thin and salty,
packaged in colorful
wrapping. Covering
his holes with a

flavorful spread. He cannot
hold weight like a loaf
of bread. His toppings
slide off.  But he likes

to dip like a potato
chip. He crumbles and breaks
under pressure. I’d say
he needs a refresher. Dry as the

desert sky. He doesn't
rise as a soufflé.  And hard
like a pound of clay. That’s how
he greets his day.

like two pairs of  
socks. I'm an ankle. You're ribbed,
rolling up to the knee. I'm bright
red. You're white. We're mismatched.

You can see on sight. I'm
a mitten. You're a glove. You've slots
for fingers. I just shove all into
a big comfy pouch, with only

a space for the thumb. I’m a
hoop. You’re a stud. You have
backing. I have none. I am round. You are
flat. I hang down. You're a tat. You’re

a sneaker. I’m a sandal. Sand
and surf is all I handle. You run
fast. I like sun. You’re *******.
We contrast. Opposites in the same pack.

she'd leave. So, when she did
he said she'd return as the crimson,
golden leaves blow off the old oak trees
in autumn. She'd hit the bottom

and sprout up green again. But it's been
two years since then. He didn't think
she'd live without him. He, the sun
moon and stars. Drinking gin,

reading memoirs. No, he didn't think this
out. He just went about his day, a slave
to the work and pay. The phone, glued
to his hand as the day whittles. Then lying

on the nightstand as he mimics sleep. No,
he didn't think he'd see sheep jumping fences
or weep in his defenses. Lighted numbers
advance. He challenges himself not to

glance. He didn't think this last. But the years
are flying passed him. And he cannot recast
them. His temples greying, teeth decaying. The flesh
hangs off his bones as another hour drones.

plump, cherry smile?
It's painted on.
With a crimson lipstick
it is drawn.

You see this
round head?
It's long golden locks?
It's been turned
by gibberish talks.

You see this
shoulder?
Round and clear?
Too much weight
it’s had to bear.

You see this
rhinestone stiletto shoe?
You haven't walked in it!
Now have you?

I'm alone. I'm a raging river;
he's a jagged stone. I dance around
him in the billowy air. He's fixed
as a toilet on his stare. He's a ship

in moor. Not a thing I can
procure. The two of us,
a heavy tanker, weighing me
down like an anchor. My wing

is clipped. I cannot fly. I've been
stripped, ****** and tied. I lost myself
next to him. The silk shades drawn.
The light is dim. All I learned

undone. My ****** pen is now
finespun. I'll plant him in
my rose bush yard. As a scarecrow
to stand guard.

is this head
propped on a pole
that's how I’m bred
but I just let it roll

as a woolen sweater
tossed for hours in the dryer
should have known better
I’d burn in the pyre

So is my wallet
thinner than a crepe
that's how I call it
empty with a gape

and like a popsicle
melting in the sun
I find it comical
this is a dry run!

as the Milky way
from the dawn's gleam of light
to the black edged sword of night
divided as the oceans

on a seascape terrain
landing as a pin
on a galaxy pulled to spin
she planet Earth, him Neptune

with no bridge
to cross them over
green as a field of clover
under a grey goose sky

hailing with stinging bees
a woman's silhouette
with pen dancing pirouettes
her soldier turns and flees

she lost him in the dust
blown like spores of pollen
he cannot hear her callin
the horizon has leprosy

on my shoulder
is waiting to knock me
over. The cloud above
my head is filling me with

dread. The ground
beneath my feet is naked
and fleet. This air I’m breathing
is smoky and wreathing. The fog

on the horizon is not
compromisin'. This speck
in my eye I cannot pry. My head
is a mountain that is mount

on sky a hundred and sixty
stories high. I’m drowning in
a puddle through a fuddle of *****
and gin. I cannot bear to win.

the rain is my shower.
The sweet, green grass my bed.
Perfume is the lilac flower
that dangles on stalks of silky thread.

A canopy of trees is the roof.
A dancing breeze, my fan.
No man here to reproof
or make some onerous plan.

