What we do
in this life matters.
It matters at
that point where
our separateness begins.
It matters how
we treat others.
It matters because
we are there, too,
inside their skin with them,
even when neither of us
realizes it.
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Medusa
Every choice she made
Was deliberately wrong
When her life messed up
She blamed everybody else
Tattoos of snakes
Across her shoulders
She thought would make
Her more beautiful
When she wrote of black
Sugar babies she claimed
She never intended
Any racial slur
She was only feeding
Precious her baby daughter
Dressing her up
For beauty pageants
Mommy baby hated
Her former husband
Drooling over and dreaming
Of younger hunks
Who will rescue her
From her dark cave
Where vipers shadow
Her calumny and spite
[Disposable Poem November 18, 2009]
Dr. Mike
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