twists upside down
the second I turn around. His waterfall
hardens to glass as I pass. Something was
missing when his song

spit out like hissing. His azure eyes,
a badger. Underneath his silky sheath
of dress was armor. His teeth white as pearls
cut the hearts of little girls. And still, I stood

at his side, waiting for
the tide to wash over me in a sea
green canopy. But I drowned in the foam
I swore was my home.

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.

crystal shards
in ripped leotards
what is worst
than unquenchable thirst

She screams
perpendicular unicorns
with unventilated horns
is she heard?
not a word

She screams
wearing a smile
all the while
with her lips
stitched -
looking pretty
hiding the *****

She screams
inside her spaghetti
larger than a storming Yeti
what is colder
than dreams growing older?

before it took anymore out
of me. I had to be the pins in his
coffin. I had to shoot him in the back
while he was walking. I had to do it
because if I did not, I’d lick his *****
until they fell off. He’d hide in holes
just like a mouse. We’d ****** scream
and ****** **** and go to bars.
Get ****** drunk. Fight until the fight
in us was gone. I put him to sleep once
and for all.

My digits fidget as he comes
down. We’ve done this
before. But it was so long ago
it collected dust. And that dust covered over

everything like a woolen blanket in the spring. It left me
sweating under its heat. It once was sweet as blueberry pie,
when we were much younger, and this was fresh
as morning’s sunrise. But now felt awkward,

as a fish out of water flopping itself over, struggling
to get back to blue. Blue is a shade that has been familiar
for the past ten years. And I want to overturn it before
it turns green as copper from the stuffiness of us –

the weight of mistrust.
If he could hold these hands,
cover the children maybe they’d settle down,
become the sunset, which would equally be profound

it can melt in
your hand. You can
freeze it to preserve it. But
you’ll not savor

the flavor until it’s
unwrapped. The juices
run down the length
of your chin. You’ll

be holding a stick. I’ll hold mine
with a grin. I took it
out of the box, unwrapped it
and lick after lick **** myself

in blue raspberry bliss. I’ve brain
freeze and a blue tongue. But
flings can be flung/songs can be
sung. I’ll not be hung up in

a box. I’ll bleed my colors on
the wood, than stuck in a bag
labeled Hood!

as vanilla ice cream on apple pie
running off to the sides
in a puddle of sweet lies
on a paper plate of goodbyes

They slid off
walking on crystal ice
thrown as rolling dice
till she fell in
engulfed over her head
in the icy swim

She has her lips to sip
and her teeth to eat
a nose, and a mountain
standing between
two crimson cheeks

But she can't see
where she's going
or where she is.
She only clings to
where she's been.

intense
burning mid-day sun
blistering his skin
leaving him tail-spun

She was too
splintered
jabbing at his arms
too many winters
putting out alarms

She was too
needy
taking all his time
greedy
a woman in her prime

He was too
old
to play around
but men cannot be told
and he'd not slow down

looked as a mountain
with hairy legs. I begged it
to stop tramping on my
living room floor. It grew

large as the zit
on my forehead. People are talking
at the sebaceous gland. It has an eye
and a black pupil in

the center. I can pop a zit. But I
can’t pop a shadow. I can squash it
with my foot if I’d moved. I’d have to
walk up to it. And seeing my hands

running down with sweat and the *****
of my feet soaking wet makes my
head swirl as the dust does dancing

on my floor. Is this a dust
bunny? It’s funny I’m scared of
a rolling ball of hair!

in this dark, cold basement with my
poetry in my bra and ******* for so long. I can’t
remember when. I sing a song of loneliness
every morning after the coffee has kicked in. And

write about life outside this prison. And then I post
it all over the internet. My mood depends upon
how many likes I get. It’s a sad journey
this one that chose me. It’s left me isolated

and in poverty. I wallow in the wine each afternoon
when I see the lack of sales on the Amazon
Kindle. And every evening after I’ve been sufficiently
sozzled I tell myself ah, heck there’s always tomorrow.

