like eggs benedict, a poached
egg wobbly as it sits. Covered in hollandaise
sauce, spooling on his plate. Spilling
over the sides as he ate! Runny as
his nose the snowy winter he ran

a fever and had a cold. There was a big tear
in her, running like crimson sheer pantyhose,
from her crotch down to her toes. Runny
as the Colorado river. Against the pines

and mountains she's a sliver. Runny as
her hazel eyes. As the tear ducts fill
she cries. It drips like dew drops pearling
on her lips. Runny as drains collecting

all the rain beating down from the sky. Like
the juices in mom's baked apple pie. After all,
she was his honey. But amber sweetness
heated under the fire is hot and runny.

in darkness,
the blackness and I.
My shadow a vest,
these fingers my Sai.

Billowing clouds
clapped their thunder.
There I stood
a soleless sunder.

Brains of spaghetti,
blood the sauce.
And bent I roll
in the dregs and the dross.

Cuffed in chains
I march forward in toil.
Hanging as a mosquito net,
a diaphanous voile.

inside mother's womb
when my eyes were closed
to life's perils and doom? Can I
go back to the time before

time when I was just a thought
before one more line appeared on the
EPT. Can I go back before I was
me? Can I go back before the *****

swam up the tube? Can I block off
the entrance or poison the ****? Can I go
back before they met, when she was inside
her mother's womb? Can I go back to the time

her eyes were closed to life's
perils and doom?  Back to the time
before she was a thought! Before the
pregnancy test was even bought!

circling her face
like bicycle wheels. Splintering
ice-chips clinging to her rose
lips. She’s wearing a frozen

smile, cold as the subway tile. Frost is
a glaze on the bathroom mirror. Her breath
billowing clouds. They're grey as
mother's hair under the chestnut wig that

she wears. The tears were once
a ****, colored as a Rubik cube from
globs of shimmering eye shadow. It's stained
glass, like the church windows from

father's funeral mass. In this prism touched
with autism everything done is rote. Everything
wrote is done. The hail’s blowing around like
juggling ***** of a circus clown.

to you. Couldn't swim in cornflower
lakes of blooming mistakes. Drowned
as the ice cracked this body. Built
me a soddy that sank in the banks

of the Pio. You lost your brio
and sleeve. Cleaved to the past
when this woman could skate a diamond
lake. Spin and circle figure

eights. Pirouettes on tattered
crimson tutus. Stood on battered tiptoes
for you. Now the only lines that rhyme
is tequila mixed with lime.  And salt

the shot glass. The bloat turns out
as gas. Passing on cornflower
lakes. The fallen leaves bid to be raked
and bagged. Conversations nipped/not dragged.

in the gut
with a fist full of apples
from the trunks of his eyes,
cutting me in pieces

like ma's hot pies. Burnt as the
flambe', sliding off him, like whipped
cream. All part of a sick girl's
dream. Like Swiss cheese,
you can stick your finger through

the holes in me. The floating
noodle in the soup. Lying flat
and soggy, a clucking chicken
in the coop. Sitting on the

eggs. Thought I'd crack,
or less be scrambled. I shouldn't
have gambled on the man. Should
have seen the cleaver and ran!

you passed. But where
did you go? Did you melt
in the sun like the April
snow? Were you passed

around a cherry wood table
like brown giblet gravy? Were you able
to travel for miles like
the Navy? Were you passed

like a football to all the team
players? Were you wrapped
like a mummy in layers upon
layers? Did you pass as the wind

beneath eagle wings? Do you
laugh at the things that
you worried about? Are you no longer
hurried/like a candle blown out?

of flypaper
hanging on the walls

floating in the air
trapped in bathroom stalls.

And every fly
that whizzes by

is intoxicated with
my sweet perfume.

But little do they know
they're flying to their doom!

on wafer-thin ice.
He slipt and fell,
not once, but twice.
And the sun shone on

that pine forest pond.
The sun wore spandex
and was strawberry blonde.
And as he held her, a stick of butter,

the ice cracked
as his legs did flutter.
His arms flail
like the sail on a schooner.

