her red lace, push-up, underwire
bra. Remembering the days
she didn’t wear a pretty contraption
that's useless beyond a confining attraction.

She slipped on
her spiral silver hoops. The holes
in her head match that of
her bed. She fills them in with
trinkets she picked up at the five-and-
dime, when she's not penning rhyme.

She slipped on
her stained apron to do
the cooking. None are booking her
for poetry readings. Her poems are
as her leftovers -
stale and cold.

She slipped on
the water that sloshed
from the cat's bowl
onto the floor. Fell on her *** -
sat and relaxed.

She slipped on
by his house without
a visit. She paid him many
in 2005. Now all she does
is hang outside.

like a beef and bean burrito
till you drew blood like
a mosquito. So, wrapped up
as a babe swaddled, till the years

with you dawdled. Wrapped
as a caterpillar in her chrysalis, I didn't
emerge as a butterfly. I was stricken
with syphilis. I couldn't wrap my head

around all of this. His sweet kisses
turned into hisses. I was wrapped as
a broken arm in a sling. I couldn't move
in this self-effacing fling. So, I cut

the appendage. And I hung back
suspended. Now I'm more like a dowel
than a wet paper towel.

too angry to speak
the tears all dried
nothing’s left to leak

I’m too hurt to move
the scars run deep
nothing’s left to prove
and I’m too weak

as others grew up. I was attached
as a continent until I broke off
and became an island. Every man
I gave my hand held a chisel. Carved

a piece out of my middle. Now my head’s
hung to my chest. And my feet are at
my knees. I don’t bend to sit. I’m bent
so, I fit with the bottom crawlers. I’m little

as a bonsai, ornamental and
dwarfed. I morphed into a living
corpse. Drinking my days in a purple
haze. Once you’ve lopped you can’t

reattach. A broken branch can’t
hitch back on the tree. It rots on the
ground, covered by leaves. Not missed –
just a stick

as a stuffed purse
about to burst at
the seams. I was
so green.

My Passion Bulges
as a toad’s throat,
puffing out after a meal,
like a water-balloon,
with a broken seal –
till it splatters. That’s
when I could feel.

My Passion Bulges
now like a fat man’s
shirt, tightly drawn over
the chest until it hurts, riding up
the flesh and splitting the
buttons. That’s what I get
for being a glutton!

How long have I lived liked this?
Something always goes amiss.
I keep saying “wait till next year”
But next year is practically here.

In this land of the strange
Isn't it time for a change?
I’m like a clock that lost its chime.
I have the numbers but don’t tell the time.
My hands are spread eagle wings apart.
I don’t function: I’m a piece of art.
Soft on the eyes, but ******* the heart.

I haven’t done all the things that I said.
Some days it’s impossible to get out of bed.
I’m growing older/days are colder.
I’m losing insight on those long nights.

In this land of the strange
Isn't it time for a change?
I’m like a clock that lost its chime.
I have the numbers but don’t tell the time.
My hands are spread eagle wings apart.
I don’t function: I’m a piece of art.
Pretty on the eyes, but ******* the heart.

How long can I go on the same way?
Putting it off until tomorrow, today.
It’s no use; stop pretending.
It’s a merry-go-round ride, never ending

Forever is make-believe. The sun
only shines in the day. The sky grows dark and
grey. The red and golden leaves fall off
in the autumn breeze. Friends are like

the snow. They leave me cold. And
then turn to ice, leaving puddles of memories,
stealing apples from my eyes as thieves. I spend
more time talking to the head in the mirror,

the only woman nearer to me than
any of them, so-called friends. White knights
turned to black nights. Tossed like a salad. And limp
as I, so pallid. I ache to hold onto a mountain, strong

and fixed/not thrown like a stick. That I can look up
to and rise in altitude.

to earth. Give the man
a wide berth. The crash puts him
in pieces you try to collect. But no
room is left in your pocketbook

of tricks. You picked him
out of the lineup of men. He stood out
as a topiary in a forest of trees. And blew
through your blouse as an ocean

breeze. He painted the rose
on your cheeks. He slipped the glass
slipper on your foot. The bell strikes
the hour in your ivory tower. It rained

ashes the day he fell. The sidewalk
looked like lumps of coal from hell. The pedestal
crashed to the ground. You don’t need
a ladder to climb up to the sky. You can float
on a cloud. . And wave to the passerby’s.

this doctor, this surgeon
and left me on the table
to wipe the sweat from
his brow. He wasn't able to

remove the tumor now. He jumped
at the size. Rumor is his body
paralyzed. His legs Jello, far from
the mellow man walking in dockers,

sporting a tan. His hands trembling
as the ground in an earthquake,
far from the bloke kayaking
on Swan Lake. And I bled out red,

a trout prepped for the meal,
with a sprig of thyme and
a slice of lemon in her mouth
left on a table of steel.

