Tag Archives: poems



I’m drowning in a sea of skulls

While Adam’s ameoba looks

for that lost rib.

Am I missing one too?

Not unless I want to be a pop

star with a smaller waist.

Maybe I should sit up 200 times

a day, but I might get bed sores.

Besides, there must be enough

room for people to live inside of

my body and suckle at my udders

while my ass becomes roast for

Oprah’s Texas cattlemen. Yee Haa!


It’s strange posting this as a married lady, but this girl exists in here too…

Soft like an easy chair-

my ass.

It’s just the mood I’m in right now, I guess.

I don’t write about love-

don’t want to write about it because it makes

me feel like a romantic fool.

There’s no room for romantic notions

in a hyper technologized world of IM.

The time to develop the intensity of feelings

and bonds of trust have become truncated into

smiley faces and empty and

quick “I love you emails” and text messages.

I say it so much that the feelings I used to have

when I felt it is gone.

The heat and swelling in my chest.

The flush of my cheeks.

My hands going numb.

Ears throbbing and mind made blank by an emotion

so intensely overwhelming there was, as

the alcoholics would say, the magnificence of God.

But I say it back to everybody that says it to me and

when I think about how much I don’t mean it-

it only adds to the emptiness I feel

about my everyday existence.

When I don’t think about it but feel how empty it is

All I want to do is drink.

Booze is no muse though.

It only magnifies the desperation of being surrounded by

I love you’s and not feeling loved.

It does, however, temporarily hide the fact that all of

this means nothing.

Nihilism is on short order after a bottle or two of montepulciano.

And whisky knocks it down that much better.

So love-

I’m writing about love and it’s new status as an apparition.

A ghost of what was and what everybody hopes to attain

Without knowing its true nature.

With no experience base of its highs and lows.

Because sans this understanding of the heart and mind

that relegated it to the dream realm,

the nether regions,

we all believe in reality TV’s version of love.

And that’s some real bullshit.



I wrote this in 2004….

Irony’s always ironic.

America pumps it’s market driven interests throughout the globe only to naively ask, “Why do people hate us?” and then answer their own question with “because we’re free”. Now I now one true fact about my life – IT AIN’T FREE.

Art ain’t free. It’s…

It Ain’t Free


This website seems to have bit the dust, but here’s the poem:

Poor People

Living in tin shacks

Gathering water from filthy ditches

But we want to sell each other

Forgetting the pain

Being hustlers and pimps

It’s cool

But it wasn’t so cool when

Your ancestors lost each other

Living Jay-Z dreams and Ja- Rule fantasies

Feeding the intricate network of lies

Necessary to complete the project they began

With the building of inner city townships

For the capitalist pigs

Skarfing down the bacon of industrialism

While being fed a steady stream of unrealities

Made true by the glowing idiot box

Which enlightens our spirits to the depths

Of which are yet to be seen

But we believe the executioner’s tale

Of life

A life that he hasn’t lived and we need to believe him

Because he has power

Power we have never imagined

And if we can share that power

Then maybe our growling stomachs

Won’t keep us up at night

Or our children’s cries won’t hurt as deeply

Because the box tells us that there is no more hunger

So we can’t be hungry

We’re just lazy

Because all we did is wash other peoples




And children

And suckle babies that don’t look like us

And then travel an eternity back to our babies

With their big eyes


Their noisy guts


Obvious indictments of our laziness

With their dirty cloths and rotting teeth

If I worked harder, then this wouldn’t happen

If my mother and her mother and her mother

Worked harder

My babies would look like the babies I

See in the box

Those babies are fat and laughing

Why don’t my babies laugh

She never thinks

Her baby has never heard her laugh

Her baby doesn’t understand such a concept

She doesn’t understand that glowing box

She just knows that her belly aches constantly

And the one person she loves more than anything

Never kisses her

Hugs her

Touches her

Only sleeps

And leaves

She might not understand the glowing box

But she already knows sadness.

IKR Author | Charity Thomas

A Conversation About Race & Choice

Charity Thomas Part 2 : A Conversation About Race & Choice (by Everyday People Project)


I stood over a pot of water
and it boiled
it was boring
but it boiled
I watched it
whoever said it wouldn’t

oh well…

I can still feel
your lips on my neck
your tongue on my thigh
your hands in my hair
your kisses on my stomach
why did I have to wake up?
I didn’t even get to ask
your name
or what time you’d be over later
I wish I could go back to sleep
and get your number
but I guess it’s for the best
I’d never call

The 21st century

When one no longer differentiates 
between the word and artificial reality
the clouds passing the moon become
rays of light protecting us from the
hole in the sky.
Madonna becomes the goddess of the
universe and what shines out of a 
little box takes the place of the word 
and holds all truths.
Moving through the earth becomes 
natural and our feigned self-proclaimed
independence makes murderers of us all.
There is no word thus there is no truth.
We have changed the rules and there is only
chaos beneath the thin veneer of order.
Yet without this chaos we humans would
be forced to look within.
Into the most frightening place there is.
It’s much easier to go to the moon than 
to look within ourselves.
At least we don’t know what’s on the moon.