And no sooner
had I said so,
he froze full frantic.
And sunk just like the great Titanic.

inside my head. He's a child I cannot
put to bed. He'll not sleep. He's up
all night, asking for a glass of water,
starting a fight. He wakes me up at

three o'clock. He knocks on
my bedroom door. He stomps his feet
on my floorboards. I rise to the sound
of him. He's blended in my morning

coffee. Sticks to me like butter
toffee. Even the crimson leaves let
go before the December snow. Why do I
still remember? It's been years since that

September. January floats my breath in
billowing clouds that don't lose their steam.
A paper princess cannot scream. He's just
an imitation of my imagination.

are sneakers
that run
faster than a bullet
shot from a gun

My eyes
are icicle fountains
an avalanche
sliding down a mountain

My eyes
are rivers
that rapidly flow
into a sea
of covered snow

My lashes
windshield wipers
that grow heavy
like baby diapers

My pupils
a dark abyss
since I fallen
dilate and hiss

like a Rat Tail comb running through
my hair, with his bone. Back and forth
with rows of teeth. Encircling my head
like the red and golden ***** in a Christmas

wreath. Hovering like a hummingbird,
******* my nectar with his whetted
needle. Singing a song from Taylor to
wheedle. Like a child pulling a prank. Bending

my torso over his lap to spank. I grew
blue in color, like a fish tangled in
the net of a trawler. And as bantering
boys on the school playground

he was quick with a sally. Every fling
that he flung he knew I kept tally. But I too,
batted my lashes. And we kicked up dust
as we burned down in ashes.

like trapped dirt and hair in
the floorboards of a musty attack,
crackling like a phone full of static. Eyes
slot machines in dollar signs

bright green. I couldn't get over;
he was mixed like a box of Russell
Stover. As a turtle I was ready
to snap. Running like sap out of

the maple tree I fell and bruised
my knee and ticker. As the years drew on
I grew sicker. But I hung in there with
my scabs without keeping tabs.

on my arm stand
like soldiers in ten rows,
like wheat fields
as the wind whips through

and blows.
He made the hair
on my head curl
like a plate of green fiddleheads,

like the colored spools  
of grandma's threads.
He made the hair
on the edge of my eyelids flutter

like butterflies in a garden,
like an actress that starred in
a musical play.
But his feet were made of clay.

a flying magnolia aircraft that didn't
think I'd crash into his window,
hitting it with a thud. Face squashed
against the pane. I'm stunned. The life

in me drained. Quashed by a
reflection. Cast by the abjection.
Breaking my neck, gasping for my last
breath. Bleeding inside myself. Wings

folded like an accordion as I headed for
the white and green Victorian. I saw crimson,
orange leaves, watercolors on the trees. Scene
wafting like apple pie, a tie-dye of smells

and colors. Cherry wine in giant
mullers. Thought I'd pass as the wind
through my feathers. I weathered hits
before. But not with a centaur!

chair, molding around the contours
my body. I sink into him as
the beans swim like a school
of fish sticking together. Making

an impression of my derriere
as I melt like butter into the four foot
cloud of cornflower suede. All set out
and laid like a quilt. Cozy and snug

like a warm glass of milk. And rain
can pitter patter on my window. It doesn’t
matter the darkness of the sky, when I’m
safe inside and dry. As the hands on

the clock fly my eyes grow
heavy. Nothing can keep the sleepers out,
not even a levee! The smell of Christmas
pine stands next to my glass of wine.

memory in his handkerchief
tucked in his left breast pocket. In childbirth,
wiping sweat from her brow. Yellowed by her
cigarette. It's balled in wrinkles now. Dabbing

her tears with paisley cotton.  Once white
as the roses she carried the day
they married. She'd blot her crimson
lipstick lips before she planted

him a kiss. Her spilled perfume on
the dresser. The years had not made
his pain lesser. He'd waved the handkerchief
like a kite in the air, as she waltzed

down the stair. Now the square piece of
cloth has holes from the moths. But he
cannot wash it. He wore it along side
his lapel as they rang the wedding bells.