The squirrel’s antics make me laugh.
Lunch is hanging from the tree.
I cut a red plump apple in half,
and down it with a wedge of brie.

My song, the melodic canary.
No television or radio,
just a swinging hammock and sherry.
Life's too fast not to take things slow.

running the reds
bleeding in threads
sticking as green algae
swirling the blues
in nostalgy
into the browns
pirouettes spinning
in striped corsets
plucking them strings
like Raymond Dorset
a palette of color
on a grey canvas
twisted as a cruller
Dust in the wind/Kansas

she slips
into his grip
as red blood lips
press together
and locks on mouth
make hands move south
cupping her bottom
pulling tightly his *******
rotating in this slim jim dance
eyes lit the skies like Paris, France
he drinks silky milk from peach jugs
as he plugs the sugar walls
Oh my Gosh! Niagara Falls
her hair a scarf around his face
he's so undone like his shoe lace
hands on clock
rotate

in colorful bloom.
Don't wait till I'm set out
as folding chairs in the little
room. Roses red as the blood

before it was drained. Deep as
the purple in the chapel’s glass windows
stained. Gold as sunflowers rising tall. Sweet
as the orange lilies painted on my bedroom

wall. The magnolia and peony smiling
down on me. Lilac’s dancing  pirouettes in
weeping willow trees. Let me run crazy
in a field of sweet daisies. Rubbing

buttercups between my toes,
in a garden hammock with a canopy of
green leaves for shade. Don't wait for
the day for this old body to fade.

as a pancake,
somersaulting high in the air
an acrobatic made of eggs, milk and flour.
Scared the sleeping, curled up cat,
lying on the kitchen chair.
Falling flat into a frying pan of sizzling butter,
Plumping himself.
bumping against the sides
filling the whole bottom.
Gold as the leaves in autumn.
Shining as the sun,
but none to turn him.
He burned from outside in.

As she cut into him
the gold turned black,
sticking as plague to her teeth.
Charred as ash underneath.
No honey, cream or syrup
could deter it.
And even if it could
she'd not prefer it.

like colored tinsel
on the trees. The metal coils
flapping in the breeze,
to seize the souls of men. Her stiletto

is her fountain pen. The ink
dripping, her blood, a mountain of
meter in lace gloves. The prosaic
ghouls have not cultivated

their tools. Their turgidity has no
mobility. Sits as stone. Two silhouettes
burned down as daddy's smoked
cigarettes. Crummy as mother's

week old scones. Her poetry beats
are milky as a cow's teats. But still
she drums on, praying for her lines
to spawn.

she thought of a cornflower sky
the shimmering Morpho butterfly
her father’s soft cobalt eyes
the warm waters of the Caribbean Sea
a sweet, plump blueberry
or the desert bluebell flower

Then her life turned sour.
And the blue faded into shades
of grey.
Hovered in the air
all day.
Hung like garlic breath.
The thief in the night -
a crib death

like nail polish
in specks,
leaving flecks of red.

Peeling off
like paint on the walls.
Flaking off
in shards of cornflower blue,
as she falls in her bedroom.

Burning out
like a smoked cigar.
She once was champagne
and caviar.

Dripping
like a leaky faucet.
She's drawn the line.
No man can cross it.

Me, Myself & I

at slow and steady speed
walking side by side
no one takes the lead
scaling mountains
one step at a time
fingers laced together
making the arduous climb
in all types of weather

if one of us slipped
the other two cushion the fall
we are all equipped
to handle it all
the three of us
against the world
building up a truss
head held to the sky
Me, Myself & I

she sits, a stone.
An ivory tower
as they drone.
Like a lilac flower

she blends in
the mauve curtains.
Drinking her tonic and gin.
The clink of ice and chit-chat.

She nods and smiles.
So still, she's sat
it pains her piles.
Women flutter

like butterflies.
Men stutter
straightening their ties.
Walking to the table

of crackers and cheese
she can't stable
her wobbling knees.
She takes a bite

and wipes her lips.
A smudge of pink
on her lace napkin.
Her hair piled high

with a hatpin.
She sips
her watered drink.
The lanky guy

blinks like a light.
His unzipped fly
makes her shrink
like bubbles in the sprite.

