falling with a splash
in a round clay ashtray. I lay
flat on my back as smoke
billowing black, dances

a waltz up on the table
stage. Thick as clouds on a
rainy day. Tossed like a salad
and swept like

hay. Riding the wind
like a stallion. Cut up and thin
like a scallion topping the
soup. Flaky and loose like

snow on a spruce. Soft as the sand
in the dune. Dried up like a ma’s
jar of prunes. Shadows bite me in
late afternoon.

rolling down his cheeks. He wipes
me off with the back of his hand. But I
stand in peaks like whipped cream
inside of his glands. I'm the spicey taco

he wolfed down. And I'll hang around burning
him late at night when my sauce still lingers
but is out of sight. And just like the snot
flying out of his sneeze I'll dance pirouettes

in the tang of a breeze. I’m the needles
and pins when he cannot feel his toes. I’m
the itch that he scratches inside of his
clothes. And he thinks that he’ll pass me

out the other end like gas that escapes him
in the wind. But I'm the scab that covers him
when he's skinned his knees. Stuck to him like a
dog with fleas. There’s no getting rid of me – no release!

with a shark's story. Swims
around all day in glass. It's here
she'll stay en masse with the
silver dollar and angelfish,

in a four-sided home with just one
wish - to break out of this
rectangular box and run with
the stallions and hunt with

the fox. For the wind to
dance pirouettes in her honey
golden hair. Pick daisies in the fields
and blow bubbles in

the lavender air. To spread her lines
like climbing vines of plump
plum grapes. And drink sweet wines
of what she creates.

like sweet cherry wine. Strings things
on a swinging vine. Dresses them
in lace and satin. Then rolls them
out like cotton batten. She pours them

like cream in her morning coffee,
stretching them like yards of
toffee. They stick to her gums and
teeth. Hangs them like a Christmas

wreath. She pours her words like
laundry detergent in the washer. And
watches them spin like a flying saucer
out into atmosphere where they

disappear. Pours them like golden cake
batter into a bundt pan, hoping they'll rise
like the stars in the skies. But like the
moon they cast shadows in

the afternoon. She pours them like
gasoline on a raging fire. Wires them
to a movie screen. Just like James
Dean. Hoping they blow up like

the European super cup. But they only
burn, leaving powdery specks of ashes. So,
she flashes them to men on her safari. But
they shoot her down like Mata Hari.

licorice sticks and candy
canes. Brandy rivers running in
my morning coffee. Bleeding all
the colors out, fermented as
the sauerkraut.

I'm sobbing
stilettos and razor blades,
shaving years off my face. I'm
thick stubble, falling bits
of stone rubble.

I'm sobbing
ropes and chain. My
lashes are made of thick
black leather, whipping me
as they fall together.

I'm sobbing
shards, splintered
wood in my backyard. Treading
my face like a tire. Burning
my eyes in the smoky fire.

I'm sobbing
rocks. The salty drops
have hardened to
stone. They circle around
like a flying drone.

the white petals from a growing
daisy. And eats them for lunch. They
say he is crazy. He lassoes the sun
with a yo-yo string. Locks it in his

dungeon in the left wing. He paints
the cornflower sky tar black. It
matched his mood and his thick
woolen slacks. He rips the

stripes off the candy canes. Builds
his house out of razors and
chains. Cuts all the trees in his
backyard. His face is brown leather

and his tummy, mustard and
lard. Some folks say he wasn't
born. He was raised from a shallow
grave in a delta wave.

of falling rain, a crystal
sphere sitting on his windowpane,
looking in from the outside
through a glass forty inches wide.

I'm a drop
a tiny tear, part of a
pair that runs like the Nun
river. Through every crevice
I shake and shiver.

I'm a drop
a dew on a blade
of tall grass waving in the
shade. In a quiet spot
of reverie, sunbeams
burn a hole in my dream.

I'm a drop
in the bucket, buried
at the bottom under layers
of paper, a dense cloud
of smoke and vapor.

I'm a drop
from a leaky faucet. I've
worn out washers and loose
rings. Plink, Plink I splash,
in the sink.

fields of trumpet playing daffodils
skipping in a cornflower sky,
fireworks like the fourth of
July. Each diamond drop of April rain

tasted like strawberry champagne. I
had Christmas every day under
the evergreens and frolicked
and made angels in the snow. So,

tell me now where did you
go? You ripped the stripes off my
candy cane. You've shown me cherry
blossoms of bubble gum blowing

trees, then you fell away
like the autumn leaves. How does
a flora and fauna forest turn into
a blinding dust storm in the

desert? Where are the fawns
and the sweet songs of the brown
thrasher? I did not spot your matte
black hues. Now my greens are milky blues.

