I was mile high like Denver
when he called me from Boulder. So older
than I. Didn't known he was a Picasso,
painting me in cherries jubilee. And so,

I melted inside of
his phone. With the juices still
running I was shunning echoes of
the woman calling to him, mother of

all his kids. The one he wouldn’t
leave me for. Those cherries have
pits. But I've learned how to spit them
out. Lit with the brandy and tasting

like candy he flambéed me. But he
also kept a little French Suzette in his
closet, for the nights he preferred a dish
a little more light.

An empty sac of
Genetic slush
That turned to mush
Inside of you

Never was
Never became
Why?
Because

Conceived
Without a name

A blip
You gave the slip

After I implanted
You flushed me out
No second chances

You mourn me -
In your sleep
In your dreams

I mourn me too
What I could have been
If I Grew

in the car, talking to someone
crazy and savage. I’ve nil
to do until I go home
for a drink than to ogle the rain pour
down hard, splinter in shards
on my car window.

Killing time
in the supermarket. It’s
the only thing open. And I’m
hoping it passes the hours, between
the lines and the check-out time.

Killing time
until I go to bed.
Then do it
all over again
the next day.

His mother would make him
kneel in the corner, with his face
to the wall until his knees got sore. But he
had to wait there until his father got home. And

she knew what he’d do, what little Jim was in for. He
could barely stand after kneeling all day on a hard
wooden floor. His legs gave way as he tried to
get up. But he must be brave. He wouldn’t

give the old man the satisfaction of fear as he took off
his belt and yelled “get over here”
He made him take all his clothes off – just like a slave
He whacked his back so hard it bled as if it were cut

by a razorblade. He buried his tear-streaked
face in the pillow and prayed to God he would survive
until the next day. There’s a reason these men go into
this profession – doctor heal thyself , a true confession

Let’s not name it,
not that it doesn’t deserve a name. Only that
it yearns not to be labeled. Let’s not judge it
for what it isn’t or what we think

its supposed to be. Let’s be open to
its interpretation. Let each one of us bring
something to it, something personal,
something of ourselves. Let us share in

the intimacy of revealing, uncloaking,
unmasking this. Let’s read it on a different day,
a different month and year. Let’s see how it can
change, how it can weather time.

is it –
something through going
if not –
stop
reverse direction
there’s a light
at the entrance
don’t keep walking through
the same dark tunnel
looking for the light
at the end
that’s what they tell you
but I say –
the light was always there
at the beginning

with kindness. Sang
me a song. Flowered me
in rose petals and smiles
with shoulders mountains

strong.  Skipping hours,
like stones, day after day. My umbrella,
when showers turned this blue sky
to grey. Spoon fed me honey

dripping from his tongue. Painted
me green. Made me feel young, like
a babe swaddled and swung in
a cradle ladled in hugs. So high on

a pedestal, wearing white gloves. I clung
to him like a tight sweater. Clung so tight
I lost all my feathers. I couldn't fly. He killed
with kindness. And dropped from the sky.

No more hellos
Is it too much to bear?
A simple exchange
To show that you care
Only a minute
Out of a twenty-four-hour day
Only a minute
For you to say
Hi there; how are you?
Remember the time
You used to?
Remember the time
it mattered?
I was important to you
Whatever happened
To:
A call
      An email
         A text
A simple exchange
would take
A minute or less.
A simple exchange
God Bless!

If you won’t come in through
the back door, don’t bother knocking
on the front. The front faces
the street. It’s mowed perfectly. There’s

a welcome mat that smiles in the image
of a child. The number 35 is off
to the side, branding this place.

A clay rabbit sits on the grass.
The neighbor’s son pats it occasionally.
The mail carrier drops off the bills
and the ads in the long metallic box, with a lid
on the top.

There’s a sliding door
out back that’s off its track. To get to it
you must climb the broken stairs, up to the deck,
splintered and peeling.
Enter there

when no one’s looking
in your dreams
behind the bathroom curtain
in-between your bedroom sheets
upon your written lines?

Are you
what you call yourself
who you believe
who you stage yourself
to be?

