On this page, from time to time, poems will come and go.

Bond Girls

Miss Pussy

Back in the days
when I was a jump-suited lesbian
and Goldfinger’s top bitch
commanding my squadron of beauteous girls

Before I met Bond
I was happy

There’s nothing like girl sex,
so tremulous, so titillating
And oh, how we pillow talked
afterward, cooed in each other’s ears

We’d fly all day in the wild blue yonder
and roustabout at night
tossing back drinks and laughing like boys,
eyeing the chicks in the bar

Then I fell from the sky
“They told me you only liked women,” he said,
and the goddamn screenwriter made me purr,
“I never met a man before.”

Now I can’t get a pilot gig anywhere
Lost my edge is the word

And he made me get rid of the mole


I was there before Halle, so why did she
get the teeny-weeny tangerine bikini
While I got stuck with the wedgie dominatrix duds
and the devilishly horny hairdos?

I had to kiss Christopher Walken

Yet nobody remembers the blonde in that movie,
not the character or the actress who played her
Give me a break! No girl who looks like that
becomes a geologist

But she got Bond while I got bombed
A noble, repentant panther
riding to martyrdom on a dandy explosive device
Lithe legs and black buttocks
iceberg teeth and a tortured snarl
eyebrows half flying off my face

Everyone remembers me

Colonel Lin

I told him up front:
“I work alone, Mr. Bond”
and though we coupled in the end
there was no romance to it
only another notch in our respective belts
Cool headed, unstarry eyed
a well-earned nightcap, shaken not stirred

Then back to work to save the world
from the sometimes useful but ever imperialist dogs

I work alone, Mr. Bond
And don’t…EVER…call me a “girl.”

Honey Ryder

No shy Venus borne on a Botticelli seashell
Rapunzel hair coyly draped
across my love nest

I packed a dagger
and my white swimsuit bra,
as I emerged from the water
sleek, statuesque,

I kept the men’s eyes glued
and the women couldn’t blame me
I honeyed them, too
I never pretended to be more or less than I am:

Sculpted and sculptor,
I carved a celluloid niche
for others to follow

Unrivalled, I deserve my pedestal


The perfect secretary can’t be too plain or too pretty
though pearls are always à propos
Steno pad and a clever quip at the ready
Whatever strokes their little egos

Men are at their best when they’re in the dark
When they think they’re in control
A longing sigh, a lovestruck eye
“Oh, James! Oh, James!”

Then “Yes, sir. No, sir,” to M
Is it my fault he leaves the intercom on
during vital conferences behind closed doors?
Though I do adore fuddy-duddy Q
We nosh together every Friday at the pub,
fish and chips, and he’s quite talkative
after a pint or two

So listen up, girls:
Be a chum but not a chump
and let the sexpots come and go
Meanwhile it’s straight from me
to the queen’s ear
Over tea and scones at the palace
we maneuver our knights in the dark
like incoherent chess pieces
knocked off a rigged board



From the corner of my eye,
I see you, bright Queen
Companion of the midnight watch
As the waves slip beneath my hull

A-tilt on your throne, you glitter
Serene and unrepentant
All earth and its petty doings
A curiosity to your immortal gaze

How could you not be vain
When from the age of comprehension
You heard your beauty exalted
Your comeliness proclaimed

Over and over—
Why would they lie?—
Fed on compliments, courted by the king
Confirmed by the mirror on your wall

Fair, fairer, fairest of all
And they expected humility?
No, no, you’re too kind,
I’m sure there are others prettier by far.

Don’t make me laugh

Now they think you are punished
In your upside-down chair
A warning to women who know their worth
And speak it

Instead, you speak to me
Hold your course through the dark
Companion of the midnight watch
As the waves slip beneath my hull


Flight of the Peregrine – A Ten-Minute Poem

Gulls enrage me, those raucous creatures in dingy gray
huddled on the shore
jabbering of mundane exploits,
and squabbling with their cousins over inconsequentials
when true storms are gathering

Don’t you see the froth the world is in
Don’t you hear the species screaming
Don’t you feel the tendons of the earth stretched,
almost to breaking with the agony of being

I scream too and cleave the wind
Hard as a bullet above the bleak salt sea
Feather locked tight to feather
Eyes slicing the horizon in hope of the salvation
that lies beyond the rim


On Hearing of the Divorce of Friends

No divorce should ever be amicable
It should rip like the skin peeled from a squealing rabbit
the soft pelt doubling back warm and limp
quivering pink flesh exposed to the air

It should jerk like the living corpse
held aloft by its bound paws
twisting and shuddering
eyes exploding in agony

It should bleed red from every artery
staining the ground and splashing
the onlookers forced to witness the massacre
of the love they once toasted with bubbly champagne

Don’t tell me it was civilized, no one to blame
Don’t tell me you’ll still be friends
Don’t tell me it was equable, the division of assets
accomplished in good faith without bickering

Now you say you’re both ready to move on
Stepping around the cold raw carcass on the floor