My Happiness
is not
dependent upon
your approval
or availability
or if you don't like
what you see

My happiness
is not through
a job
friendship,
a marriage
or a child.
My own life is
worthwhile

My happiness
is not based
on my weight
my face
and my *******
or if I ace
all my tests

My happiness
is liking myself
as I am
and doing the best
that I can
Being grateful
for what I have
Not walking in
other people's shadows
but shining my own
special light
and doing what
I think is right
Standing up for myself
even if
that goes against
everyone else

in the mountain. Take a step and
ascend. Place faith in yourself
and plan your next direction. Pause
and rest, to get your bearings. Success

is in all the little steps. Glimpse
at the summit. But set your eyes
on the path ahead. When you’re
in the middle of the climb,

a quick look up and not behind
reminds you of the prize. It's where
your future lies. Take a deep breath of
the cool, clean mountain air. It’s crisp

as maple bacon and will move
you through the blinding glare. The next
foothold is only inches away. But you
will not find if you stray.

on the rocks
with a salty rim like a cocktail
paired with lox, in a room smoky
and dim. Shaken like maracas,

red painted wood. In this
mystery the music's where I
stood. I was shaken down
like a mercury thermometer. I

had a fever.  It burnt
like firewood. I was shaken
like a finger pointed right at me,
piercing through my dreamy

reverie. Shaken like a baby
that's been screaming all day
long. Bleeding in the brain.  I go out
into that dark, thick night like a high-speed train.

called a thin slit
fastened over
a shiny round golden
metal. And there

I sit stitched in line
by cotton thread
colored red, so I
don't fray. Hidden

away from everyone,
but holding it all together
to make it fit. The buttery
disc is taking center

stage when we're
engaged. But when
the sun becomes undone
we lay across from

one another,
brothers of the same
cloth. He's the meat and
I the broth.

holds locks of curly
chestnut brown hair, and
the tiny knit socks that he
used to wear. There's a fuzzy

blue blanket with cottontail
rabbits hopping in the tall
grass. Topping that is Green
Eggs and Ham resting on

the musical lamb. The stuffed
teddy bear with one arm
missing is kissing Thomas the
tank engine. And the piggy

bank swallowed the copper
penny that christened
it, along with the red fleece hat
and mitts. A striped giraffe

bib is tucked in the corner
still decorated with the plum
and grape stain that didn’t wash
out, right under his name. A cardboard

box sits buried in my closet. Was it
just yesterday that thirty years
slipped away.

a soapy crystal bubble
growing cramped under
his calloused foot. He flattens
me, as I stay

put. Walking around
with a grimace he limits
my breathing space
placing a gauze pad over

my face. Leaking like a water
balloon soaking his shoes
from room to room. Flapping
my hanging skin like a

hummingbird's wings. For years
I held it all in like a rain cloud. But I
rounded sitting heavy. Wind and eddy
shed my pearl drops slow and steady.

tangled in the trees. Following
a breeze she let herself go far
as the string on her end let
her. Wetter than the grass in spring

she flew before she budded
wings. Now the diamond with
a tail has no ocean for her to
sail. High in the tree like a grackle,

strung by a nylon shackle
she flops. Branches cutting holes
as she drops in her blue and red
cloth. Swinging by a limb among

the green. Many wanted to fly
her. But now she's hung like a worn
out tire tied to the tree. And the leaves
left her bare as snow covered her tears.

through the wind in a warm
waltzing breeze. Wrapped in
velvet fur men fall in layers
like crimson autumn

leaves. Her chest rises
like a leopard in the Serengeti. Eyes
all over me like a panther in
the snow. I cannot see

them. They shoot out darting
me with the evergreen
glow. She's a lone cougar
ready to pounce. Swag in

her step, flirting in her
flounce. Her footprints are
larger than the moon, marking
men with her golden perfume.

on an ant in hopes it will
fly. Or build a nest for a fish
on a tree way up high. Or place
a beak on a snake

in hopes it will sing. Your phone
doesn't ring by wishes. ***** dishes
piled in the sink don't wash
themselves. You may not

rise in the morning but the sun
surely will. And time goes on
even if you stand still. Clouds
will roll in like the ocean

tide. A turtle cannot hide
drawing into its shell. And death
will come find you, even if
today you are well.