as peat on the bog
a planted seed
the fat bullfrog
sleeping in the reeds

I’m the wind
I’ll slap your face
mess up your coiffure
and just as the air
take all the space

I won’t be overlooked
as wet cut hair
that falls to the floor
from the old barber’s chair

I’m the scissors
sharp and shiny
the pointed edge
the sun and the briny

I won’t be overlooked
as a hush
the dew on the grass
I’m the morning’s rush
the horns blowing
the beating pavement
a traffic jam
a star-made firmament

There are many people who come and go
in our lives.
Some stay for a short while.
Others last a lifetime.
Some are just casual acquaintances.
And some are really good friends.
Some are lovers.
And others we just see now and then.
But of all the people in my life you have
touched my soul.
You have taught the most valuable lessons
that I know.
With your kindness and your caring you
have left an indelible mark.
You have made such an impression on me.
You have left an imprint on my heart.

Don’t hold on
with one hand
dangling off
You can’t
get a grip
You’ll slip
Unless
you grasp
with all
your might
How are you going
to push yourself up
to safety’s landing
You’re not standing
You’re beneath it
It’s got you over
the edge
You’ll hang
swinging in the air
Fear is the height
Courage the plane

if you want it
to stop.  Call it Venom. If it robs you
of who you are. If it takes
your soul and turns it into

burnt marshmallow. You’ll
know because the pain will
become more than
anything gained. It will be

your worse nightmare. More
than a dream, it has hands
and feet. And it will come at
you and strangle you. Do you

want death to be your
only way out of it? An eternity
in hell is what you’re living
now.

from the sun. Don’t expect me
to be warm. It's cold here on earth. All
the men wear masks. They don't
ask "how do you do". I can't see
their smiles. Their bodies skew.

I’m a million miles away
in my thoughts. Don’t expect
to find me. I’m lost in a reverie of
azure skies and crystal foam seas
of aqua green. I don't like
all I've seen.

I'm a million miles away
from this place. I can't face
another day living in the shadows,
hanging as a silhouette on
the wall. The red, white, and blue
has mixed to purple. Somebody broke
the circle that joined us all.

from the sky. But I’m no longer
third eye blind. Buzzing
down as hornets from their paper
tree nests. Flocking toward me

like the gulls at sea,
tenebrous grey unrest. This
red pin cushioned porcupine
cannot roll with sharp, long

spines. I jab the sidewalk. Dab
in side talk. Once the sky snowed
luminous butterflies. Pirouetting like
ballerinas. But now I'm handing men

subpoenas! Maybe this cornflower
prison that I’ve been living will pour me
some buttered *** from the flask
of the golden sun.

him as he was
when time was on his side
and he was young
green as spring
when roses bud
so, I could thaw him out
and he could melt
in a strawberry puddle
in my mouth

I'd freeze
myself as I was
when butterflies danced
in my tummy
and stars sparkled
in hazel eyes
and the world
surprised me
all the time

I'd freeze
us as we were
warm as a pair of mittens
nestled and snug
purring as sleeping kittens
milky and downy
life was a plate
of chocolate brownies

bought me little, just a lot of
dead weight carried around. A penny
a day didn’t pay for all my pain. Wasted
time and a bungle of lies that destroyed

lives. I carried them in my pocketbook
the first year. They jingled as I walked up
the stairs. I said I'm pulling down stars. So, I moved
them to a bigger jar. Did they shine bright

in the thick of the night. But as the years
passed the lid didn't fit on the glass. The sparkle
turned to rust. And he blew me off as dust
in the wind, carrying the weight of a thousand sins.

as a grain of sand
on the shore. But you sparkle
as a diamond gem dancing around
moving feet, til you build
a castle high as the clouds
on the beach.

You’re made to feel small
as a snowflake
that falls from the cold
grey sky. But you’re taken by
a breeze and fly amongst
the trees, as a room of butterflies.

You're made to feel small
as a star shining. But mountains
look small on the horizon. And just like
the sun you'll be rising.

