of yesterday. It’s stuck in
the plasterboards and sung
as a lost chord. I rehearse every line
at night when I can’t sleep. I can’t turn
down the volume to the sick beat.

I can’t get my head out
of the billowing clouds. I wear
my pain as a shroud. I weep
lightning rods the size of stallions. But
it's shrunk my brain down to a bulb
of a scallion.

I can’t get my head out
of the front door. It’s swelled the size
of a piano. None can know that feeding it
every day has made it grow.

They speak so bad of the dreamers.
Artists are criticized for their art.
They tell me to act my age.
I never did; so why start?

I don’t need a ladder.
I’ll swing to the stars from my rope.
I don’t need anyone’s approval.
I got me a bottle of hope.

What is wrong in being happy?
Now a days it’s such a crime.
They cut off the rungs of my ladder.
They hate it when they see me climb.

I don’t need a ladder.
I’ll swing to the stars from my rope.
I don’t need anyone’s approval.
I got me a bottle of hope.

I don’t conform to people’s standards.
As a result, I lost many a friend.
I’m looking out for my own happiness.
I’m so tired of having to pretend.

It’s you alone I honor.
I admit I was a goner
the moment we locked eyes.
So, it comes as no surprise;
I’ve turned into a fawner.

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

I did my best to hold back. I did it for
you. I wouldn't retract. But you see,
I'm making up for lost time -
since you've left me I had a lot
going on in my mind. I thought of you
every night. And last night I dreamt
of kissing you, though I know that doesn't
sound right. But there was something
there before you left that kept you
tightly woven between my breast -
maybe it was a sign of hope -
since I can't get back what I lost,
what a dope! And one could say that
it's the ***** in these words. But I've
only a few sips, and haven't touched
the cherries yet that have sunk like my heart
to the bottom of my glass. And the editor said
I sound like Bukowski, which is a far cry
from the Dickenson that you read. Oh,
and did I tell you that my *** is sore
and bleeds? Oh, no more, no more -
those are just promises. And my fingers
are crossed behind my back -
so it doesn't count. And what I lack
I make for in provisions. Don't you love
a smart-***!

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.

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.

You keep trying to fix the broken link.
You think it will put everything back together.
But its broken for a reason.
Its time to discard the broken part.
Of course, do it carefully, with tender heart.
But there’s no reason to keep it.
It no longer serves a function.
It’s destructive to your perception.
You don’t need the ends to meet
to be complete.

a second
to lift up the lips into a smile
a smile
to light up someone's day
someone's day
you've made happy

It only takes
a thought
to make a plan
a plan
set into motion
to have a dream

It only takes
a hand
to plant a seed
a seed
to grow a tree
a tree
to fill a forest
a forest to become a home
to roaming animals

It only takes
a dropped cigarette
to create a spark
a spark to ignite a fire
a fire
to burn down a forest
a burned forest to ****
all the animals

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

No church services
No fresh palm leaves to be given
Only body counts have risen
No egg hunts
No big ham dinner with ricotta pie
No tissues to blow into when you cry
No parades outsides
No Easter bunny pictures at the mall
No Easter bunny at all
No Easter this year
It’s postponed to the fall
The Grinch stole Christmas
Covid-19 made Easter listless

the squirrels are chasing tails
playing tag. A bunny hops
in, grazing the grass. A jay bird
passes by blending into the azure

sky. My son looks like
a pea in the pod, wrapped up
in the hammock swinging from
the oak. He pokes his head out

and closes his eyes. The leaves are
a canopy of green. The smell of the
burgers cooking on the grill are making
my tummy do pirouettes. The deck

is as gray as the hair on my head,
splintering in parts. Poison ivy is growing out
of the slats. I sit back in the chair and
laugh as I sip a cold, frothy beer. And thank
the stars that summer is here!

one in the car, the other the oven –
Suffocating their freedom
forsaken lines
that no more rhythm than fallen prisoners
of their own hands –
Genius’s hands
leaving beautiful feminine bodies intact
two could not protract the demons
festered inside delicate minds sequestered
from the world
except their words

wherever I go. They're high
as a mountain covered in
snow. They're deep as a valley
and swim around my head. They're

under my covers and rotate my
bed. They squeeze me tight like
a Charley horse, pushing me back
with all their g-force. I bump into them

stone cold sober, raking them up
like leaves in October. They're thick as
a French accent. And hasn't been one
I can circumvent!

if his chest is rising up
and down as a billowing cloud
on a smoky day. If air is blowing through
his lips, like a hole in a balloon. You place
an ear near his face to hear the air escape.

