in Alaska? Go on and ask
her. But what does it
matter? You no longer have her.

Do they do that
in Boston? I get kinda
lost in these old time
rituals. So that’s the way it goes.

Do they do that
in Italy? I wouldn’t take it
literally. They talk with their hands
so, no one understands.

Do they do that
in Aruba? I heard you
got to **** her. She’s getting
old, Can’t you tell she’s moving
slow?

Do they do that
in Turkey? You get jerky
when you’re trying to be like
them. Stop all that pretend.

in the morning
as the sun jumps over the horizon
as the sleepers crawl out of your eyes and
the coffee percolates.

She's not there
in the noon
as calls fly over the wire
and papers stack up like
flames of a fire
in a room filled with binders and files
with a wall lined with subway tiles.

She's not there
in the evening
as you stare at the empty chair
eating the frozen dinner
you microwaved.
Running your fingers through
a memory you shaved.

She's not there
in the night
as the moon sits flat
as a crepe. And you look
at a show that you taped.
The sheets on her side of the bed
don't pucker. And you can’t kiss
or tuck her in. So, you drown
in your fifth of gin.

The squirrel, he scrimmages
to find a hidden nut,
to fill up the hole
in his hungry little gut.

He delves quite feverishly
in his absented minded way
looking for that last little acorn
that hopelessly gone astray.

He sometimes scurries up
an old oak tree
hyper vigilant to sudden movement
that could interfere with his binging spree.

Dressed in formal grey
He's a furry ball who's spry.
Our persistent little chap
got quite a roving eye.

He searches far and wide
for his underground treasure.
And holds fast his lot
with each careful measure.

As he ravishes each scrumptious
hardy bite
his cheeks fill up fast
as he packs it all in tight.

And I think to myself,
what a peculiar scene!
Enjoying his antics,
as he enjoys his cuisine.

of love. They write
poems of war, of beautiful
woman you’ve not seen
before.

They write poems
of mountains, lakes
and streams, of birds
and books and trees.

They write poems
of death and life –
poems to put you to sleep
and keep you up at night.

They write poems
at their desk,
in the blackness of
their closet, on their hands
or a napkin. Something happens –

and so they write

I want to sip it
like brandy.
You're strong
and oh so fine.
Your love is honey.
I want to pour it
on my tummy
until the bees start
chasing me.
Your love’s molasses
as it passes through
this heart of mine.
I want to whip you
like cream.
You stepped out of
my dream
to become my valentine.
Sticky like taffy,
your love leaves me wacky –
But sweetie, it sure
makes me shine!

of you second-guessing me
he said. He sounded perturbed
on ever word.

I’m sick
of your rage
he told me before. But if he
lived the violent life I had
he’d have some rage for sure.

I’m sick
of being lovesick
over you. Sick of you making
promises that you never kept. Always
saying that you’d be there –
then left
fighting to get back
a semblance that was

I’m sick
because I relied on you
and then
you broke my heart


I’m sick
of being sick
and never
getting fixed!!

And I'm too sick to start!

This morning I noticed a ball
of brownish gray, soft and furry clump rolled
up like a hamster in my comb. And I wondered
if I should feed it or leave it alone. I couldn’t put

it back on head. I had to lay the thing
to rest. I noticed the numbers on my phone
haven’t been ringing, like the church bells tolling
the hour as they used to do. That old familiar twang

was comforting too. It sounds no more. The
incidentals drive me out of my mind, like my
keys when I need to leave in a hurry, or
the butter that’s melting somewhere

in this landscaped home of topiary. You’d think
it’d be easy to find; it’s brighter than
a yellow canary. If it grew wings it could
fly. Most of the people I know have died. That goes

with aging. You lose things more
easily. There are more funerals to attend. And
more broken hearts to mend. And many nights
awake when sleep itself escapes.