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!

shape you
they hold your head
when you enter this world
the doctor shouts out "a baby girl"

These hands
spank you
for not following
mother's orders
they leave welts
and black and blues
squeeze you into
tight shoes

These hands
unite with a man
wearing golden bands
holding the bouquet
and cutting the cake

These hands
dust the furniture
make beef stroganoff
and mow the lawn
breastfeed the babies
when they're born

These hands
read storybooks
call the ambulance
shake and sweat
when the boy’s near death

These hands
fight city hall
call the lawyers
doctors and all
turn into fists
and punch the air
and land on lists

These hands
stroke men
that sit in chairs
and listen

These hands
pen the lines
so all can read
all are blind

into black and white
like day breaks off
into night
it’ll be stark
but not obscure
it’ll be harsh
but not a bore
we can play with parts
go from light
to dark
and back again
I might throw in
a red
when you're blue
have you purple
and slurp you
like a frappe
You might get mad
And tell me
Cut the Crap

expecting them to grow
even when they're buried
under the snow. Even as they hang
limp in her hand, even when

their heads are drooping
and colors are bland. She takes them
inside her home. Feeds them sweet
honeycomb. She sings to them

like a starling, coos and awws
and calls them darling. Plants them in
her fertile soil, only to see them
recoil. Day after day the petals fall. She lies

among them, weeps and sprawls. Remembers
the spring when they were lush. The memories
she has of her crush she stores in a drawer
as potpourri. And lives to write and tell the story.

like my uncle’s Cadillac. When I
went for a ride as a child it felt
like a limo in size. It had deep red
seats, red as a cardinal I believe. And

because he was Italian it felt like
I was part of the mafia family. He would
smoke those cheap cigars until the air
was thick with fog, like a rainy day

in London. And I wondered who he
had bludgeon. Because he used to be
a boxer in his youth, I swear he was a
sabertooth. He was fierce. Didn’t say much,

just gave you “the look” and you
knew. That’s all it took. I used to fish
with him early in the morning, when the sky
was black, black as his Cadillac.

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.

raising Cain
***** zealots
rising as
a full moon
popping heads
red balloons
turning up
without a ticket
leaping as a giant cricket
skin is crawling
like a bucket of maggots
eyes are bawling
like a wolf caught rabbit
**y itch
making her twitch
growing in clusters
a woman musters
her strength to live

The leaves have fallen.
The ground, a dwelling bottom.
The shooting stars have splintered
into the coldest winter.

I, myself turned
from golden crimson
to burned. Charred leaves
all cover the streets. Only blackest

ravens fly. The end draws nigh.
I hold my cup up to the moon
for dewdrops of the spring draw
soon. As I see ****** buds poking holes

into the bloods I awaken. And the world
breaks into the greenest pasture.
We'll have a morning after.
The song of the lark and blooming crocus
makes us focus.

a lot of head space
over him. Recounting every touch,
hanging myself on a memory, swinging
in his clutch. Shrinking inside the silhouette,
smaller than a bead of sweat.

I wasted
so many days in a haze. Weeping
dewdrops, running down my face
in a trickle. Sour
as a pickle floating in a sea
of brine tangled on his fishing line.

I wasted
myself in a bottle of alcohol,
living in this gilded cage, and turning
out page after page every day.

I wasted
my youth
on things that were lies
not truth. Stuck as flies
to paper. This pain does not
ever taper.

a rose
into a vine of thorns
plucking all the petals off
in a bed of scorn

You turned
a snowflake
into an icicle
hanging on the eaves
falling as the leaves
daggers of steely deeds

You turned
a robin’s nest
into scrambled eggs
by breaking all the shells
you said you meant well

You turned
an azure sky
into darkened grey
rolling in the clouds
cutting the sun’s rays

You turned
a bright green grass
into acrid straw
turning a bighead
on all the things you saw

You can take my money
Rob me blind
I’m still sweet as honey
And twice as kind

You can take my clothes
I still have my skin
All you have is prose
Poetry is the house I am in

You can take my car
I still have my feet
I’ll never be where you are
I am complete

clouds ahead
I’ll mix them with
fire-engine red,
and make a candy
cane. So, if it rains
I’ve a swizzle stick
to dip in my champagne.