of musical chairs. Walking in circles
to the beat of the phonograph
as you paint on a smile and roll
out the laugh. But the music

stops. And you haven’t found
a sweet spot. So, the next time
the needle drops into the groove
you are removed, like an object

in photoshop. He crops you
out of the picture. You hang back
and see all these girls chasing
a seat. You used to be one of

them. He used to call you his gem. But now
he has more than he can hold. Now that
it's late and he's growing old. His circle
is smaller. Now the girls he's keeping

wear tight collars. He conducts pitch
and sound. Raising them to the sky
like Moses. Plucking them like roses,
till their toes curl. Who'll be the last girl?

shaking the ground, pitching
his sound just like a tenor. He's making
me wheeze. My lungs are whistling
like a kettle. And of yet, they have

not settled. He's a disease. My liver,
foie gras, black as char, a smoking
cigar. A blocked artery. A growing
malignant tumor spreading around like

a high school rumor. An all-over body rash
with mountainous boils, popping
and making a splash. He’s head lice,
clawing my long golden hair. *******

the blood up there. Here's a fourth
degree burn peeling my skin back
at every turn. He's an anaphylactic shock -
like the hands of a broken clock. I stop.

were we of champagne
and brie, golden sunflowers
and rain showers Painting
rainbows over a cornflower

sky. Both flying high as
a condor, not fonder of another.
We only had each other. Blooming
a woodland garden. Didn't see

you harden under a diamond
stitched quilt of December
snow. Remember, carrying the guilt
like a bucket to and fro. Autumn

leaves must fall. In the crimson
with limbs in and hair tangled
in the fire. Both heading for the
funeral pyre.

in raindrops on tin rooftops
pitter-patter/kerplunk
Running down his windowpane
The glass is weeping;

not he. He is sleeping snug
in his four-poster mahogany bed. Not once
does she cross his head. Her silence
drives down from the sky in hail. Dents

the rails on his fence. Leaving him
a little tense. He swings a baseball bat
at them sending them flying high
into the air. Breaking them

apart. Till the pieces
ricochet off his hard veneer. The sky
fleeced in shaggy clouds. He punches
a hole in it, screaming out loud.

licking off his marrow
cheeping
and chattering
sweeping wings
above his window
building a nest
soft as a pillow
underneath the eaves
filling it with feathers, twigs
and fallen dead leaves
squabbling over crumbs
and seeds
with little round heads
and stout beaks
buff tan and brown
with layered black streaks
holding the world
inside of her cheeks

brush it aside,
like a strand of golden hair,
hanging as pleaded panel
curtains covering her

eyes. She'll face it head on,
square. She’ll not allow it
to sit, like dust coating the
furniture. She'll give it

a swift kick, let it fall
like a ton of bricks. She'll not
let it blow, like smoke from frying
steak in the pan in her kitchen,

out the window, in a black
colored band. She’ll not lock it
in the closet with all her
skeletons. She’ll mix it

up with the gelatin. Blood
orange and mint. Plate it
for dessert. Wash it down with
gin and tonic, all this hurt.

wept all over
the mahogany table. So, he cradled
them in his hands, till the color
ran down the length of

his arm. And his hand
was a prison for the wrinkled
crimson. Men before him spread
the soft, curled petals all over

their four cornered brass
bed. And they died without
water. They died without sun.
They died dried up. They'd been

picked too young. All that is left
is the appendage riddled with
thorns. She piddled her life on men
since the day she was born.

can erase the contours of
his chiseled face
the high cheek ruddy bones
petal rose lips
kissed a hundred times
in the corners of this cobwebbed mind
the crevices above his porcelain brow
his doe eyes making me grunt
like a pregnant sow
an ectomorph with a glabrous pate
a Cheshire grin that cannot fade
the swirling cyclone clouding this head
the secret trysts in his tool shed
his lithe arms encasing me
as a chrysalis
engulfed, a **** gooseberry
in the physalis
and the world outside
did not exist
creaky windows covered
in lavender mist
the scraping of soiled soles
two breaths rise
dancing in silhouettes
no amount of time
can erase this

I like the ocean
as it mixes with the sand
to form a cast of my foot
where I stand. It molds

in-between my toes, around
my heel and under my arch,
kinda like a paste of water and
cornstarch. As I lift my ankle