You make them
Tell other people
Try to convince - them
Yourself
You know you do
You go back to what you knew
What’s easy
At your disposal
When
You gonna change
No one else to blame
Carry the shame
The past on your back
Heavy as a boulder
You’re older
Isn’t it time to

like life turned back to normal
on this hot summer day. People crowed
together like oysters on the half-shell
primed for eating whole after sitting

on the ice. A little tabasco
is nice. I, red as the pepper
sauce waiting for the toss back into
the thick of things. Wasn’t it a

sour spring. And I, flying this summer
off-roading like a Hummer. For the past months
cooped up like the chickens in their cages
waiting to sit next to the mashed potatoes.

of fighting back
getting less
Tired of black
Pitching white
spotting grey
throwing light
getting nay
the stain
stays
remains
Nothing for
Nothing or
Nothing
Not
NO
O

then it can’t be sappy

If it makes them smile
then it’s worth while

If it makes them laugh
even if it’s not what you intended
then it’s splendid

If it makes them *****
then it can’t be corny

If it makes them ***
then you know you have done
something right

leave them wanting more –

If it makes you money
then you’re no dummy

then let me be found
like a glossy shell on the shore
plunked by the tide
no longer will I hide
as sweaters in the drawer

If I’m washed up
then let me bask in the sun
of my own ignorance –
just for the fun

If I’m washed up
then I’m ready to go
where you shall ask –
I’ll let you know

for walking all over
me. I can only see the bottom
of your feet. The impact has
laid me flat as the mat
outside your door. I’m not curled
into a ball that you can throw
around. I'm thick as the ground.

Thank You
for lying. I’m not weeping. All my
teardrops have dried into splinters on
my face. I’m a porcupine. If you step
near me you’ll have a face of spines
that’ll debase.

Thank you
for breaking the pedestal
I have you on. The crash has made
me strong. The landing was a long
ride. But took the trash out with the tide.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09PHC1BX5?ref=pe3052080_397514860

when my head is stretched out
rolling in your hands? Or will you pull back
so, that I snap as a rubber band, landing
in your trash can?

Will you read me
when I line myself as a V like a flock of geese
flying above? Or will you run from
the droppings of love?

Will you read me
when your eyes are glazed
in honeydew? When your cup of coffee
is thick as stew and sticks to you
as the deodorant in your armpits?

Will you read me
when I’m carrion and the vultures
are circling? Or will you throw everything I wrote
in the flames, to heat your home –
on paper notes?

do you fantasize
when you close your eyes
that it’s me you’re making
love to? Do you picture

my curves
up against yours? Your
fingertips caressing
my plump *******,

taking your mouth
to them? ******* them like
a juicy plum? When you ******
do you tremble and feel

disassembled
until you open your eyes and it
hits you hard that this old, wrinkled
overweight woman in bed is

the only one
you’ll ever make love to
time and again.

standing,
looking
in the glass?
I pass her
every day.
But I don’t ask
if she’s happy
with the life
she’s made.
I’m afraid.
She slips on
a saffron sweater.
And I see better
than to sprinkle
her head with
spicy questions.

the coldest winter
thoughts are splintered
and people are shards
of fallen cards

This will be
the longest day
as numbers are counted
heads are mounted

This will be
the loneliest season
none can reason
instead of spreading cheer
we’re only spreading fear

all black and white. I’ve no
color. I’ve never taken flight. My wings
are stubs that flap but never lift off. I only

waddle when I walk. The air around me
is cold. Glaciers and icebergs are my
home. I dive deep to get my feed. I wish life

could be easier on me. I wish I was slender. I wish
I could fly. I wish I was colorful as the macaw,
and that people would listen when I

make noise, and believe I have a voice. I wish
I could live in the rain forest, among the lush trees
and sparkling waterfalls. The saddest thing

about my life is I was born wearing
a tuxedo with nowhere to go except
back and forth.

my eyes.
Watered from the guise of men.
Take my ears.
I can't hear the lies
again.

Take away
this mouth.
So tired of talking.
Echo's ricocheting
all spoken.
And the chain of screams
are now broken.