He weaves in and out
with an open mouth.
Talks with a drawl
like a hick from the south.

She's uninvited.
So, she can't decline.
Is she slighted?
Or out of line?

all the tangles
with the snap of a finger
or the toss of my head
the wag of my tongue

split the things that he said
do I go back to the place
of imaginary grace? Inside of
my youth, a prize lies

for the lost tooth. Under
my pillow, as the sun slides
down from the sky, as the shades
are drawn to a lullaby. The hands

on the clock race. Do I go back
to this place? A place of paper dolls
and bunny walls. And teacups and saucers
flying over the falls.

draping over her.
Blowing minted kiss,
In a sea of grass.
Another day shall

pass. Glazed eyes mist
into a lime twist.
Dangling participles,
arms and wrist. Head

dropped back, stuffed
as a gunny sack. Hair spread
as a shaggy carpet. The argot of
the poet's dream. All the pages

in-between
of men and silent children’s
screams. But she can breathe
the air lying in cornflower cotton

and rope. This world forgotten,
with a drink to have her afloat.
Swinging, hanging suspended.
This is the life she intended.

He Puts Too
in front of everything
I do.
Too Intense -
Too Demanding -
Too Loud -
Too Talkative -

Two is the loneliest number
I've known.
When he's with me
I'm alone.
My shell is my home.

So, as I left him
he asked for forgiveness.
Too Late

with yellow fingers spread
and a chocolate cupcake for her head.
Blooming the month of June. In August
is her honeymoon. Rising in fields

of green the sunny face
of childhood dreams. Blowing kisses
in the wind/dancing with her native kin.
Making her brim in cherry lip

Smiles. Cornflower sky for miles.
The sweetest nectar for the butterflies
and bees. Growing in the garden/a midnight spree.
Tickling me from nose to knees.

This little *** of gold/noon day cup of tea
with her own complimentary leaves.
How did this name impel
into battery you befell?

the pyramids of egypt
swim the seven seas
climb Mount Everest
but I'd not find

a man so soft and kind.
I'd bathe in turquoise waters
on a shore of pink powder sand
among cockleshells and waves

that swell and still not feel myself
without you to hold my hand.
Butterflies, key lime pie and
a cornflower sky don't do a thing

for me if I'm not with you. Morning dew
would look like sweating leaves. And cotton
candy clouds would look as shrouds
on corpses hung on trees.

minus the sweetness
and the stuffing
minus the plump berries
the rising powder and sugar
egg and the oil
the silver liners of foil
minus the flour and milk
much here to bilk
but the blue hangs on
like a torch drawn song
it permeates his hands
an indelible stain
that she wears behind her
as a bridal train

My life is organized colorful squares
cut out and sewn together
through the years smiles and tears
sailing on in all sorts of weather

A storybook of girl and boy
sickness, birth and death
years I could not enjoy
but some took my breath

Pet hair and spilled lily perfume
baby spit, sand and ketchup
the highlights of this bedroom
a quilted blanket of the mess up

To pass on to my children
as passed onto me
this life we're building
and lives we cannot see

running rivers.
and flowing chocolate streams.
I cried Rocky Mountains
eating quarts of rocky road ice-cream.
Cried after my mother beat me,
leaving welts on my lily soft behind.
And when I bought the house
all the papers I signed.
I cried in my martini.
Cried in my tight leopard-skinned pants.
Walking the beach in my striped string bikini.
At my howdy doody wedding
during the father-daughter dance.
I cried pushing out my son.
And again, at age four when the paramedics
raced him out the door on a black leather stretcher.
And as I was ***** willow *****
by a  amniotic Freudian letcher.
I cried after his beating,
when I saw his black eye.
There hasn't been a day
that my eyes been dried.

I'm a stone.
Hurled in a hurricane.
A ripple in a pond.
Thrown in from the rain.

Making waves.
I triple.
And reach beyond
his tangled hairy day.

Radiating halo rings.
Burping strawberry bubbles.
To him
a skating fling,

standing scratchy stubble.
Fast water jets.
Sharp bayonets.
As rings in a tree

you can count every
go around.
They all fall back on me,
in a painted poppy scene.