I see the impression of a
size seven. And another just like
it, and another and another,
leaving a trail behind me. As I look

out over a cornflower sea
I feel the cool, soft sand massaging
my feet. I feel like the leader of
a band. I don't need a man

to hold my hand. This walk will
be a memory. The footprints will
wash away as the tide rolls in.
Nothing here can stay.

when his cell
played her song as her name
displayed on his screen
to pick it up. He delayed

checking his messages. And all
her emails sat in his in-basket
left unopened, taking residence like
a list of presidents. He didn't think

she'd not show, like she had no place
to go, only to his house. He didn't think
as days turned into weeks and not
a peep of her there. And dust bunnies

made their home in the corners
of her chocolate velvet chair, as autumn
closed in, with crimson, yellow leaves
falling to the ground, billowing in the

breeze. He didn't hear a sound
from her. Not even a tease of the
cheesy smile she once wore. He didn't think
as the numbers on his calendar changed
that it was strange she hadn't called. Or when

was the last time he laid eyes
on her petite figure? Or jumped in her
laughter. Or see the sun bounce off the
long honey highlights in her hair? Or how

her perfume filled the air with lilacs in
his room. Or the plume of her thrift-store
rainbow dress. Now that the old burly
oak tree with painted leaves in emerald

green standing outside his windowpane
left a stain of her dancing pirouettes around it.
Her running in the rain along with her mascara.
Confound it!

I was mile high like Denver
when he called me from Boulder. So older
than I. Didn't known he was a Picasso,
painting me in cherries jubilee. And so,

I melted inside of
his phone. With the juices still
running I was shunning echoes of
the woman calling to him, mother of

all his kids. The one he wouldn’t
leave me for. Those cherries have
pits. But I've learned how to spit them
out. Lit with the brandy and tasting

like candy he flambéed me. But he
also kept a little French Suzette in his
closet, for the nights he preferred a dish
a little more light.

my head floats off my body. I'm in
a board meeting. I'm out the
door. I'm taking notes. Sweeping
the floor. Checking off lists

of things to do. The taste in my mouth
of last night's beef stew. My tummy
is jumping. Must be gas. The clock is
ticking. Will this pass? The sun is rising

out my bedroom window. The ceiling
fan blowing the dust below. Counting
the minutes till he is finished. Adding in
sound while I'm diminished. Flattened under

his weight. Riding my tracks
like a long freight. Drying up like the
Mojave Desert. This is just a sport
before my morning chores.

with an old dish cloth
as I do the plates when I wash
them after dinner, till the remnants
of Salisbury steak grow thinner. Or sweat

that runs off like a trough
down my nape from the steam
in the bathroom. Wipe him with
a tissue as I do the mist on the

mirror. I dot the glass. And a little
spot grows clearer. But it fills back up
again. Till a breeze from the window
blows in. He's ***** matter stuck in

the groove of my sneaker. So,
as I move, I tread it into the house. Spreading
it like a disease. And the stench of it
knocks me out. But even ****

that’s smeared like shaving cream in
peaks of brown and green
can be wiped off the floor. But not
the memory I neatly store.

climbing on my bathroom scale
making me wail
in shock
the falling
of bonds and stocks
breaking limits on my speedometer
the mercury
shooting up my thermometer
on store price tags
they rise so high
and through the years
how fast they fly
but through the night
they flash at me digitally
the book reviews
rating me in stars
all the burning candles
on your birthday cake
reminding me
how old you are
this expanse
on the tag
in the back of my pants
if I could rid myself
of digits
a life with no limits

and the smell of rubbing
alcohol. Rows of beds and
machines that beep. How does
a young boy

with such noise sleep? Tubes
in throat, arms and legs. This
is how we live every day. Paging doctor
so and so with a color code. Stuffed

monkey from the gift shop
lays propped up on the blanket. She hasn’t
tanked yet. But she’s on her way. Looking out
the window into the smog. Eying people

rushing off in a fog, all unaware
of her sleeping in a chair. A scream from
the room next door. Yesterday’s apple
core turning brown. A visit from the circus clown.