Or are you an ephemeral female
that entertains the psyche?

like a loaf of bread
sitting in the pan
baking in the oven
to a golden tan

rising to the top
as the timer stops
a thick, hard crust
a lifted window

a honey gust
breezing through
like a pinto
and soft in the middle

as a pancake on the griddle
coated in a cactus syrup
as the buttered sun
melts into the trees

and the robin chirrups
and the dandelions sneeze
in parachute seeds
as dawn gives birth/another day

that I drink down
in my morning coffee
mixed with billowing clouds
sweetened as toffee

be a petal? Why
settle. Be the rose
and flower in the sun
every hour till the day
is done.

Why
be a seagull? You can be
an eagle and soar heights
higher than the storm! Don’t live
life only as the norm.

Why
be a crumb on a man's
plate? Be a buffet! Line the table in colorful
savory trays!

Why
be a bubbling brook? You're a mother sea,
with a whole life swimming inside
you. You have the moon to guide
you.

Why
be an anthill? They'll only step
over you. Be a mountain against
the crimson sky. Rise with every step
you take. None can break you! You're
the woman that makes you!

Or do you look at your neighbor
Nobody asks questions
Nobody does favors
Nobody looks at their neighbor
But they can tell you the length of their grass
And the last time a mover has passed

I want to make love to you. To strip you
down slowly and kiss each part of you deeply,
inhale your scent and taste your breath, get lost
in your armpits and drown inside your belly. I’m

not afraid to tell you I’ve had this feeling forever
but could never bring myself to say it, because before
I just couldn’t bear it if you were to turn me away,
and the shame, the horrible shame I would face. But it’s

more shame not to confront it, to let it die as the sun
goes down, to let it pull away as the tide goes out. And
knowing that makes me brave, knowing that I gave it
the light of day. Now it’s in your hands to

do with it what you choose. I place my fate in your
palms. I do so unharmed. And I’ve no regret that I said
what I had to, because I will never have to wonder
again, what it is you would have done had  I never told you -
I've always wanted to hold you naked in my arms.

did this hill
become a mountain?
and the hurdles
ascend higher than
the empire state building?

When
did laugh lines
turn into wrinkles?
this smile
flip upside down?
this skin hung
as a wet diaper?
and in all this grey
not a strand of brown?

When
did the years
pass as a blurry scene
out of the windows
of a high-speed train?
and all it ever did
was rain?

When
did friends
become commodities?
the government
changed its policies?
and we should go back
to the days of Socrates?

Oh pain is this!
What gain in this?
Some lesson?
I'm confessing ignorance.
Blindness is bliss.
Let me hide my head in the sand
until I can not
then I can.

the tarmac and out of
my world
into the cabin
I stood
made from aluminum
not out of wood

I stepped off
the land
and into the sky
the white *****
of fluff danced
in my eye

I stepped off
the mundane
into the sublime
palms and iguanas
and lots of sunshine

places adjectives
as threads to sew my holey words
together. His eye is sharper
than a needle. He makes cuts

to adjust the silky fabric of the line
onto the model. Letting out, and
taking in, meritoriously measuring for
the uniform fit. Without him I’d be

a tired scarecrow hanging tied to
a pole on a cloudy day. Or a loose as a pile
of leaves not raked. I cannot brag, for it is he
that weaves his fibers into me with every

word. His stanzas are my buttons to hold
the garment together. He’s weather-proofed
my blackest suit. He’s made a sheen
that catches the reader’s eye. He’s a Mercedes –

given me license to drive. Thank you, prized
editor for being my tailor. Without you
I’d be patches of cloth none bought. Only you
can see the Cinderella in me. You turned a rotten

pumpkin into a shiny coach. You made a grey
mouse a bucking horse that flies off the page.

The future belongs only in the hands of yourself.
You must create it.
Don’t try to push the blame off on somebody else.
You alone own it.
Time goes by very fast when you’ve no plans.
You can do it.
Remember tomorrow is never promised to anyone.