As the blues slam-dunk
the greens
the toad drones.
I'm a stone.

waking me from the longest
night's slumber. Peeling my clothes
off like a cool cucumber. This buzzing
in my ear. His wavy jet-black hair. Swimming

in ocean eyes, the size of apple pies. The waft
of cinnamon is my insulin. But a man with
violet cotton shirt and cufflinks the color of
rose pink is an eidolon that swam off

like a swan in the raining pale
grey dawn. But in this head, he smokes
of feather silky strokes. The bumps on
a goose. This man I can't shake

loose. I've not of him to hold as the years
grow me old. The girl in me died dancing
a whirl on a rainbow slide, falling off
a cloud just as her eyebrows.

bye. Is there is good
in bye? The letters
are strung together, like bird
feathers, and fly between the tides

and sighs. They're pushed
in breath and pen, in cards that
men and women send. It's just
become a greeting at the close of

every meeting. And then? The hands
on the clock move on. And night
becomes the dawn. And memories
are a fawn running past us till we strike

them moving. And they are dead on
the side of the road. Some disproving. But it
doesn't lighten  the load.I left as autumn leaves
in a gusty breeze of colors, from red to yellow.

in as a hurricane,
thick saturating rain running
down the gully. Everything
that he touches ends up being

sully. Knocking
down houses and trees. Hurling
debris out in the streets. Smashing
windows, shards of glass flying. Every nook

that I look women are
dying. In the garden all the flowers
are squash, just as her dreams. Rosemary
fell with the thyme into hibiscus cream. Chairs

are swimming on my front lawn. This day
the sun lost every ounce of brawn. The water
colors are grey, same as the sky. This is the year
that June ate July.

as ***** clothes
on the line.
I was strung out
from the ***** and lime.
And so, as the tree
I grew green with pine.

He Strung me
as plastic beads
on a string.
But he didn't tie a knot
at the end.
So, I fell off
scattered all over the floor.
Rolled under the bureaus,
and straight out the door.

He Stung Me
as a winged hornet
after he sang to me
sweet sonnets.
And not just once
but over again.
And still I called him
a close friend.

He Wrung me
as a washcloth.
Squeezed ever last drop
till I lay dry and limp.
How I hate
that I'm just a simp!

every day. His hands
drive him, steering him straight
and back, over sidewalk
cracks.  Turning him left

and right into the night. Taking him
up hills and down streets,
into the grocery store without
leaving his seat. In the rain and

the snow, as the March winds
blow. On a hot day in June, the scorching
sunny afternoons.  Looking at women
from his chair. The walking world

so unaware of the car
that hit his bike. And left him
in a coma overnight. But his sneakers
don't *****. He’s worn the same pair
since the ripe age of thirty!

an insect with beady eyes
and expandable wings
he dips as he flies
to paper he clings

she’s a fuzzy peach
soft and round
you couldn't teach
so she drowned

he ****** her pulp and sweet juice
licked her taffy soft flesh
then set her out loose
for another more fresh

now she's the pits
and down on herself
he's eaten her bits
saved them all to himself

Squash that bug
he's not a man
he moves like a slug
in a tin can

from the cloudy skies.
Dewdrops on a morning blade.
Running rivers from blue eyes.

Lolling in the Everglades.
Streaming in my clawfoot tub.
Sudsy as I sprawl and scrub.

The kettle says it hot.
Steaming in the ***.
Swirling down the drain.

A puddle in the rain.
Pour it in the coffee grounds.
But it makes some men drown.

It’s a part of me.
A drink for the flowers.
This garden’s raised on showers.

The birds wet their feathers.
Cleans the stain off my leather.
Pitter-patter on the windowpane.

How it grows the honey grain.
We need it to survive.
It keeps us all alive.

