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I can’t don
what they make for me. 
Who are they, anyway?
Why do they think I want
polyester anything?
My rump roasts don’t slide into
the filthy film
they think I want to wear.

Just a work shirt to do
shit in, just a cotton work
of art or nature. All I see is
cheap, hot-glued plastic bauble-bling
attached to a slinky ruched shirt
sold with a stretchy ring.

What little child put that
together? What monster-mogul
thought candy was an accessory?
I thought candy was a treat, but
not now. It’s highly marketed tin
in a cupcake world where Ken
is doing time for assaulting
the Barbie kind. Any kind.

What happened to a chain on
a snapped, black wallet? A leather jacket
over a pressed white T and a deep grey
V-neck sweater that Mom got… reluctantly
in the men’s department at
Penny’s last Christmas?
What happened to that?

Ball caps with bills flat,
Short nails and winged taps,
Doll baby? More like Zoot suit, corn flake
lappers. Fine Black dykes and Bull daggers
Lipsticks and on-the-raggers, tree huggers or
tea totes and triple A, gold-star members.

All on bikes, flying high as kites.
What happened to that?
You know, I’m right to ask.
When I say, hey Bitches, Ya’ll,
whatever gets your attention…
What happened to our culture?
What happened to gliding down a street
through a club,
at a meet-
never bumping or bouncing,
never shoving our selves into the space
or the face
of another
one of us?

Courtesy, respect, the things our mothers
taught us were good habits whether given
as gifts to skirts or bois
in flipped-up-collared polo shirts.
Where is that strong bicep to hold the door,
the umbrella in a down pour?
My luggage at the airport?
Where is that girl, that woman,
that butch to kiss me no matter
who is looking?
The one who I’ll kiss back.

Just came in from the rain. Another day
on the streets seeking nothing that is there.
Just slung off my pumps, pulled overhead
my wet, red dress.
Just hung my coat up on the
magnetized peg…

Home again and alone again,
not sure I could ever face the day
without my cause.
‘cause Not sure I can go any longer with tears
streaking my resolve.
Not sure I like this world, all gender-gentrified
As I dig out the albums and pine for
my girl, Culture.

Comments [5]

Grace Moon's picture

love all your imagery here.  

love all your imagery here.


tweet tweet @gracemoon

WriterInResidence's picture


I did not know you frequented this site, so nice to see you here, dear.

Marcie Bianco's picture

the last line—the break—is

the last line—the break—is perfect.

WriterInResidence's picture

Perfect is a big word.


Thank you for saying that. The last line of a poem is my very favorite. Last lines are no less than a kiss or a kick. I prefer a kiss. Smile

Andrea Cuchetto's picture

Well done!

Great to read you here! I look forward to more. More. More. Smile

Andrea Cuchetto