in my pocket. I wear it
as a locket on days when I’m
down. And even when it
is hidden I can tell that it’s still

sound. I carry it
to breakfast. It floats in my morning
coffee, sweeter than the sugar
and cream. Brighter than the sun’s

early beam. It lights up my bathroom
mirror. Dissipates the fog
on the glass making it clearer. Filling
up every room like a bottle of Channel

perfume. I carry it out of the house,
driving the car and walking the cobblestone
streets. If I dazzle you, it's not me! It's
his smile in the billowing breeze.

like little boys as they sleep
with lashes that sway
like a cradle in day
sweet like a bloom
over fluorescent moons
and arms tucked in as wings
floating on billowing pillows
top of box springs
lips of rose petal
where beads of pearls settle
gently pull apart
if this didn’t tug at my heart
then a sandy head facing heaven
puffing like leaven
with porcelain cheeks
and legs twisted in sheets
like fields of honey wheat
taking my breath
drifting me in caresses of lullaby
moistening my eyes!

They look to mars
across the stars
for spaceships hovering over the sky
are they friend or are they spy

flying saucers in the air
to whom this life do we compare
green men with elongated heads
Rastafarians wearing Jamaican dreads

Tattoos on limbs/rings in noses
women are men and red as roses
earth's burning hotter every day
we're all part of the same milk way

full of crimson
not stark as a prison,
where gnarly limbs scratch
the frame of my house. Or stripped

as a ***** that's turned over
and again, so that its grooves
have worn thin. They see
a flower, not the stalk of

thorns. The sun dancing on
the sea, not the blackness
underneath. I dove into
where the sun doesn't

shine. I waltzed in a pyramid
of brine. I imploded like a
submarine, lit like a match
to a tank of gasoline.

in the washer
tossed with the coloreds. Pure as
driven snowflakes was I! Sweet
as ma's apple pie. Then bra's

snapped their straps
at me. The dungarees wrapped
their denim long legs around
me. The red thong bled its crimson so,

I was no longer as the ******
snow. I wrinkled in a mess of pa's
stiff cornflower shirts ma had
pressed. Mangled in sheets and

sweaters. Drowning in suds. The rocking
back and forth of this washer with
a thud. I flew out of the machine painted pink,
blue and green. I shrunk down a size or

two. I didn't fit. So, I was kept in the closet
down the hall to wipe the walls and
tabletops/ an old dust cloth. Till I grew moldy
and black. Then they threw me in the trash.

of the morning
coffee percolating in the Corning
pendulum swinging back and forth
hands traveling south and north

the eggs and bacon are now plating
this full bladder is done waiting
doltishly climbing out of bed
legs of rubber/feet of lead

clouded eyes cannot focus
breakfast table hocus-pocus
punching keys of grey
for two crumbs of pay

flickering of light through the glass
dew drops clinging blades of grass
robin chirping/squirrels scamper
***** clothes pile in the hamper

like a hornet
black tie yellow jacket
singing like a sonnet
letters tied in a packet

bright red and burning
welts dancing in pain
tossing and turning
he Tarzan, I his Jane

I didn't see him land
off in a trance of gin
cannot say life is bland
he's underneath my skin

I pen it in blood ink
with ice to cool the swelling
and as I slowly sink
epoxy for the telling

at summer’s end,
as birch trees bend
in the breeze. And butterflies
flutter and tease. My hot breath

on the glass. The smell of
smoky crimson ash. Dew drop
pearls on rose petals. Dancing water in
stove-top kettles. His whispers dangle

in my garden. Like the hammock
hung in the yard in the nook
between the trees. I shook him off
in one tight squeeze.

two green eyes
trace the cornflower sky
jump in
the cotton-candy clouds

red wine lips
to drink
the sun kissed eclipse
a pearl nose

to breathe
the blooms
a garden grows
lilac perfume

the sweet song
of the robin
this day is calling
me in pirouettes

to brush
the blackened silhouettes
and sprinkled showers
of rainbow confetti

this day
has not a crease
honking
like a flight of geese

and tripped on every rung. And fell
into the slats so hard I burst a
lung. I've hit my head on walls that
pushed to close me in. And through  

the midnight calls threw back
a fifth of gin. My knobby knees have
buckled. My soles have all worn
through. And how the men

all chuckled at scars that I
accrue. The stairway twists and
turns. I cannot see around the bend. I have
my concerns that this all has no end. Every day