I ate it
wallowed in it
added water to make made mud pies
I planted in it
grew flowers colorful as butterflies
I carried it into my house
wore it on my buckled leather shoes
it stained my white lace dress
brown handprints on the walls
the halls looked a mess
it hardened on mother’s kitchen floor
in dark footprints she didn't ignore
she whipped me with the wooden spoon
locked me in my room till noon
stuck under my fingernails
in the tub left a ring
I dished it out with friends
gee, those girls can sling
the men it's on their minds
they roll in it as pigs
ha, they all are suited swines!
washed out in the laundry
read in girly magazines
kicked up in the baseball field
the visiting and home teams

between my toes
in my shoes
up my nose
tossed in spaghetti hair

in my red beach towel
on my plastic chair
itching me
in my underwear

smells of ocean
taste of salt
in slow-motion
the world just melts

in my car seat
drizzling pelts
sprayed on the Persian rug
between the bedroom sheets

in my coffee mug??
beneath my feet
now the gritty crunching
between my teeth

women like me
that have neon signs
from their head to their knees
flashing letter “L” in megawatt caps

that men like to tap
it’s water-colored eyes
blinking dewdrops
running down men’s lies

it’s a cherry prison
a heaving chest so risen
it's the droning of the wind
her confidence so thinned

it’s the butterflies tied
the crushed wings
that once danced
and flied

years digging out of holes
just like burrowing moles
it's tramping through the sludge
that's a daily drudge

onyx black
glossy from front to back
looking up from the walnut coffee table
across from the television and cable

years in the making
if it’d rise as the bread baking
but it doesn't wear a jacket
and a lot of men just sack it

letters in printed lithography
a creamy paged biography
nursed, as a mother with her babies
but through the rabidness gave rabies

bended spine and stained
every line the writer pained
can’t make the New York Best seller's list
closed off like a fluid-filled cyst

no editor, agent or publisher
not in volumes like the travels of Gulliver
this self-published and vanity
leads to a life of insanity!

on the ceiling fan,
lying carpet of grey strands.
Flying blades circle overhead
moving heat through the chalky

air. Dust bunnies hiding
underneath the bureau and rocking
chair. Under the four-post bed
they roast. As foie gras

on toast they sit plump. Dumped
on the valance and curtain. Unbalanced,
the slightest wind and they’ll fall
for certain. On the shelf they cover

her books. In the nooks they lay
as a clump of potter's clay. On the hardwood
floor swept up with the broom. Upon death
she'll be dust in the ground with her groom.

to him, light and flaky
honey wheat. Just fluffy
bedtime sweet! Yellow like
a golden raisin, and twice

as brazen. He didn't have
to butter me. I was soft
as the brie. And he saw through
every layer. He was so the

player. The girls said "he's
a dish" And so, he was
my knish. And I, his knash,
rolled and folded till I

melted in his mouth. Till I
crumbled in his hand, landed
in his lap. So full, he took
a nap. But after his long doze?

Gone was his sweet rose!

bearded and goth. I was his
flame, a butterfly dame. We kicked
up a rumpus. Both lost with no
compass.  Like a city rat

to a Cheeto I’m the sauce
in his burrito. And as flies
stuck to **** two tongues
swimming in the spit.

Like a weeb to ******
I was searching for
a Jedi. But as lambs walking
toward their slaughter this

only grew hotter, till the stench
of burning flesh took his breath. Laid
in a box like a drawer of stuffed socks
men paraded him to the overture of hymns.

that all the Brobdingnagian trees
exuviate their crimson orange leaves
gibbeting jagged appendages in the snow
and that emerald blades freeze

I'd not fall like a mosquito.
I'd grow plump as a pumpkin on the vine.
Not crushed and bottled
as grapes in the cherry wine.

And if his rounded face wasn't traced
on the mosaic tiled moon
this stock-still heart wouldn't race
and break from her blanket of a cocoon.

It hibernate in the slivers of a silky spoon,
sleeping as a nun till the lilacs bloom.
And the stars dancing pirouettes
wouldn't have me break out in a sweat!

have to talk about
girls behind their back.
They mock me and pretend
face to face

they are my friend. They could
talk about the weather, if it'll rain
this afternoon. That it's cold for
this month of June. They could talk

world affairs, the war in
the Ukraine. But they'd have to
have a bigger brain. They could talk
about a fundraiser for

the sick. Or even the movies that
they've seen on Netflix. They could talk
about style and design, the newest line
of clothes. The cons and pros of wearing

pantyhose. They could talk about their kids
or their pets/their vacations in the Carribean, wine
and e-cigarettes! They could talk shop. But they
talk about me till their jaws drop!