Take away
my shoulders.
I've carried all this weight.
Now that I'm older
I can't stand up straight.
Hunched over,
my face is in my plate.

Take away
my arms,
the fleshy pendulums.
Back and forth they swing,
holding onto nothing.

Take away
my legs.
They're growing spider veins.
They don't move me,
and the feet too!
The bunions don't fit
inside my shoes.

has been ******* you
but not as hard
as you’ve been on
yourself

This world
has been complicated
to say the least
but not as complicated as
your mind when
it’s ill at ease

This world
doesn’t offer many
second chances
but you have taken many
in advance
and still are here
and have much to offer
as anyone
anywhere

again! I won’t have to
pull my ragged self out, cause I’ll

never put myself in. I won’t
have to pick my splintered parts up,

cause I won’t let myself
down. I won’t have the

pounding pain of the lows, cause I
won’t have the highs. And

I won't have the gut-wrenching
life from a callous goodbye.

left
to give you
someone took it
fed it to themselves
gorged on it
had their fill
threw it up –
it became chunks
of something
that once was
but smelled
foul
and looked
revolting
what’s left -
disgusting
right

place to drive
I can save gas
in my old guzzler

One less
excuse not to dress up
I can tie my hair back
and not put make-up on

One less
present to buy
during the holidays
think of the money I’ll save

One less
call to make
during my afternoon break

One more
reason to be
very lonely

is the squeeze of death
like a baby chick getting mauled
by the hands holding it
it’s downy feathers cover fragile bones
that can snap by the impact of a love
that’s overgrown

these hands have crushed the life
out of most of what they hold
these fingers are bars that choke as
cheap cigars. If only I could spread them
out as petals so they’d be a freer, wider
surface to land I’m sure this love would expand

It’s only a thought
An idea
It’s only a dream
A fantasy
It’s only a notion
Written on paper
It’s only a plan I devised
And it’s improvised
It’s only the beginning
A start
Nothing has happened
It’s only the first attempt
That failed
It’s only the second one, third and so on
Surprised?
It’s only a thought
Revised

polyethylene that bunched
around her thighs holding in
the ***** that pooled as
a riptide. She cried. But none
came as she soiled, to hold her
and dry the oiled dew that fell
from morning till noon.

She wore
her hair short
as the boys. She didn't like
the look. Even then she dreamed of
looking like a girl. No ribbons or bows –
just wash and go.

She wore
her welts underneath
the second-hand pants
with a belt. None to see
the scars that bleed.

She wore
her name on plastic
pinned to her navy jumper. She bowed
her head in shame as the kids taunted
her again and again. Thin as the pencil
she carried. But she couldn’t erase
the secrets she buried.

She wore
a gown of snow white
lace. And chased a dream
of green lawns and picket
fences, white knights. But
lost her senses.

She wore
black velvet
at his funeral. First ever
the voices stood still. Now
his torment lay in a box that
covered the stain. But the pain
billowed in the air –
from then on
it’s what she'd wear.

sponge, turning and
twisting like an otter till
every ounce of water is a rolling
bead on her. She's dropping mold

from the ceiling. Peeling back
layers of paint over the rot. No one
can cover the ugly black spot. A musty
smell of old books and wet

socks. She's a spiked slice of
ice weeping from the eaves into
a deep freeze. She's hot candle
wax trickling down the side,

rough as rawhide. Running rain
in the sewer. Plopping like stones
heavy and wet. Another day lets out
the same as it rose in – draining

Some Things Stick out

like noses and *****
bellybuttons that protrude
***** and flab
ignorance and my crazy dad
ear hair
tongues and middle fingers
***** that grow bigger under pants
shirts that poke out
and the president
sore thumbs
I’m one

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!