Girl. There’s a whole world
out there. Don’t be afraid to be
a part of it. You’re a work of art
from your lines down to your

toes, from your song up to
your nose. From your sass to the cracks
in your ***. From your ***** to your
closet of junk. There’s no stopping

you, from eighties style hair
to the thrift-shop clothes you wear. From
your Arnold Horshack laugh, to your
******* photographs. People will give their

opinion. Live by your own dominion. Let
them say what they want. Be proud of you;
flaunt an asset or two. Who cares if you
***** up. As long as you don’t give up. Don’t

wait around for alien abductions, or ***
robots that don’t function, or Trump to be
re-elected, or this poem to be perfected. Just Go
with what you got. As you are, you’re smoking hot!

stranger than I've ever
seen. The years fly by as magnetic
flies sticking to the window screen. I close
my eyes and pretend it's all a dream. I shun

this dream under restless
pillows. My head heaves in heavy
billows. The emerald green has turned
to rust. The men are lean and filled

with lust. Every turn of the calendar
brings with it more lies. Every year erases
more and more ties.  This world is flat. I fell off
the horizon. Men travel in herds just like

the bison. Now my days are floating
on clouds in skies of marmalade. My wings
providing me the shade. And balk as men clang
and wade catching up on hit parades.

here. But not anymore.  Instead
of jackets and bags flung over
fences there’s a sign tied to it that says
closed until further notice. Instead of

swings flying high into the sun
they’re just empty chairs hanging on
chains. What a shame. No more sounds
of laughter, children running after

the ice-cream truck. Sorry kid; you’re out
of luck. You got to stay inside your home
so, the virus doesn’t spread.  Go back
to bed. You’ve no playdate. Your friends

can’t come to call. You can’t play
basketball. The field has empty bases. It
disgraces me that they took our playground
away from us. From dawn to dusk - emptiness

I am,
what I
do. It
self-
soothes. I
spawn
into
flat screens
carried through
media
means.
And
seen through-
out. Only
in
that way
am I
part of
something
else.

of cards and letters. Burned
them like the golden leaves in my backyard,
till they were grey, flat and charred. But
the smoke still billows in the air

like a pile of dung from a mare. I washed
the scent off my body like salt and
sand after a day at the beach. But the grit
is stuck between my teeth. I blocked

numbers and addresses. Threw out
all the summer dresses, the creamy lacy
halter tops, the sandals and flip-flops that I
wore. But his picture is in my bedroom drawer.

little pony; let it
go. Don’t look back. Ride
the wind. You were meant
for greater things. I know

little pony; I know the hurt
that comes from marching
forward and blazing a
trail. But the barn is

burned down to the
ground. It’s cinders
now. There’s only one way
to go.

does your patient wear
he should ask his colleagues. His
patient sends him links to her newest
YouTube video where she does karaoke
in nothing else but her bra and underwear
with voluptuous ******* barely contained in
the lacey red bra and diaphanous *****. You
can see her small mound of ***** hair if you’re
paying particular attention to more than
her singing. She’s a very passionate woman
that demands attention, as any of her therapists
will tell you. She climbed in his lap and grabbed his
***** during one session. Complete shock was his
expression as she waltzed out the door as if nothing
happened. That it’s every day a patient lay on your lap
and grabs your pizzle and gives it a twist and a pull
and pokes at your ******.

take up his time
by staying on the line. He’s
heard it all before by many, many
more. And what can he say but “yah, it

***** that the world has turned
this way.” So, she downs a cup of *****
every night. And for a few hours
forgets about this plight. But when she wakes

at 1 am sweating from another
nightmare, with her hair scattered on
the pillow like limp spaghetti and her
nightshirt spilling out her *******

like globs of Jell-O she knows
that the waking up is not
going to make the nightmare go. That
life as she knows it is worse

than any dream she could have
about her past. She keeps these dreams
from him like a child keeps the sinful
touch of a hairy hand that reaches into

infertile gardens. Death is the only
pardon. The burning in her chest, the
carelessness of wandering in the forbidden
zone. Swallowing shards that cut her innards

is to fight the discord. She’s been in that
situation with him before. And it’s ruined
everything. She’s had to fight very hard to get
it back. She doesn’t want to upset that.

are lush butterflies
with crushed wings
in azure, yellow, and violet
marmalade

trapped in a glass
like a ball in a penny arcade
rolling in a memory
stolen from the air

they breathe
melting as ice-cream
in a hot July
they'll be a puddle

of pistachio as they die
sticky to the touch
running as a river
down every finger

you trace
but you sealed the top
and twisted tight
and stored them in
the back of the cupboard
out of sight

my deepest, darkest secrets
bolted in a wooden trunk.
All my junk stored in the attic.
And he stood static like the cobwebs
hanging from the ceiling.