You're made to feel small
as a raindrop. But with every kerplop
on the ground the water pools into
crystal blue streams running through
a forest. And floating above a chorus of orioles
and woodpeckers drilling holes.

those dead layers of skin. They’re dried on
and peeling and making you itch. They’ve been pasted
to you as a cast to a broken bone. It looks like a coat
your mother has sewn. Many have spelled out words and

written their names. You’re toting around
the hall of fame. Liberation comes with release. It feels
like you’re holding back a sneeze. Or are you
remembering the burn? Those days when you stayed

out in the sun too long. When you were young
consequences were like gum. You could easily
swallow it, stick it under your desk at school or spit it out
the bus window at some passing by fool.

her hazel eyes
beneath the mascara lies
a pool of brine
enough to pickle a memory
to dine on past reverie

Underneath
her golden locks
beneath the curls
lies a wily old fox
that hunts with a trotting gait
and dangles smiles as her bait

Underneath
her puffy blouse
is a woman that lives to grouse
about all she can't rearrange
and a life that sees little change

down
Fall Up

Don’t fall
flat
Fall full

Don’t fall
in
Fall out

Don’t fall
short
Fall long

You’re gonna fall
just learn to
do it the right way
is all

as a baby was my
index finger. Wrapping
your tiny fingers around it
snug. I fell in-love with

the squeeze of your
touch. I was amazed by
the strength of your
hand, how it curled tightly

like a strand of hair. And your soft
little nails looked so pale. And now
with that same hand you can pick
me up.

When my dear, did you
grow up?

you. Time stands still,
still as the lady
holding the torch
in New York harbor. Still as
the red and blue pole
outside of the barber.

There’s no getting over
the pain. The color is ****** out
as a bleach stain. Bent as a willow
sweeping the ground. Stuck as
a dog locked in the pound. 

There's no getting over
the past. It passed through
as a high-speed train,
with the windows pushed up
letting in the rain.

There's no getting over
this ****, sitting as a lump
in the throat. There's no jumping
over this moat.

The sun is most admired
when it’s either rising
or setting. Beyond the
horizon I reach out to

yesterday; I long to
cling to my *****. Hold it as
its casting a silky figment
dancing far away

obscured by the land,
trees and mountains. I spread these tears
as a fountain to water the earth
in their chaste covert.

every week. The answer
is the same. He can look
at the clouds and ask
how it rains. He can listen

to the woodpecker peck
at the trees, ask how he doesn't
leave, as not a spec is found. Man
has asked if the earth is round. He can
look at the stain in his carpet. I haven't forgot

it. True as the harvest moon,
a life in the stain. The woodpecker
pecks for insects in the hollow pit
of dead wood.  He pecks for answers

in the hollow pit of a dead stain. It's caked
on as the bark. Just a touch and it falls
off. The wind blew down the tree in her
yard. It's ashes now as her grandpa's

cigar. Planted years past by a woman's
hand, a madman's plans -
now is rotten as the stain. All's forgot. But
the plot it sits in silence.

I looked for you under November snow.
You turned colors like the autumn leaves.
You rolled me up like your shirtsleeves.

Where did you run?
You beat down on me as the August sun.
You burnt me with your amber rays.
Disappeared like a needle in the hay.

Where did you fly?
I saw you in the red-hot sky.
You turned windy as a hurricane.
Spun me around like a weathervane.

Where are you now?
Over the moon with the cow?
Or dishing with the spoon?
While I stand here like a prune!

doesn’t respond
to my “hello”. He looks
down at the sidewalk,
chalky face, lacing his

black leather shoe, doesn’t
see that I’m standing
in full view. With a cough
and a toss of his head he’s

revving his engine. Sixteen years
living next to him. I can't pick out
the title of his kids, or job
or the side of the fence he's on.

Easier for you to turn another page.
She drinks down her rage.
Easier for you not to hear her screams.
She lives in her dreams.

Easier for you at the end of the day.
She goes her own way.
Easier for you when you don't yield.
She walks in a minefield.

