty-student ratios that colleges promote on their websites are lies: they don’t consider part-time teachers faculty (and they don’t treat them that way either).

Our class sizes keep increasing. We have no money for graduate assistants or teaching assistants, and many veteran teachers are being “offered” early retirement. Where I teach now, one can take a package after teaching only ten years. Many are doing it. The result is that colleges are left with more newbie teachers and much less creativity in the classroom. Most colleges in the country rely on adjunct labor that often pays one-fourth the salary (and with no benefits) than a full-time professor makes for the exact same work. If it’s quality you seek in education, very few offer that anymore. Do you want your kid to learn from a teacher that makes less than your kid does at McDonalds? If so, send them to college. Most faculty-student ratios that colleges promote on their websites are lies: they don’t consider part-time teachers faculty (and they don’t treat them that way either).

I never signed up to exploit students and trap them in a profession so that they can work at a minimum wage job at a large chain book store when such existed or give them false hope at becoming a published writer. The truth is that they can publish themselves. I really doubt that if Herman Melville was alive if any agent would accept Moby Dick. Who knows? Great works don’t always sell a lot. Great works don’t always get an A+ in class, and great works are seldom appreciated during their own time. Art sucks but we need it. If anything we should teach people how to appreciate art, and that has to happen on a larger scale than with only the humanities.

These days, everyone wants to write, but no one wants to read.

What does matter is thinking on one’s feet and that requires being creative and flexible. This creates a kind of teamwork between people that gives them leverage, a kind of dependency for each other that is positive. These days, everyone wants to write, but no one wants to read.

I love college. It’s a wonderful experience, but what makes it wonderful is learning and the people you meet. It’s the talking. It’s the ideas and the discussion and the creativity of it. It’s the beauty of it. Few remember the content unless it changes their lives.

Until the English major gets with the times, I would read what punishes the reader, and write what rewards the reader. Yes, writers have to write well, use grammar on occasion, and be humble, but that can be learned on any good, focused platform with educated readers.

Hear the podcast by clicking here