I gave him
my hairless trim body.
The ******* the half shell
spilling her sweet perfume.
In full bloom, spreading out like
eagle wings, as he held
all the strings.

I gave him
my poetry.
He ate it down like candy,
lollipops and gumdrops
toffee flavored brandy.

I gave him
my photograph
cut out in a locket.
He threw it in his pocket
and forgot it.
The colors bled out
in the wash.

I gave him
my pneuma.
He pounced on it
like a puma in the grass.
I was the air he'd come
to pass.

as shining stars
hang on dreams
glitter in the dark
in the morning scream

Words
as icicles
frozen stilettos
piercing with their tips
snip at self-esteem

Words
as broken pieces
don’t fit together neatly
tough as leather
or smooth as silk
going down sweet as milk
or sticking in the throat
as chicken bones
cutting with jagged points
disjoint at the foot

the light child. Darkness will
fall soon. And you’ll be old
as the pale moon.

Enjoy
the warm breeze and golden
sunflowers. Soon the leaves will
fall from the trees and they’ll be
snow showers.

Enjoy
running and flying your kite with
your friend.  Soon the air will not
move. And your friend will move
on. You’ll be holding the string
dragging your kite on the lawn.

Enjoy
picking the bright red apples,
filling your basket to the top. The apples
will drop and rot on the ground. The tree
will be barren as the land. And your basket
empty as your hands.

Enjoy
the robin splashing and
sipping water from your birdbath. Soon
the water will turn to ice, just as the men
in your life.

with that extra pound
that extra wrinkle,
that annoying person. Ya,
you know who
I’m talking about. Why be
consumed about
the weather? It’ll change. And
then you’ll
still complain! Why bother
about what someone
else got? You have something
they don’t
but you don’t know it
yet. Why fret about
your lack of money
or time
or friends? How
can you enjoy
what you have now
when you keep
looking out?

in me today. My get up
and go has run away. My mind's
spinning circles like a spinning
wheel. I cannot jot down

what it is I feel. My fingers lie
flatly on the keys. My eyes looking
out the window at the bare naked
trees. The branches scratch

my windowpane that's coated
in this morning's rain. And the blankness
on my lab top screen is snow white. So, today
is a day I don’t think that I’ll write!

Where have you been all my life? And what are you doing NOT pursuing this???
Are you too practical, too afraid to face that you're something else?
You'd rather have some other guy get the glory, than you, yourself.

Can't you see what I see when I look at you?
I think that the world should get to know you. Stop being a shadow.
Come out of the darkness - enter the light.
Before it's too late. You've only one life.

Where have you been all my life? And what are you doing NOT pursuing this???
Are you too practical, too afraid to face that you're something else?
You'd rather have some other guy get the glory, than you, yourself.

I understand you don't like to take risks. But when you've all this
inside of you how can you miss? Why should another guy get
your best when you deserve the fame? No, isn't right that everyone
doesn't know your name.

Where have you been all my life? And what are you doing NOT pursuing this???
Are you too practical, too afraid to face that you're something else?
You'd rather have some other guy get the glory, than you, yourself.

I wouldn’t dare go near the water,
for I might sink to the depths of the ocean

floor. So heavy that I can’t even stand up
to walk. It’s almost down to my knees. I’m bowl

legged from the heaviness of
carrying it in places it shouldn’t go. It’s like

a ball and chain around my ankles
now. It restricts my movement. It confines me

to where I am. I don’t like where
I am. But here I am, until I am no more.

as Mr. Magoo, just a Joey
hiding in her kangaroo pouch. It's warm
inside. So, I don't venture out. I couldn't
see the lion coming. I danced to

the sound of a hummingbird humming.
Danger dressed in an Armani suit
and vest. Rode in a black satin
stallion, drinking his posse up

from a gallon. So near-sighted
I tripped over a cloud looking like
a castle from the ground. But my feet were
not in my shoes. My feet were dangling
in a sky of blues. Sweeping me up

in gale, tossing me in a garbage
pail full of rain, that today I lie in. Drinking
the pain. And in this darkness, I see the lion.
But I don't run. And I'm not hiding in the sun.