This sadness sits as an elephant
on my breast, bearing down squashing
my chest. I cannot breathe. I’m out of
breath. It does not leave. It's

my black death. It ties my belly
in a knot. So, my blood does not
flow. It only clots. It drops my chin
to my neck. Before my eyes

are splintered specks. And my iris
is denim blue. At night, smoky
as the flue. And in the day, like a puddle
pools. My smile is a broken locket

that sits as rocks in my pants
pocket. Clouds parades over my
head. I'm a silhouette that burns cherry
wine red. My legs are pursy tree trunks. As I

walk you'll hear this clunk. It's as if
my feet are dragging wrecking *****
and metal chains. And the sky? All day
it rains elephants in paisley prints.

he's a silver fox.
But he lives
in a ******* jack box,
sugar coated walls

with a little toy trinket
that he bangs as meat.
How can he think it
so sweet?

Holding his prize.
Wearing a ******'s hat
Swimming in molasses lies.
He’s twitching

in a buttery mess.
In a plate of
bra and *******
hose and saffron dress.

a circular belt
looping around till
the days melt,
into chirping crickets

and hooting owls.
And through the thickets
the coyote growls.
The pitter-patter

of the rain.
The chipmunks scatter.
And I strain,
in this position

with no spot of commission.
My pen is dripping wet.
My paper full
of epithet.

Running on dregs
as me.
Drinking red grapes
under the old oak tree.

Life is a painted blur,
of plotted events,
mislaid detours
and accidents.

as a wine stain in my carpet,
let go of his mock and argot. Wipe
the spill on my sofa of the cheese
and fig and mimosa. Plunge the

lace dress into the washer
that turned bright white
into mangy yellow. Sift the grit
out of that fellow. Wash him

out with the tide, so this pain
in me can subside. He's a flake,
a speck of dandruff. Shampoo
him out of my hair, this big, old

hairy grizzly bear! Wash this ****
from around my tub. Scrub it with
the bleach and gloves. "Shout" the ring
circling my collar. Absolve myself of this squalor!

dank and dark. You are stellar,
the light the spark. He's
a dirt basement, no floors
or walls. Just an encasement,

a hole to crawl. He's a vault,
a crypt. A musty cave equipped
with rickety stairs. And hairy spiders
that tarry. A spot for rats that carry

disease. A tight squeeze. Cobwebs
fill the corners, a home for waifs
and foreigners. You're the villa,
the courtyard and grape vines. He's

the pit, the shaft, the mine. You see,
he’s the bottom, below the earth. Slimy
mold of girth. You're the roof, the top.
From you to him is a long drop.

falling from the skies
driving Lamborghinis
biting women's thighs
drinking ***** martinis
scoffing mincemeat pies

Oinking and grunting
rolling in the mud
look at them hunting
thinking they are studs

Beer belly’s hanging
over their blue jeans
wishing they were banging
like they did as teens

Hairless mole rats
out mowing their lawn
covering their heads in hats
stifling a yawn

Ogling women
younger than their daughter
squeezing them as persimmon
early morning potters

Wiry hair growing
out of their ears and nose
scratching their crotch and crowing
They're all pigs and it shows!

as dregs of coffee
scratching the bottom of my mug.
Like the sediments of wine
in my crystal jug.

Like the crimson leaves tugging
from the trees in autumn.
As dust dancing on my bamboo ceiling fan.
And as I turn it on it lands on the four posted bed,
dirtying my green and brown striped spread.

Like a pool of sweet caramel sauce
around the flan I baked.
Like the foundation sinking
my brick ranch house.

As my friend when she chose
her driftwood rogue spouse.
Or the lawsuit with my lawyer.
And not my wages with my employer.

I'll not settle,
just to say yes.
I'll take mine.
Not a thing less.