If I hear
thunder above
I’ll fix it with
unbated love,
and make a friend. So,
if I’m lonely I’m not
the only one  
that got no one.

I run the rapids
on his back. A rocky ride,
an avalanche of spray
and chance. Twists and

turns. Old returns
of smiles have me belted
in the moving whirlwind. I’ve
fallen off once or twice. But the water’s

cold as ice. And I can’t swim. He
has a knack for pulling me
back. Mountains and trees, swirling
leaves of memories steady me, amongst

the spider sun. I spun and spun
as a **** on a vane. Now the falls
are fast here as a cockroach
in the kitchen cabinet. I’ve no regret.

everything spoiled in your world
the silver linings have turned to cheap metallic
your mouth’s becomes sewer for phallics
your body’s a wrinkled up yonic
you spent your afternoons drinking ***** and tonic
when you come in you black out
the *** at the end of the rainbow is a chamber *** –
filled to the top with you know what
it’s incredible how you never give up

That was my theory.  I had three psychologists
at once. A couple of them saw me for free. I was that
interesting. They would have paid me to come. I wasn’t
dumb. I knew how to play the system. I started dating

the one named Jim. There was so much psychologically
wrong with him that I gave him over to my other psychologist
Rick. Jim insisted that we go as a couple as well. So now
I was seeing Rick for therapy alone, as well as seeing him

for couple’s counselling with Jim. It was so surreal
having two of my psychologists in the same room! One of them  
I was dating! I was also seeing a third. And brought Jim
to him too! It doesn’t get more absurd than this. And I was married,

no less! And doing couple’s counselling with two
psychologists and my other one, who was now my
boyfriend. Did I lose you; I know it’s confusing. I don’t write
fiction because I couldn’t make this stuff up if I try. But I’m not

going to lie. It was purely amusing! Jim sat there next to me
fondling his pen, rubbing the shaft over and again as if
it was *******. He was ******* the pen in my therapist’s office, which was now his therapist too. And seeing him squirm

on the couch as my other therapist sat across from us
looking as if this kinda stuff happens all the time was
sublime. Psychologists are the most messed up people
I know. I love each and every one of them all!

calories
in my bed
tossing and turning
from things deconstructing
in this head

I’m burning
rubber
on the streets
racing from
all my defeats

I’m burning
bridges
shore to shore
to even the score

I’m burning
down the house
I built
Flooded from the flames
I didn’t learn to walk on stilts
Now I’m locked in chains

I'm burning
alive
all  the maggots
eating up my insides
with rage

I’m burning
incense
cinnamon and sage
my friends
in old age

and a
down one.
A silence,
and alarm

one. There’s an
on; and there’s
an off. If you push mine –
mazel tov

with you. You were
in the same school, in
an underworld of sharks. I reached out
in the dark for your hand. You didn’t

understand. But you replied
in a suit and a tie. I threw out a line
to you. I baited you. And you
bit hard with an old postcard. I look

at the shaggy, black hair and
beard and quiver. Four years
he fell to the angels. Five,
since the last goodbye. You can call

me a fish. Not sober
since October, 2009. I put it in
pen. A couple men seen the plunge
but are biting their tongue.

I held it swiftly
and swiftly it passed
like a car crash

and the causalities were many
like a box of Good & Plenty
white and pink capsules

those oval rascals all jounce together
unravel like a sweater
caught on a hook

I am
by yesterday
hung on every word you said

like clothes stretched on the line
in wintertime
frozen stiff in place

because they’d rather be there
then tucked away
when will I cease

like a flaccid *****
I can’t enter anything
here I go again

once as supper
like swallowing an upper
like a snort of *******
hits straight to the brain!

Love me
twice as windshield wipers
back and forth
you take south/I'll take north.

Love me
thrice as a triangle
we'll tangle with another
then we'll swap -
with her on top.