Easier for you to say she's doing better.
She can't pay her debtor.
Easier for you to live your cushy life.
She  only knows strife.

has had me up these past few nights
tossing like a beanbag thrown into the numbered holes
putting on the lights, wetting my face
with a cold washcloth, scratching my hives
making pockmarks
as the liquor wears off
worrying and excited about seeing you
frightful as when I look in the mirror
after this dreaded night is through
having nightmares of black creatures and
the old homestead up in flames again
restless as a meatball that can’t stay on the plate
cooked up short and half-baked

Dedicated to Dr. Richard Geist

More Snippets

The time I sat in your lap and felt
the curve of the mole under your shirt. Then my hand
went south
to the flaccid place in your pants.
I walked out. We never got the chance
to talk about that afternoon when I was the spoon
in your gravy.

The time I brought in a bone, and wore
the metallic collar like a dog. You walked me around
your office on a leash. You’ve yet to tame the ravenous
beast. You only think that you do.

I called you naked one night I couldn’t
sleep. You were sleeping soundly in your bed all alone
with your telephone. You answered it in a pleasant voice,
and called my name and said how happy you were
this August night when I woke you up under Maine
moonlight.

After my biopsy you packed some ice for my breast,
gathered in a paper towel. I pushed my shirt down and
placed it there. Ice-cold warmth from your hand.

Our one-year anniversary. You lit the candle. I split
the chocolate cupcake right down the middle. You
poured two glasses of organic milk. We drank/we ate
on the couch, celebrating, what else? The two of us.

your list
he said. He doesn’t like
black on white. He can do
with less marigold and crimson

skies. Less waterfalls and
lullabies. He’s a doctor with degree
to the degree that he doesn’t
see a blue bird chasing a worm,

or the smell of leaves
as they burn. To the degree
of mercury that has him sweat. And the
mint that covers the garlic from lunch

on his breath. And I, as Santa
check twice crossing out the x's
and o's like a game of tic-tac-toe. Not
hanging him with my vertical lines, or

salting the page with feverish pines.

the high
the glaze on the cake
made of sugar and artificial color
once the spill fizzles

you're left with the drizzle
like a Monday morning rain
and you carry the pain with you
it's in your stiletto

and running pantyhose
in your nightstand drawer
with the poetry book he bought
and your nerves taut

as the strings of a bow
till you let the "bleeping thing"
go
but it follows you

hollows you out as a log
feet stuck in a bog of his lies
swarming like flies in your face
and not a trace of him –

'cept his picture in the nightstand drawer
along with the poetry book that he bought

at the center
of a burnt down forest. I walk barefoot
among the char. The smell of death
circling me as halo. I’ve been singed. But I forget

the burning.  I see whiffs of smoke
poke their tales out of holes in the ground. I think
of them as squirrels. But when I look
all is still. It’s only a murmur

of uncertainty. The faint light
plays hide and seek. I try to follow it. But it leads
me to more fallen trees that have blackened
and blended with the leaves.

in her pajamas. “Why are you wearing that”
he asked. She felt like it. She wore unusual things
to each session. One time she dressed as an alien
in a full-length neon green suit, with antenna for ears

and not wearing any shoes. “You’re Unusual”
another one said. Some could take this as an insult. But she
took it as a compliment instead. She came to one session
with a dozen balloons tied down by weights. And made

the psychologist wait outside his office door
as she set them up in order. On each different colored
balloon, she wrote her feelings. There was sadness, anger
and jealousy, excited and nervous, even happy. When he

entered his office, he could barely walk. He had to
go through a maze of balloons to find his chair. Thank God
the man wasn’t visibly impaired. It was like bumper pool,
bouncing off her feelings with balloons. One time she came into

the session wearing nothing but a bikini, and holding a
humongous branch that fell in her backyard from
a storm. The branch from the old oak tree was taller than
her! She loved to taunt her shrinks., They never knew what
she’d do. And it was hard to think when a patient is wearing
a string bikini.