I struggle to take a step. And all that I juggle
and still with smile and pep! Some days I just
sit back and watch the folks go by. I'd say
this life's a hoax. We're all just gonna die!

in the head,
a dark canal
for wax to build and
shed. A place to hang

a loop or push
a stud. Or rest a strand
of hair around two protruding
organs.  And the dust flies

in and out. Fleshy twists
and folds, a place for buds
with music and string. Some
stick out like ***** of

wings. Covered in hat
or cap. A spot to stick
a cotton swab. Not much more
than a useless ****.

He Left a mark
on fervent breast.
Was just a spark
he combed and pressed.

It lit a path
into the wood.
A row of lath
no backing stood.

A rose
with no trellis.
To pose
with no pelisse.

Footprints ebb
In April snow.
A spider’s web
to snare her woe.

blue ***** dig caves
under sandy rocks
and the smell of salt
boats tied to docks

the gulls swoop low
to catch a bite
and plovers wade
as horseflies bite

footprints make a trail
boys and girls building castles
with shovel and pail
green foamy seas

lined with cockleshells
and balmy breeze
driftwood and seaweed
tangled around my toes

and knees
tanning woman lying
on colored towels
as sunburned baby

in sagging diaper howls
coconut oil
permeates the air
as old folks sit

on navy beach chairs
bags of chips and kegs of beer
and hairy chested men
that often stare

a bunch of teens punch
a volleyball over
a long-stretched net
my nape breaks out

in a sweat
riding surfs on boogie boards
dripping ice-cream cones
sandpipers call this their home

as they lie on nests in the dunes
while radios blare 80's tunes
life's troubles out of reach
a typical day at the beach

as I. Without a parachute
I cannot fly.  And land so hard
I broke apart. My arm a tree
branch limb that couldn't swing

or swim. My leg a rolling
log, without a foot to jump or
jog. This head a bowling
ball. Eyes and tongue just

loll. My chest a hollow
stump that sits there like
a lump. It doesn’t hold a beat,
cold as rain and sleet. The sun

rises and sets. The sky full
of clouds and contrails
from the jets. And the frost lost
its bite, since I fell from the height.

his thin mouth,
roll right past his tongue.
Then flitter all about
till the pearls are strung.

They fly verbose,
heavy as a jet.
Flat lines of prose.
Some pose a threat.

I see them on paper.
Hear them in the shower,
hanging there as vapor.
Not a drop that I can scour.

They don't match
his deeds.
The egg doesn't hatch.
internally it bleeds.

on their hands
wearing wedding bands
in swivel chairs
hunched over screens

friends with pixels
not having dreams
smoking crystals
hands glued to a phone

legs bent over knee
hovering like drones
anxious to leave
another Groundhog Day

spent the same way
till the mad rush
to sit in cars
and cuss at traffic

then hit the bars
to swirl on stools
to sit at tables
till dinner cools

to sit some more
on the couch
to watch the pixels
dance and sing

and act the grouch
the same old thing
the bane of life
is in the sitting

the ***, a pillow
for more than *******
the men just billow to bed
and take a pill though,
to drop their head

I cannot be heard.
All this violence
and what it has stirred.

A slow train to hell
that won't let me off.
I bang and I yell.
and ***** I quaff.

Pitted and hollow
wearing a suit of armor.
Singing as a swallow
I can be a charmer.

This pen is a mike.
Tape up my mouth.
Ink rolls like a bike.

in a half-inch puddle of water,
simmering at the freezing point.
And if my life grows hotter
I'll crack just like my joints! I walk

in the same spot.
The scenery doesn’t change.
I walk a lot. But the horizon's
out of range. I, the ice

princess living in painted castles
of clouds. A wife and a mistress,
a poet that thinks out loud. I lost
my breath lying under him, not at

the gym. I toppled
from the bottom. Such a long
fall. It happens when you
build a house with no walls.