My Poetry

Tariff winds howl through rusted factory towns a tax on breath a toll on bones.   We're choking on layoffs while the orange king grins his hands greasy with promises palms up for the next grift.   They call it "protection" but it’s a padlock on the pantry. Vegetables rot in fields truck beds sit empty.   Walmart prices skyrocket with Made-Anywhere-But-Here labels. Trump slaps a price tag on the country says it’s winning but paychecks are a ghost that haunt last month’s rent.   Up in the penthouse, Elon laughs in emojis, Vance preens for the screen his suit stitched with our tax dollars.   They’re carving the eagle into a vulture feathers plucked for the Heritage Foundation's nest egg.   Democracy is a yard sale— cheap, chipped, sold to the loudest bidder.   The news is a slot machine that spins headlines and lies. Jackpot for the red hats who cheer the clatter.   Tariffs on, tariffs off— a light switch for chaos. Stocks jitter like a caffeine fien...

  Good afternoon children I am so happy to be here for story hour.   Today, I am going to recite to you from the book of Trump's Fairytales.   Once upon a time Trump inherited a Goldilocks economy from Biden but decided to play reverse Robin Hood he's robbing from the poor and giving to the rich through  tax cuts and tariffs.   The Dow tripped over his tariffs plunged down a rabbit hole and bonked its head all the way to Wonderland.   Mad as a hatter Trump tears at the economy leaving only crumbs for Hansel and Gretel.   The recession president Should have asked Geppetto to assemble his cabinet.   Trump appointed a pro-measles Secretary of Health who would trade the magic beans for a plague a Secretary of Education who shuttered the schoolhouse doors a National Security Advisor who doesn't know how to secure and a defensive Secretary of Defense.   But they are transparent as a glass slipper all their secrets spilled online passwords scribbled...

You slink through Sunnydale’s shadows a peroxide ghost with a smirk that cuts like a switchblade. Your leather duster flaps like bat wings and I’m caught, moth-hearted I flutter toward your flame of chaos.   It’s not just the cheekbones sharp enough to carve my name into the night. It’s the way you snarl love like a curse, spit poetry in a Cockney growl, and make redemption look like a bar fight you might win.   You’re a vampire, sure, but not the brooding kind who journals in the dark. You’re a punk anthem, all rage and glitter You smash bottles against the Hellmouth just to hear the glass sing.   I see you, William, beneath the fangs the poet who bled sonnets for Drusilla now bleeds for Buffy your heart a bruised fist pounds against a soul you swear you don’t have. I want to trace the scars you hide under that swagger to whisper my own secrets into your cigarette smoke.   You’re not safe, and I don’t care. You’re a walking paradox a monster who loves too hard a vil...