like red rubber *****
till they hit the brick walls
stopping them. Then they
fall flat like Uncle Matt's

jokes. I collect them like cockle
shells on the beach. They're my
peach in the lonely afternoons,
when I'm sitting in the

sand dunes wondering if
they're going to jell. Why did she
tell me so with glee when it was only
make believe? Why did I fall like a

cannonball? Every time she opens
her lipstick mouth they dissipate
into the air like Uncle Matt's
gas in his recliner chair.

with soap and a cotton
cloth the human stain and all
the shame of wearing it
like a port wine

stain on her face. She can
not shrink the scar like smoking
a cigar down to the stub. She cannot
wipe it away with a can of

household spray. It seeps into
the cracks. Like roots growing
in a sidewalk it expands
and buckles, like a punch

in the gut with brass
knuckles. She cannot erase
it like words on the school
blackboard. They fester inside

her head.  She cannot rip it
up like paper in a shredder,
cutting it into narrow strips
or little confetti chips. She can

not paint over it with a make-
up brush to fit. Like a watercolor in
the rain the colors bleed and drain
into a puddle by her feet. How life repeats.

right before the sun is
dawning when the sky turns
bubble gum pink and darkness
begins to shrink all is

quiet. People snuggling
in their beds like caterpillars in
a cocoon missing the mystery of
this silence before they turn

on autopilot.  They scurry
like mice through walls and
floors going about their daily
chores. I cannot breathe after

eight, when the neighborhood
wakes. I'm like a cake falling in
the oven through the bustle and  
the shuffle and the early morning

hussle. Parents packing up
screaming kids. Watching people with
droopy eyelids clutching onto mugs
of coffee as if their life depended

on the rush of caffeine. How prosaic this
routine! Blaring horns, dogs barking and
men double parking robs me of my silent
reverie that time can only keep.

POEM I WROTE ABOUT MY SON ALEX:

The Way He Wears
his smile, like a sundial
casting light across his
face. There're bouncing rays
in his hazel gaze.

The way he wears
his cotton baseball cap, to the
side with the brim hanging off him
like an elephant's ear is so dear.

The way the wears
his ice-cream in chocolate
swirls painted on his shirt and pants
looks like a van Gogh starry night dance.

The way he wears
his sneakers unlaced and his small
waist that can barely hold his shorts
in place with a belt makes my heart melt.

big as brass and randy
slowly rises like a sourdough
over the horizon in a summer's
show. Painting the ocean in

a sea of shimmering pink
like a rhubarb pie, running
juices across the sky. Ascending
into an orange blossom. Hanging

lazy like a possum, filling me
up with mystery like a poem of
Tennessee's. I snap a photo
to frame. But as I look

it's not the same. It's not like
sitting amidst the glow and
salty air. A cooling breeze blows
my hair like spider webs draping across

my face. Dancing waves splashing
spray between my toes like looping
lace.  A tickle in my nose from
the sweeping sand, as darkness slips

through my hand. Standing in a Monet
painting.  Why is night draining? The elevation
waning. The moon is not a prize. Blackness
blinds the eyes.

branches. A fallen red leaf
dances and glides. She broke off
and cut her ties. Carried by a breeze
over mountain, prairie and

trees. She hitches herself
to dreams riding the current
in streams. So far from her roots
she has flung. So long since

she raised her young. A buttery
sun warms her days. A cheesy moon
coats her in shade. She skips over
feathery ferns. He waits but she

doesn't return. A mosaic tile, her
pieces are small and freestyle. She's a
blood orange sky, a swirling candy
cane over ocean, rock and terrain.

dancing cha-cha
in your nose or a forceful
sneeze excited to let go would you
wipe me up with a cotton hanky?

If I was a cranky gale
blowing hot messing your coiffure
or a hangnail with spots and
a jagged edge would you file
me down?

If I was a pounding
throb in your head would you
lay me in your four-poster bed
and lock the door?

If I was a thick pile
of stinking manure
squishing between your toes
would you wash me away
with water and soap?