You check to see
if he’s rolling his hips,
if the sheets are still as a stillborn
lying still warm in his mother’s arms.

You check to see
if his color is ripe as a peach
hanging on the tree. Is he twitching
his knee under the covers. You
hover as a hummingbird. So quiet, you
do not break his slumber. But some slumbers
look like death. Check again, his breath.

as the moon
believes the sun
rises over the horizon.
The dewdrops
pearls of honey,
flopping ears of
the holiday bunny.
The fall leaves turning
golden and crimson.
My head swims in
this reverie
of make-believe.

I believed in you
so, I followed
as a shadow,
with the precision
of an arrow.
I was sticking to you
as marrow,
till you plucked my strings
cutting my wings.

I believed in you
as summer
believes in autumn,
till you pushed me
to the bottom.
I’ve yet to spring back.
This winter was frozen dark
like black ice.
I fell-
not once
but twice.

scurrying under the leaves
playing peek-a-boo with me
and the leaves all crunchy and amber
provided ample covering for a
little scamper that didn’t want to be
recognized, was shy and bit nervous
he’d be found out by a mouse
I didn’t want to disturb his absentee flashes
but I did want to have a look at him
he intrigued me in his flurry
he, being a lot like me –
nowhere to go but in a hurry

painted black, white and
yellow. In a struggle with
herself. Hunting for her next
meal, scraping by on scraps of

bones and *** appeal. Not a lap to
lay her head or a four-post queen
size bed. Ears sticking out
like pegs, not the type that humps

men's legs. Scouring the scene,
hungry and lean. Living life on
razor's edge. She cannot be
domesticated. Her eyes are wide,

pupils dilated. Likes the chase,
grassland and plains, the open
space. Wind whipping like cream through
tangled hair, danger lurking in the air.

I Know How it Feels

to scream.
Nobody
answers your cries.
I know how it is
to wake up
every morning
with blood-shot eyes.

I know how it feels
to die.
I died
a thousand deaths
before my time.

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

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

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

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

a gale of wind
and you’re knocked
down to the ground,
along with all your

needles.  Makes
a dance floor
for the wood boring
beetles. If you were thick

as a cow your fallen
bough men can rest their
rumps on. Even stumps
from the trees make

a cool seat. But you’re thin
as an old ****, with worms for
hair and a lair for tunneling
mites. Your ballroom days

are but a maize the cows
graze on. A trough is not
a sweet spot to sit on.

The girl’s sober now. She’s not
drowning this
sin anymore. It’s gonna get messy
from here on.

Dealing with the past
ten years. Let’s play spin the bottle. Oh dear,
it’s pointing to you. What should
she do, now that it’s empty? I think the contents

leaked out. It was easier for you
when she had plenty of 100 proof
swimming in her mouth.

in my garden
an ocean in the bathroom
a jungle in my bedroom
a spaceship in my living room
the sky on my ceiling

I was revealing to all
that I was going somewhere
And as they looked at me questionably
I told them I had magic seeds

I’m Ready

I’ll seek to find you where you are
And stay with you there
Even if this place is painful to sit and ponder
I won’t go yonder
If you’re not ready for it
And if this is where we are and not that
I won’t push you
I only come to understand the how we got
To where we land
Open to interpretation
Never to resignation
The great wide-open
Where possibilities are limitless
Beyond the horizon
No surprise then
If I fall off into a dream
I’m ready

that you kept a clean house? They’ll just
shovel all your **** into bags and take it out
with the trash.

Do You Think They’re Going to Remember
your figure when you’re nothing more
than a bag of bones lying in a coffin? You’ll be
instantly replaced with someone new the next day.

Do You Think They’re Going to Remember
all the wonderful dinners that you cooked for
them when they were half starving? Maybe one
or two that were unusual.

Do You Think They’re Going to Remember
anything you said? They always had their headphones
on their head to block out your singing or composing
out loud. They won’t have to do that now.

What they’re going to remember is how
you made them feel, when you held them
when you loved them, when you made time to
be there.