that even those noisy kids
at the library shouting at the computer
game didn’t bother me. When I have
anxiety stillness is unbearable. So, most times
I want to pull these kids by the collar and

holler “this is a library”, not a video arcade
or park to kick your soccer ball. Do your home
work, read a book or shut the **** up! You see
nothing was going to take away my inner world
of tranquil bliss. Not even these kids, yesterday.

the things to do
picking out the dress
the perfume and shoes
filling my head with his face
filling my face with make-up
taking up space on the bathroom sink
the sun sinking behind a cloud
clouding my eyes in reverie

Counting down
the hands on the clock
till four o'clock
blow-drying my hair
hearing the whirl of leaves
flying from the trees past the picture window
and the caw of the crow
rattling my soul
polishing my speech and nails
brushing my teeth/hopping on the scale

Counting down
the streets to his house
blaring the radio to pop music
rolling down the window and hill
turning the *** to catch a song
he sang to me
fixing my face in the mirror at a red light
butterflies dancing in my tight tummy
my pulse accelerating with the gas
as I pass the numbers of his neighbor's homes

Counting down
the seconds
to his door
crossing the yard
walking past the old Oak tree
following the lighted path
down the brick steps
holding my breath
wiping the sweat off my hands
turning the ***
looking through the glass
this whole day starting now

these days. People just can’t agree
anymore. They hit the delete button
and move on. No more working things
out. It’s put up or get out. No one likes

individuality. It’s more of a herd mentality –
agree with their politics and their religion.
******* if they’re a vegan. I’m opting out
of this stupidity. I’m burning fires of lividity

by listening to it all. You’re not going to
guilt-trip me into believing anything. I’m
happy being by myself, not answering to
anyone or being judged by what

I eat. YES, I like meat! I also hate
Trump. Religion is free and so is my **** –
that you can kiss! Because I don’t give
a rat’s *** over any of this.

the sound
would be muted.
Robins wouldn’t sing,
and the crickets all’d drown.
The waves out in the ocean
would rise up without a splash.
What would matter?
The rain upon my windowpane
wouldn’t pitter-patter.

I told him
the scene
would be erased.
There’d be no colors.
The green grass would
be brass. There’d be no golden
yellows, or no sky azure.
The marmalades would fade.
All would be obscure

I told him
if he leaves
the rose would not perfume.
I wouldn’t smell the mint
in the garden, even in full bloom.

I told him
I would not be heard
or seen. And all that I touch
would cut. He was the only softness
I’ve felt. And the days would run
like the molasses flood until I turned to rust.

I'm Covered All in Black

But if you scratch the surface
you'll see all the colors underneath.
As the wax flies off in the hands,
of a lepidopterist I'm a butterfly. And

in the hands of botanist
I'm an orchid. If you were a mother,
I can be your kid if you drew  
a circle for my eyes and head, loops for

ears and nose, a wiggle for a mouth
and a body with some clothes in red
and green and gold. But if you leave me
black then black is all you'll see. If you sit

back and don't look under
me. The colors are all hidden, cloaked in
a black prison. The shapes are yet
to take without a pen or stake.

an overlay, a coating
a charade. A colorful float
in the parade laid in metallic
and balloons. You’re a caricature,

a cartoon. You’re not
solid. You’re plated. You’re
created to tarnish. You’re the garnish,
not the meal. You’re the spoke

not the wheel. Both men and
women see you as a saint. But I see
you as you are -
a flake, a chip of paint.

was a dark bar. The kind
you go when you don’t want to
be seen. After unethical ***
when you are dressed you hide

inside the hole and watch football
on the wall. You can see every play
in this place, no matter where you’re
seated. They’re also generous with

the drinks. They give you the martini
with an extra little glass that has the excess
from the pour, with ice to keep it cold. And all

the olives you can swallow if you’re
too cheap to order food from their menu. You
can go out the back entrance that leads into
the local parking lot if you forgot your money

to pay. This has happened over and again. But
it looks like he just went to the bathroom.

in your head, as you turn
down the violet sheets in your bed to climb
inside. Leave the canvas white. Don’t fill
it up with mountains and sky. How can you

hear a thing she says with a boombox
pounding between your ears? How can you
see the tears she's shed with striped shades pulled
over your eyes? How can she add her piece

when the pages are cluttered with
your beliefs, sneaking in the dark as
covered black thieves. Stealing all the apples
from the trees you planted outside.