If I was a rope
would you climb? Watch the sunrise
over the mountain. See the eagle
fly around and catch our breath. We've
only this one chance left.

like a marble statue
in the art museum for
all to fawn over it. It does not
dawn on man that it can

not walk or even stand. It
sits encased by rope. Man cannot
touch the chiseled face. He moves on
like the black ink night. A silhouette

in the morning light streaks
her honey hair through his
bedroom window. Silence sits
low as the floorboards that creak

underneath the old man's
feet.  It squeaks like the mice
inside his walls. He does
not see them but hears them crawl.

we'll hopscotch the moon
eating chocolate bars, singing
out of tune. We'll pack wings
and head to the sky. But tomorrow

like a shower quickly passed
by. She says we'll meet
under the stars. She'll bring
the whisky, and I the cigars. I'll ride

the bike. She'll sit on the
handlebars. She says just wait
till the juniper berries stick out
their thumbs then we'll have

a merry time. It's not too
late! We're in our prime. But as I
look in the glass there's more gray
than black. Crevices rise when once

they lied flat. She says we'll rock
in her car, with the radio blasting
and windows ajar. But the only rocking
I do is in my recliner. So, tomorrow we'll eat

at the diner, binging on cheeseburgers,
wearing red lipstick and eyeliner. We'll talk
about when we were kids and hopscotched
the moon. How's about next year? See you in June.

short and thin, bending
to the wind. My head is
close to the ground. Green
as the grass I live in a tight

circle mound. Bigger than
a seedling, but not wholly
sprung. I'm just a pearl
that has yet to be

strung. No flowers
or fruit hang from my
branches. But I can grow
as big as an old farmer's

ranch is. If the cornflower
sky sprinkled me with a misty
kiss and the buttered *** sun
danced on my leaves I'd promise

you this. I'd rise to heights
tall as the mountains,
having an eagle build an
aerie on my branches. Spying

an eaglet scratch her way to the
the outside world from inside an egg
is joy. I cannot be cloyed by nature's
excess. To me, it only loosens the stress.

reddish-brown, dancing
around my dead nest that's
bombed, poisoned and fallen
to the ground. Still buzzing

where it hung. Stinging
men that stand near it. Strands
of it dangling down like colored
party streamers, swinging in

the air. My tummy balloons like
I ate a hearty meal. But I'm starving
as I spiel these lines. Smelling
of its death prickles me like

long needle pines. Rebuilding
on the splinters, on the shards of
what's been left. Not a pearl to
string. The brokenness has heft.

a tiny roll,
a planted seed of
an embryo. A fallen
dewdrop

on a green blade.
A hidden gumdrop
melting in the shade.
Just a whisper

dancing in the
wind. A glossy pearl
that is silver tinged.
A hiccup on a ride

wave. Jasmine star paved
on an angel's wing. A bead
of mist skipping bridges in
G-string. A splash of perfume

nesting inside a wrist. Curly
lemon twist hanging over
a V-shaped glass. Running
wax on the sides of  

a candle. A weathered sole
on a leather sandal. The piercing
silent movie scream. A tickle under
the armpit steam. A hatching nit in

wavy hair. A bit of her here
and there. A sniffle in the frosty
air. A breath cloud hung
in the circus sky. Elephants

marching, trumpeting
lullabies to the beat of old
father time, in the streets of
an uphill climb.

sings a song gliding across
like an albatross on crystal
blue lakes of shimmering
diamonds swimming to

her island of blue. Fanning her
snow white feathers treasures
the orange moon. Bobbing her head
to the flock she takes off

like a rocket firing into a cornflower
sky, high as a magpie over the
mountain. Counting the winking stars
she spars with a noctilucent cloud

that stands like corn in the
meadow. An old man is playing banjo
on his back porch. She flies low
to the ground trumpeting hot like

a blowtorch to   "******* creek". A couple
dances cheek to cheek. Crickets
chirp to the string brass, all to the sound
of bluegrass.

weeping purple leaves
bowing her curly tight head
swinging lithe limbs
singing in shadows old

time hymns. Redbud
lavender pea flowers
they call ruby falls. Amusing
the hours surfing on  

a begotten breeze. Skimming
the water looking for ducks,
frogs and geese. Some say she's
lonely. Some say she's blue. Grey

clouds befall her all standing in
queues. She mingles with dewdrops
and jingles in rhyme. Spending her time
flirting with sunbeams, tracking

herons looking to dine. The bellow of
bullfrogs paint a crimson smile,
while spilled perfume of lilacs dancing
in showers has her laughing for hours.