I’m uneven as the sidewalk
and just as bumpy too

Something’s growing underneath
and it’s starting to break through

I’ve grown some roots
further down

Their stronger than
anything that trod upon
this bumpy, uneven ground

It raises up
strong enough to crack cement

What a lovely sentiment
to have earth be stronger than matter
I never fell for the latter

is my Friend
it comforts me
eases the discord
the loneliness  that sits
on my chest has almost
crushed me to death
so I down it with Absolut
and it wiggles between each
yellow tooth -
and even they have cavities
to be filled
but I haven't been
to the doctor's in years
and my habit's been *******
this old woman's body
no recourse's been taking
so here I am
without a friend
without much help
alone again
by myself

Celebrity
Star on the walk
Talk of the town
Spread in the magazines
Money Galore
Parties
Traveling
Mansions
Maids & Butlers
Glory
Paparazzi
Tabloids
Stalkers
Bodyguards
High walls
Electric fences
Small talk
Drugs & Alcohol
Loneliness
Nonentity

The hummingbird hovers.
He goes backward
as well as forward.

The hawk glides
like a parasail
making circles in the air.

The eagle soars
without flapping his wings –

Lord make me like the eagle
come this spring

looking at the screen
to land. Running out of fuel,
flying minus an engine tightens up
the suspension. The air is thin

as ma’s hairpin. But the clouds
are thick as a cement brick. Veering
off as a wild horse, bent as his divorce –
circling. If we don’t bring her

down! Pieces strewn! Not all immune
from crashing. I see the signs of
freedom flashing close to
my eyes!

of the closet. She's the essential
black dress women wear to nightclubs
and funerals. She was folded over

a chair after a night out making the
rounds. Now she's found hung
on a wire. She tires of the moth biting

holes through the weave and the folds. She's
mashed together with pants and sweaters in
a dark cramped space. With no place

for her, maybe an overfilled drawer. Dig her
up under the piles. She still has style. A dusting off
and a quick wash shines her like new, with a pair

red-heeled shoes, a necklace strung of
pearls. Now here's a dynamite girl!

you were squishy. And I could
roll you on the floor. But when
I broke you open I found out you
were hard-nosed with teeth that bit
me in the night.

At first, I thought
you were bright, that you illuminated
the sky. Until I found out you were
a forest fire that burned every woman
in his path.

At first, I thought
you were a warm bubble bath
that I could sink into after a
hard day. But the water turned cold
and flat and drained.

as a gosling
in the pond
trying to take
off. But never
accomplishing
the feat. So back to
waddling
my feet.
Wanting to
be air-bound.
Have the wind
beneath my wings,
the breath of
the sun shone
on my face.
High above
everyone.
Never staying
in one place.
Soaring
exploring
vast lands.
A delta bird
Flapping
but only
Splashing
water
in my face.

a tree
I’d lend you
my leaves,
a canopy of shade
on a scorching day.

If I were
a book
I'd lend you
my wisdom,
so, you can rule
kingdoms.

If I were
a turtle
I’d lend you
my shell.
Housing you
from strangers.

If I were
a bird
I’d lend you
my wings,
so, you can fly
with the eagles.

If I were
a mountain
I’d lend you
my summit.

But all I can
lend you
is a hand.

like a poached egg,
dripping yolk upon her
plate. Painting the plate gold,
like the yellow from a rainbow,
till she’s tossed in the dishwasher
with the folks, knives and saucers.

She's Runny
like a nose drooling
from a cold. Dabbing the tip
with a cotton handkerchief,
till her sniffer looks like a clown’s
fire-engine red and round.

She's Runny
like a watercolor bleeding
in the rain. Swirling blue,
purple and green before she's
time to set. She's ugly,
when she's wet.

She's Runny
like mascara
in black rivulets on
her face from weeping
like the clouds. She looks
like a racoon in the middle
of the afternoon!

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

lying on the side of
the dirt road, carrying pen
and ode.  Cars go breakneck
past, accelerating the gas. Vultures

circling in grey sky. Swarming flies
hovering nearby.  Racoons picking off
the bones. Maggots swimming in the ear
canals. As in life, still with me

now. Skin ripped off like wrapping
paper. All that's left is clouds of vapor. And
the smell of decaying flesh whirls in
cyclones of veins in mesh. As cars go breakneck past,
accelerating the gas.

pull her in
with painted lies,
dandelions hypnotize.

She's a wilting flower
within the frame
of the fifty-minute hour.

The ground is fertile
to grow. But he breaks her up
and turns her over like a ***.

Pulls her roots
that she clings/snips the feathers
off her wings.

Paid a king’s ransom
to sit all-day
looking handsome.

can't walk
without a sole for a cushion.
Can you be my footing?