has fallen
high from the tree
rolling on the ground
unhinging from the branch

in a spiraling dance
with bruises underneath
the shiny red skin

if you poke with a finger
you can push it right in
this skin turns to *****
hanging by a thread

in a soft brown-like mash
no man will take
fallen as it is

so, it lies in the shadows
of the apples that clung
food for the mother rat
and her young

gnawing on the flesh
chewing it like gum
ants blanket the little left
not a sign of it now

as apples die fast
they never die loud

windows looking out
over a beer foaming ocean
azure views every side
in a Puff the Magic Dragon world
cherry brides dance
in white chocolate underpants
sipping juice out of the cactus
it just takes practice
to leave the real world behind
a day or two –
to unwind

She Used

false eyelashes to make her eyes
appear wider, just as she used her underwire
push-up bra to make her ******* look more like watermelons

than tiny plums. She used her looks to get attention,
so people would listen. But they were too busy
ogling her to hear a word.  She used her mouth to please

men ******, so that they may lover her unconditionally. But
that never worked, even though she perfected the art
from watching pornographic movies and looking

through girlie magazines. She used alcohol to drown it all,
so that she could bury the shame. But when it wore off
she had to face herself every morning

in the mirror. The wrinkles on her face told her
that she was too old to be playing this game. That's when
she decided to use the sleeping pills in the refilled bottle on her night-stand. That’s the end.

back and forth on the red and
black hammock in my backyard. Tied around
the tree, tied just like me to things that
don’t make a sound. Fast or slow/high or low
I’m lifted off the ground.

I swing
to the song of the robin bobbing up
and down in my teal birdbath. He drinks
and makes a splash, wetting his wings. Then takes off
for better things.

I swing
my head to the neighbor’s screaming
kids. As they’re breaking up this reverie
two squirrels hanging from my tree are batting at
the birdfeeder. Spilling the seeds on the ground
as it swings to the sound of the breeze.

they find hair in unusual places.
Some grow under noses,
as spikey thorns in roses.
Some sprout out of chins
as pointy silver pins.

They’re so long
you could hang your bathrobe on.
They’re sharp enough to scour
the grimiest bathroom shower.

We pluck them
bleach them
wax them
even shave them

But they grow back
just as the dandelions on our front lawn.
And not only that
but they come in thicker.

I could grow a mustache, even a beard
if I kept them there.
I thought it was bad enough
when I had to shave the hair under
my arms and legs!

dripping in pellucid beads
in the same metronomic
speed. Like dew on
a silver blade or sweat sticking

to your nape when there is no
shade. Hanging off
the end in a bulbous blob
like that of a soupy sob. The long

dull thud of the kerplunk,
like hitting a wall when
you are drunk sits heavy
like a stone. Pearls of liquid

drone. Like rain they pitter-
patter. And when they fall
they scatter like mice back in
their hole, black as a lump of coal.

I’m a sawmill in the sky.
And I’ll cut you down to size
in eighths like apple pie.

Don’t overlook me
as a jumpy little flea
that is hidden in the hair
of your old grandmother’s chair.

Don’t contemplate
me as second rate.
I’m better than anyone.
Second to none.

when you called. Had my
mouth wide open but –
no words at all.
Felt like an unloaded gun
Useless as one

My head was a canvas –
stark, barren naked
Felt as I was stripped
like a couch being reupholstered

The gun again –
Loaded, but not in its holster

on her little shoulders,
the planets, the stars, sun
and the moon. The countries
and continents. She's a walking

cartoon. She's bent over
from the weight. They loaded
her small paper plate. And she
stumbles and trips because

it's easy to slip wearing
the world across her back like
a gunny sack. She was born
carrying the cross. Her mother

nailed her umbilical cord
to it. Every day she walked
toward the door her mother pulled it
like a dentist does to a decayed

tooth. Batting her around like she
was Babe Ruth. When she dies she'll
be buried in a coffin with a wide berth,
laying her load down in the earth.