like my breath
when I dismount my guy
after ***. I count the beats
of my pulse as I lie and

convulse.  After ******,
it drops down like a
barometer in stormy
weather. Like a dog on her

tether on a hot sunny
day pacing back and
forth in a tight space with
no shade.  I've nowhere

to go. I'm flat out and
laid.  A stiff drink with cheese
stuffed olives makes me rise,
getting out of bed to wipe my eyes.

as the sun up in the sky. It goes on
without you spinning circles, feigning
shy. It tugs upon your apron,
frivolously liking to play. When did

you get older? Wishing for
your younger days? Every bead
of sweat befalls you like
a sticky lollipop. The clouds

are cotton candy and it's
raining lemon drops. Are your
dreams that elusive? Flittering
like a butterfly? Sliding down

a rainbow; landing in caramel apple
pie! Oh, that rascal moon! It's a chunk
of cheese. Are you feeling a bit mousy?
Take a bite of it; do please.

with wonder,
even as you slumber
still as night.
For I would take you

under if your colors
bled to palest white. If you
were to burn me
with the scalding of
your tongue I would still

taste honey despite that I've
been stung. If you rained
shards of icy hail I would not
run for cover, nor be

windswept by the gale. For me
there is other. It puts me in
a bind. Because as you leave
part of me is left behind.

her swollen blisters
walking miles where no man goes.
She talks in whispers
trudging with bunions on her toes.

You don't touch her as she quivers
from the night's she's slept alone.
She is moon, sun and rivers.
You're a pebble, a skipping stone!

You cannot smell a rose's sweetness.
You're too busy pulling thorns.
You don't have completeness.
You're a ram, encrusted with a head of horns.

You cannot taste a drop of honey.
Bitterness sits on your tongue.
You cannot feed off all your money.
The only thing to which you clung.

what she knows. But
she doesn't know
me. She knows all
she's read and heard, things

that I've done, places
I've gone.  She's drawn her
conclusions on those
alone. She hasn't picked up

the phone to talk. She sees
what she sees. But she doesn't
see me. She sees pictures
on screens. So, she knows

how I look. But she hasn't
looked in my eyes. She hasn't
seen me cry. She hasn't held
my hand. She doesn't know my plans.

is a bank account. What you
put in is what you get out. Every
sweet word is a deposit. Kindness
paves the way to profit. Withdrawals

are made from criticism. When
you disrespect you are depleting
your share. And in time you will
find that there's nothing

there. Relationships are
an investment. It's time to make
an assessment. If you take and take
you'll drain the well. Don't raise your

voice. Don't pout and yell. Memories
are receipts. Not everything comes
with a return. What you put in is
what you will earn.

brings us together
Time
draws us apart
Time
makes the rose bud grow
Time
destroys them in the snow
Time
is a thief stealing our days
Time
is a sneak that hides in the shade
Time
is endless to the young
Time
to the old is a fling that has flung
Time
one can never get back
Time
shows all the wear and the cracks
Time
Is a teacher to the wise
Time
is frittered away by a fool and his lies

since she flew down
south. I haven't heard anything
from her that was word
of mouth. I look at her pictures,

still frames of her youth. I dabble
in the reverie afternoons drinking
vermouth. She'd flitter and flutter
flower to flower, flapping wings

in an early evening shower. When
the grass wore its coat of gleaming
white was the day she took her first
flight. I thought she'd be back

to hear the bluebird sing and
see the cherry trees blooming
in the spring. But as the days melted
into years, it didn't wash away a single

drop of my tears. So, memories I'll
frame. Hanging them on my walls,
they all look the same. I cannot hear
her chirping over my morning cup of

coffee, or see her nest flossy
in the trees. Like the autumn leaves
she blew away. And after she left
the cornflower skies turned a silver grey.

because she carries
the weight of the world
on her little shoulder. As she
grew older it only doubled. So,

she built herself a bubble
and lives inside of it. It's
round and the walls are
made of chocolate. No floor

or ceiling is there. No couch
or armchair. She's suspended
in the air. Here she dabbles
and she doodles. She eats

buttered noodles. She drinks
pansies and peppermint. And flings
her lines to print. She never did
marry. No one wanted Carrie.

blowing on their tufted
tops, floating in the air
like parachutes. Planting
their seeds to fruit. There's no

limit how far they travel. All
these mysteries in time
unravel. Cottonwood
fluff riding the

wind. Their fine down hairs
coating plants and spider
webs. Like a blanket of snow
they spread throughout

the river park in a glow of
white after dark. It only takes
one gritty seed to make it
to a tree.