An arm
can't grasp a blade
of grass without fingers.
It's only a swinging appendage
that lingers and bends.
Can you lend a hand, my friend?

A face
has no place to turn
without a neck.
I see my head roll
off my shoulders
like a boulder.
Can you put me back together?

the sheets
the screams
the melodrama, the fights, up talking
late at night in firelit circles
that tigers are trained to jump through
the battles, the wounds, the baggage
overflowing garbage -
Who’s turn is it to empty it now?
Mine or yours
As crazy us as this -
I would never miss being between
the extremes with you

he is not with her
he divides his time
like wedges of lime
you have a piece
and so does she
one for the son
one the daughter
one for the *****
and tonic water

When he is with you
his head is filled with blossoms
and gardens of flowers
butterflies and highs
and ivory towers

When he is with you
there's an empty chair
at the table
and empty plate
empty glass
his side of the bed
is unwrinkled
pillows fluffed
none of his stuff
on the nightstand
just a gold band
stashed in the drawer
living like an outlaw

If I Didn’t Have a Name

what would you call me? If I wasn’t attached
to a person, as a daughter, wife, mother or friend
you couldn’t say this is so and so’s daughter, wife,
mother or friend. What if I didn’t have a job or

a hobby? You couldn’t say she does this
or that. What if I didn’t even have an address? You
couldn’t say she lives there. All of the spaces would
be blank, because there wouldn’t be anything to fill

them in with. People would wonder about
such a person like this, unhitched and uncoupled. Would I
still exist? I would still have my thoughts; I would still have
my brain. I would still be me, the same.

April Showers

stalled the stalwart
when she rang
May I say -
it took you away
to June. You played

a different tune
July, I cried
I did not know this song
August you were

gone/No phone call
No reply
September, I remember
you came back to say goodbye

on the vine
plump and ripe
between the twine
hands came
and plucked me
tore my skin
and crushed me
till I broke
and bled
a river of red
bottled up
and labeled
made to sell
as old Clark Gable

I sat heavy
in his stomach
as indigestion
burning holes
with my questions
he couldn’t walk
so, he rolled
as a joint
and smoked me cold

I sat heavy
as dust on the furniture
of an abandoned house
you can draw letters
on my table
with a finger
write a note
it'll linger
for a fortnight
then disappear
out of sight

I sat heavy
as a ‘56 Chevy
painted blue
with a hardtop
and high mileage
but none volunteered
to be my pilot

in your life?
if I was the earth
under your feet
I would gladly lay still
for you
even if it meant
being stepped on
by your shoe
because it would leave
an impression on me
and I would pray
for no rain
to wash it away
pressed down
compact
while everything
around me
is raised up
I’m flat
in the outline
of your sole
if that is not
heaven
to others
for me
it is so

said no one
who had success
If I'm not at the top
I haven't reached it
yet

when you weep
like a willow.
Not a day passes by
you don’t soak
your pillow.

You know you love him
when you check your phone
so often it sticks
to your hand.
And you’re so alone
like a strand
of hair
that cascades.
You can’t save.
So, it fades
like the writing
on a grave.

You know you love him
when the sun is not a friend.
Too many days have to pass
for you see him at last.
And the passing
is like a thread
through the eye
of a needle.
And the thread
is as big
as a beetle.

when a woman stands alone. She’s
no rock, just the locks of hair
she cuts from his head. He’s twisted
his ankle. She’s twisted her

head to see behind her. She can’t
hold it. It snaps back to the front,
as an elastic flung at lunch at
a skinny kid in a schoolhouse

for the dead. Her “friends”
lips curl as her hair. They’re slippery
as a banana peel. She learns this
more than English or arithmetic. But it’ll

take years. And it doesn’t land her
a degree. She falls into the leaves –
heavy as a stone.

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.

a garden with golden strand
pearls of dewdrops. Even if
the rain stops not a day
go by where a flower

wilt and dry. She’d fill
the rivers and seas so they'd
spill into the land. Every town
build a dam to hold it all in. She's a

tsunami that drowns a whole
army with her water bucket showering.
Like a running faucet that rips in-
between skips of heartbeats and

butterflies. She'd implode
the tallest building from her dripping
into ceilings. Shatter all the glass
in one fell pass. I remember the cold

December when her eyes froze as
lakes. Right there on her face
I could skate a figure eight. It’s been
the longest winter. Tears are

splinters that cut across my skin, like
peeling an onion, layer after layer. Now
her eyes are flames. A crimson rose
buried under the April snow.