droop their golden
bright heads when I lop
them off and place them in
a vase, bring them home –
to my place
I know I should leave them
alone
to stand ***** against
the cornstarch skies
and butterball of rays that
fly
but I want them badly
and even though I add them
to water
they always cry –
to be uncut
and live outside
to have the air and waltz
with the wind
they shed their yellow tears
on top of my table
and if I was able
to put them back on their stalks
I would walk out
and do it myself
and so, their depressed faces
fall
and rain yellow drops
of shame
all over my table-top
It’s cruel that I took them
inside -
never to see the sun
again
whence their name is
reminiscent of –
the golden orb of love

with me
or in a
fantasy? I see
your body

next to mine,
but your thoughts
are out of line. Your
head isn’t connected

to the event. It’s floating
on a string attached
to someone else’s
hand. And if I cut it

you’ll be gone. Still, keeping
you while someone’s
holding the other end I
cannot apprehend. And I

won’t do it for long. You’re
more with her than with
me. And there’s no room
in this for three.

the sun
blanket it in billowing clouds
drape the grey on jeering crowds
but I’ll still waltz in moonbeams
flittering under the evergreen
in fields that glean

They can take away
the songbird
cut all his notes
so, none are heard
slash the humpback whales
drowning their song
in a blood sea bath
wearing a sarong
but I’ll still swim thin as a lath
making a wake in the aftermath

They can take away
the flowers
pulling up their roots
no perfume showers
or bearing fruits
but I’ll still lie in the dandelions
waving and bobbing
as the bearded dragons

You thought you would
melt me down so I would fit into
your pre-fabricated mold. I would not
melt down. So, you thought

you would break me into
small pieces. But when you tried that
I didn’t crack. So, you built a wall
around me to hold me in. But I had wings

and flew up and away.

as a switch
of a light pointed
down. But I can sprint
off as a greyhound tracking

the scent of a rabbit or
a racing horse
at the post after lifting
the fence. I'm off course
and off my rocker. But don't you

knock me off my blocker! I'm off
duty. Some say I'm off,
that I'm just fruity! I run off
at the mouth. And men don't like

my offhand comments. They often
say it makes them *****. I’m off
center, and off the mark.  And if
it suits me I'll blow you off!

melamine for rhythm
composite
durable
put things on top
cut into lemons
remove the seeds
no more planting
we’re building dreams
scratch and burns
cuts and spills
we’ll get you laughing
overdosing
sniffing glue
they call us plastic
outdated
pill
doesn’t matter
we know the drill

isn’t so nice. Pull out
a block/stack it on top
so many men pulling
my pieces now and again
leaving me with empty slots
but none fill the holes
and so, the pile grows
till I implode

Where Does Greatness Lie

In her opinion,
or their opinions? Why do
their opinions matter? Because

their opinions
bring fame. Her opinion begets
loneliness. If she is nothing

to anyone then how can she be
something to herself?  She would
exist only onto herself,

which she does. But that is
empty, frustrating and bland. It’s
the base, without added ingredients.

past the nose and
lips? Jump down
to my ******* and
hips? Marvel at

my long legs? Am I
a projection, like an image
on a movie screen lying
flat in ripped blue jeans? I'm a

matchbox cover, a work of
art with a striking surface,
a pin-up doll that can light
a furnace. But so small  

I get lost when you
toss me in your drawer
with notebooks, gadgets
and receipts from the store.

wearing flowing capes
flying in the air
they're nicer guys out of shape
sitting in a chair

Beware of sweet tongues
letters after names
the pounding of rolling drums
gilded paper in wooden frames

Beware of whispers
blowing in the dark
I like mine crisper
without a combustive spark

a diamond
was only dust
what once shined bright
turned into rust

What looked like
a prince
was just a frog
I wasn't kissed
I was repeatedly flogged

What looked like
a home
was a house of cards
that collapsed in a breeze
and stuck me with shards

What looked like
a rainbow
in red, green, and gold
was a broken kaleidoscope
that some old man sold

falling off the table
scraps for the dog
****** up from the vacuum
broken pieces from the man's plate
into his lap
as he stood, they fell straight
the bits stuck to his shoes
made their home inside the grooves
embedded in the nest of zigzag
and swirls they rest
so, this is bottom
walked on as leaves in autumn
he couldn't shake me loose
we didn't have a truce