Love me
quarce is a farce! To go on
like this I'd miss work. I'd miss
my friends and the news at ten. You
only die once! But not I -
La petite mort
screams and sighs

You have your golden sunsets
But I’ve my golden showers

You plant vegetables in your garden
I plant vegetables where the sun doesn’t shine

Some think I waste my time
But they are eager to pay
Because I do things that others wouldn’t dare
This woman cuts a rug and her ***** hair

They beg for more
Why would I stop?
It’s fun and it pays the bills –
And I’ve my writing still
And this spills into it

Gives me more material to pen
And afterwards?
I can do unimaginable things with that same pen
that make men think they’re in heaven

every morning. Up at 4, recording. I make
hundreds a month. But it ain’t squat. I've a
voice. But it ain't sought.  **** this
Covid ****. Have *****/will travel. Paris is real

for every woman and man. Paris isn’t on
the map for me. Dried is the ink on my passport,
tough cookies! Not to mention, this type of work

doesn’t have a pension. The exercise
to have this shape is grueling. All to have
them drooling like a rabid dog. So, I can
twirl my tongue around their log.

as if I’m a distraction
in the middle of what
you’re doing. I’m not
your bladder that needs
emptying out.

Don’t call me
as part of your routine,
because I’m penciled in. And
it’s one more thing to do
before you retire for the
afternoon.

Call me
honey. Call me muffin,
dear, maybe cupcake. Call
me smiling. Call me laughing.
Because you’re thinking about me.
Sweet

Now I’m a cactus. It took
practice for my petals to turn
to spines. Sticking out
and sharp, none can touch

without a stabbing *****. I’m a walking
needle stick. I was sweet perfume. My bloom
filled the room. I met many devils. Every man
pulled out a petal. Kept tucked

under his pillow. My head hanging
as a weeping willow. I ran out of brine;
and lost my shine. This is as I grew
the spines. Now I stand untwined. No more

can man cut or pluck me. He’d bleed
if he tried to shuck me. I’m not soft and
sweet. Now, I’m thick and can take
the heat! But I miss the garden. The earth
underneath harden.

is all you have. Are you
going to listen to all
the **** empty men
that turned cold
fed you?

One move
is all it takes to make
or break you. You can’t go
down without a fight. This isn’t
a rehearsal. It’s life!

One woman
is with you. Look inside
the mirror. I can’t speak it
clearer. If you won’t fill yourself
don’t look to a man to fill you It took years
to let go of my fears that people
are talking about me. Now I do for myself –
no apologies

dead end roads
in this town
one-way streets
climbing weeds
the air thick
as black-eye peas
sidewalks uneven
pretty soon
I’ll be leaving

One too many
masked faces
races
clogging up
my arteries
with grease
greasy lies
greasy smiles
greasy hands on the dial
I’m moving out
for a while

as a kitten swimming upstream
****** as marionette on a string
lower than the Mariana snailfish
feeding on the ocean floor
When did life become a chore?  

I’m bare
as the trees in winter
colder than an Arctic breeze
sour as Lisbon lemon drops
When did I blow it all out like a sneeze?

I'm lifeless
as a mannequin in a department store window
slower than a tortoise walking a tightrope
falling as the autumn leaves
black as a lump of coal
hung over as the eaves on my rooftop
When is this feeling ever going to leave?

hurting. And that the loneliness
would leave me alone. I wish my life
could have meaning, and that people
would be kinder, find something in
my writing that would inspire them. I
feel like my cat that paces in front of
my computer screen. All I see is
a big blob of black that makes
me sneeze.

is Groundhog Day. I pop
out and see my shadow.  I crawl
back in my hole, bury myself
under the things I stole.

Every day
is Howdy Doody Day. I pack up
the rage and the pain, say goodbye
to my audience. Leave ‘em all
with a dance.

Every day
is April Fool's Day. I pick
apart myself, selling pieces
to men, painting their
piece golden.

like socks –
mismatched
trading them as stocks

He collects women
like cards –
in diamonds and hearts
shuffling them apart
turning them to lard
till he grows hard

He collects women
like stamps –
thumbnails that are tramps
sticking them to his sheets
by pounding city streets

He collects women
like coins –
shiny tender
after an all-night ******

putty in his hands
pulled and stretched
like rubber bands

No more shall I be
crumbs on the floor
swept up and thrown out
the door

No more shall I be
on the bottom
of his list
making me feel
like I don’t exist

No more shall I be
awake at night
tossing and turning
til morning light

No more shall I be
weeping all day
with my head in my hands
under a dark cloud of grey