The First Day I Met You

was in the summer, when the days didn’t want
to assuage themselves from the nights. There was plenty of communicating in the way of phone calls and letters. But when I espied you for the first time coming around the corner

I felt as if I was watching the tall ships standing stately
in the harbor. And I stayed to my post as a Yeoman Warder
at the tower because I couldn’t move. My eyes were
paralyzed too. They couldn’t flutter. My heart took over. But my

arm had life of its own. It flung out as a hunter’s rifle,
aiming itself directly at you, as if you were a buck in the forest
and I hadn’t eaten a thing for days. My hand took your hand. In that one moment the world stopped and I got off. I didn’t want to

release your hold. Remember, you tugged a little, as a foot does
when its stuck inside a very tight boot that’s hard to remove. I didn’t want to let go, same as the summer, when the days didn’t want to assuage themselves from the nights, same as a Yeoman Warder at the tower, held in place by electric light.

a frown turns
into a smile. I can walk
on clouds if the sky's
turned over. It'd rain

clover. If my feet's above
my head
I'd look up to people
that I met –

It’s a lively world
when everything’s
unfurled.

I’d like to strangle! If only I bought
a wide-tooth comb to pull out
the knots that made a home
in my hair, then I’d shed him
as fleas in a quick sneeze.

He is the Trash
I should have put out last night. But I
was red-eyed and tired. Everything
expired and smelled like rotten eggs, moldy
cheese and sour grapes.

He is a Molotov cocktail
I shouldn’t have mixed. But then
I was fixed on him. He blew up in
my face. And I splattered like cake batter
with the beater on high. Stuck to the ceiling
and dried. None can scrape me off -
with only a wet cloth.

after the fire. She hangs
in the air like her mother’s bloomers
on the clothesline, blowing in the dusty
greed of yesterday’s deceased. Not a thing

stands. The bark is stripped from
the trees. Life with tied hands is hard. She
loosens her hips to let in a rolled
cigar. When the sky is blazing red, you can

water it, put it out like the trash. But
the fog lurks as the Boston strangler. And every
corner smells like pantyhose wrapped around
her elongated nose. The stub of a smoked cigarette

thrown on an ivory bar that is lit burns as
the tomb of the unknown soldier. She's that soldier carrying
her canteen. She lost her green at the age
of thirteen. The doctors said "PTSD" You can't wash

the stench off. It's a pockmark she lives
with. Covers it in make-up and garters, smiles
and lace, *****, and poetry -
that no one reads.

as the wind.
Pull you up off the ground.
Move you around.
We can go to places
you’ve never been.

I want to be
as the rain,
a soft and gentle refrain
that you collect in a cup
and drink the contents up.
Sweet as cherry wine.
Green as the leaves
on the vine.

I want to be
as the sun,
and make you feel warm.
I want to light up your face.
You have such a beautiful face.
It shouldn’t be hidden for long.

I want to be
as the snow –
coat you in pure white gold.
Spread your arms
and make angel wings.
And sing til
we scare off the crows.

if I'm not the same
as you. If I hit a trigger examine it,
reflect a bit. Ask how I evoked
the response. Don’t ensconce

yourself in venom or stew. I haven’t
a thing over you. How can you live
if you can't forgive yourself for
the woman you are. Every star

shines. We don't
sparkle the same. Every woman
has a given name.

like a gold button, leaving me
with the hole, the spot that filled me,
held me in tight, now a slit overnight.
And soiled did he blight. High on
his horse, no longer enmeshed!
Another Macbeth.

He undid me
pressed Ctrl+Z on his keyboard
till not a trace of me
left. Then he typed in boldface
over the place I held breath.

He undid me
like a bun, secured with
a barrette. Shook me loose. Now
a hairy mess. Like Niagara Falls I fell
to my death.