like a fitted cotton sheet
tucked inside the hall closet,
stacked neat on the
bottom with the pillow

cases. She spread out
like a butterfly emerging
from her chrysalis and flew
off into the distance. I watched

her airborne. And I stood forlorn
at how she unfolded. I liked her
tight and molded when I had her
in my hand. But she had her

plans. I was rooted to
my yard like the big oak tree,
stripped of leaves in winter,
with bark splintered. She

unfolded like a picnic blanket on
a sunny day. People gathered
to eat and drink and celebrate. And I
was not invited. I sat nil and slighted.

skate on a crystal thinning
silver lakes. Swinging down
on rose vines they throw out
rhymes in a parade

to be seen. Pasting it
like paper dolls in these rooms
that have not walls, some call
a magazine. Till the weeks

scream not in words
but freshly painted silences
dropping down in bombs
of red. There fly pieces

of a dream. It's raining shards
of thank you nots. And like tots
wobble to the next room for
a shot with bruises on their egos

and knees. Waiting to please
men coloring with pen in the lines. Dotting
their eyes with white cotton, they'll not
be sought in this edition.

is a smile
was an upside down
frown. His eyes blue as
the ocean. But inside them

I drown. Drawn like a bee
to his lavender colors
and gold. But as I grew close,
like the night he turned

cold. He stung me after
feeding me honey. We met
on a day it was breezy and
sunny. But grey clouds

trumpeted like elephants
in the bush. What I thought
was kinship turned
into an ambush.

and polished it with
lace. I placed it on my mantel,
above the hearth, next to
the candles. It sat there

looking at me. So, I asked it
for a cup of tea. We laughed and
we wept. I slept if off that night
high as the luminescent

streetlight. But it swelled up
like a bee sting the next morning. I iced it
with a drink I fixed in my kitchen
sink of ***** and olive brine. Then I

penned this line by line, staring
at the cracks I spackled with juniper
and rose hips from the garden. This time,
hardened in a tortoise shell next to the candles.

again. I'll pack it away
like a birthday present. Stuff
it in my drawers, with my bras
and socks. It's like a cookie

crumbling. I lick off all
the frosting. What's left falls on
the floor, to be swept up when I do
the evening chores. It's a locomotive

train leaving the station in the
morning. If I sleep in, I'll miss
it. I must run or it will fly like an eagle
mountain high. But in the running,

I must stop and sniff my garden
blooming or catch a breeze skating
a figure eight on my skin. My face,
a tease of sunlight percolating.

a beam of a golden
stream flickering in the old
winged back chair, the one
with pills from the cat and all

his black hair. The cornflower
blue has faded to grey. But
through my window I see
how sunlight plays. It's the only

life this wooden four legged
seat has had. It sits in the corner
like an impish lad. It moved to this
house after my parents died, along

with the couch and dishes
piled high. But today a dancing
yellow strand ran across its back
when the window was opened a crack.

what the man looks like
now. Does he have a high
forehead and bushy
eyebrows? Is his grey hair

sticking out of his ears? Can he
hear me loud and clear? Suddenly, he
disappeared. Does he have a beer
belly? Do his pants hang low? Has his

gait turned somewhat slow? Does he
still smile like a cheshire cat? Do
all his jokes still fall flat? Has he
retired? Did he move away? Does he

have someone to hold at night? Is he
OK?? Time doesn't stand still. It moves
on like a freight train, leaving puffs of
billowing smoke and looking glass pane.

and they drop out. I count
them every day. Some
leave. Some stay. It's a number's
game. I don't know their

names. I don't know who
they are. Like ashes from a
cigar they tap and flick the brown
rolled stick till I fall inside the

tray. I lie like pieces of
clay in the smoked green glass
in a heaping mass. They water me
with hypocrisy. Upon their cheshire grin

they sputter sarcasm. Spinning webs
of silky lines I'm a fly caught in
my rhymes. Drinking ***** and lime
till I drown the moon in my spilled perfume.

is the spot I crawl into
to get away from the noise
and the fray. Cats cannot
follow me in. They sit outside

chagrin. It's my little nook
where I read my book, as I sip
my cherry wine penning every
line. The only noise I hear is the

whirring of the fan. I'm a velvet
mole burrowing in my hole. It's where
the lilacs bloom, in the floorboards of
my room. The ceiling grows as I

doze in my rocking chair. Cats
peep at me through the hole. They can
not see me as they squint. Blowing
my horn, they take off and sprint.