No more shall I be
a victim
now that I've kick'd him
to the curb

or stick the pieces together
with Gorilla glue. A child’s eye
that is black and blue can fade.
But you can’t cover

a mother’s brokenness with
a cloak of tenderness. You can’t
wipe out the horror she saw with a cold
damp cloth. ******* hands on

a handicap man is the devil’s
work. She doesn’t sleep at night. The darkness
in her breast is hard to digest. She’s
losing weight and doesn’t eat. White as

a sheet she walks through her day
in a purple haze. Her life’s a pack of Jacks
thrown into the air, with pointy spikes that cut
like knives. Men are scavenging cockroaches

with belly’s bulging from greed. You can’t sow
the seeds they planted like an old woolen blanket,
than you can sew her heart together like
an unravelling sweater.

Don’t you think we should
talk about her? You’ve been coming here
for two years and never said a word. *****
What? Never mind. I don’t like the topic. I need

a drink. Think of something that reminds you
about her. It’s too early in the day and I need a drink
anyway. Ok, it’s a song. What song? Helen Reddy sang
it. It’s about a mother and daughter at the circus. Tell me

the lyrics. NO, I’ll email you them. NO, tell me what you
remember now. I don’t read your emails anyhow.
“When the circus came to town; and you were frightened by the clown” There must be more. There is. But it’s the end of the session.  A Jewish

shrink who wrote a book about the holocaust, stingy *******
that he was threw me out after he broke ground. Never again
would I talk about it with anyone. But I wrote a book about him –
here’s the plug: When Therapy Fails – Mishandling The
Transference. It’s available on Amazon.

You can live it up
fill it up
with mistakes
and woes

And when you can’t clear it
of its clutter
you get another
And -

Live it up
fill it up
with mistakes
and woes

And when you can’t clear it
of its clutter
you get another
And -
so it goes

cooled. So, we fell like a souffle'
left on the counter for a day. We just
collapsed as we relaxed into this. And slurs

replaced a kiss. As this grew stale
we exhaled just like a cough. I choked
on his words. It gave me reflux like

my Gerd. I guess you can say
some men are just bad indigestion. So,
many I've passed -

like gas, Couldn't wait for
them to leave, To clear the air
so I can breathe!

And that’s where you’ll stay,
sitting in a nest of hairspray. Drifting in
and out of reverie, not down here
on earth with me.

You’re in my heart
And that’s where you’ll remain,
pumping blood through
the blue/red veins, not here
held in my arms, where our hearts
can beat in unison.

You’re in my soul
And that’s where you’ll shine,
bright as the twinkling stars
that have me blind. The horizon is
flat, and falls off the edge as a cat
in a tree. Without your breath
I can’t breathe.

The light I cast
makes me dwindle.
I melt, running off
myself. As I shrink

my flame expands.
I burn the hands of
the men that touch me.
When I’m a stub shall

they love me? Still,
a little flicker of truncated
love, waiting for a match
in a hollow glass, with

opaque walls. Blackness
calls. If you leave me
I'll burn the house
Down.

ya
cryin on his sleeve
he couldn’t be ya
he’s the one
who gave ya the disease
just let him think
that things are going swell
the best revenge
is to lettem
think
ya
doing well

that eats snowflakes for breakfast
collects empty bird’s nests
paints pine cones and hangs them as ornaments
and cockle shells on the beach
skinny-dips
and potato-chips with whipped cream
catching frogs
sitting on logs and thinking of –

the kind of boy
that could eat snowflakes for breakfast
and enjoy the beauty in an empty bird’s nests
and painting pine cones for the tree
picking up cockle shells on the beach
and skinny-dipping with me
eating potato-chips with whipped cream
who wouldn’t mind catching frogs
and sitting on logs thinking –
wouldn’t it be nice if we meet?

all out. That’s how
I learned it’s sordid. I sort of
knew before I found out. It made
me sore to see. So, I put my

dark sunglasses on,
the spectacles with the tinted
shades. Turned my head and
said not today.

without the label
or sidewards glances
that he is able
to grow in the purest
as a crystal snowflake
the sunrise over the horizon
a sapling sprouting from the ground

If they'd hear him
without note or sound
with feathered wings
and sturdy bough

If they'd love him
as I do
without measure
as he is
he's a treasure