two green eyes
trace the cornflower sky
jump in
the cotton-candy clouds

red wine lips
to drink
the sun kissed eclipse
a pearl nose

to breathe
the blooms
a garden grows
lilac perfume

the sweet song
of the robin
this day is calling
me in pirouettes

to brush
the blackened silhouettes
and sprinkled showers
of rainbow confetti

this day
has not a crease
honking
like a flight of geese

tiny glitter in the soft sand
you have to look closely,
gaze, watch.....
to see what's at hand.
In this vast open space
what's hanging out there
are willow of the wisps
ghostly lightings in the air.
Off the beaten path,
beckoning you to pursue,
hush, hush, come......
follow the nightly stalkers
into realms you never knew.
Over steep cliffs you're hanging,
down torrents of pouring rain.
Billowing clouds of thunder,
Clash! Bang! Clang!
Black wind is blowing you,
Whooshhhhhhhhh
a **** on a weather vane.
But darkness is not a nemesis!
In fact it's a telepathic portal.
If you open up to it
ah, oh, la, la.....
your spirit shall be immortal!

If only I lost my arms
the ape-like pendulums
I'd hold my head high
look him square in the eye
not hold out my hand
and beg for more
of the same thing

If only I lost my legs
two sticks with spider veins
I'd see things in a new way
not run back to him
over and again

But I lost my face
and without a modicum of dignity
I lost everything
I lost me

I’d like to chip off a piece
to see what’s underneath. I think
beyond the gloss he’s white
as a sheet. They stripped him down,

spackled up his cracks, and filled
in his holes. They papered him in red tin soldiers
and vaulting poles. And when the paper yellowed
they rolled on purple paint. Coated it

in arms of an Italian saint. It went with the décor
of hanging wild horses on the wall and cherry
furniture. But spilled ink and perfume raised
the temperature. In darkness things are black.  Don't look

back. The cobwebs hang. I see gray sky,
and think it'll rain.

the other day, suddenly. He was
younger than me – in his early
fifties. He just posted a picture of
himself in a Pat’s t-shirt pre-game,

cooking dinner. I haven’t seen him
in decades. And now I’ll finally see him
face to face at his wake. He’ll be lying
down instead of slapping me a high-

five. He’ll be quiet now, instead of
telling me ***** jokes or playing his drums that
shake the house. There’ll be no raunchy gifts
in my messenger, nothing to make me laugh

at early in the morning before my
bath. I never called him, though he wanted
to talk. I never reached out much to him. He was
a friend who was always there, except now

he isn’t. I didn’t  stay late enough at
the New Year’s Eve party several years ago
until he came home from work to see him. I was
very tired from drinking. So now I will finally see

him at last, laid out in his casket –
preserving a chuckle just for me, because
I have to go on in this crazy world. But he
is free.

Rest in peace John

often,
too often
everything ends

more often, there’s one
that doesn’t want
the end

they may
or may not know
it’s coming

even if
they know it’s
still death - Death

of the relation
death of a dream
death of a future together

emptiness is a river
that flows out of a stream

set up in a hotel room
he’s still fast asleep
he had a busy day
after he brushed his teeth

3 thousand miles
she’s loving him in her head
she’s thinking about the next time
they’ll meet again

3 thousand miles
seems a long way away
maybe so in feet
but if you measure it in heartbeats
it’s as close as his sleeve

that plant the baby seed
can trample over it
beneath their feet.
It hasn't arms or legs
to hold it in place.
It's only a freckle
without a face.

The hands
that sprinkle the thirsty soil
with clear, crisp cool water
can drown it in
its bathwater.

The hands
that grows the bulging flower
can pull it from the rising sun
to set it in a glass that sits
silently on the cherry wood table
and see it droop, as grandpa's skin
as days pass -
withering

to put vibrators in your
*****, to slap yourself
silly. Next, they’ll be wanting
**** beads. You’ll do anything

to please them so they buy
your books and read your
words. Poetry doesn’t sell the way
*** does. You’ll do anything

for your art. But inside it tears
you apart that you can’t be as lucky
as others are. But still you know
they’ll never bring you down. Still

you know despite the loneliness
and the hurt that you are
deserving of being heard. You are
deserving of respect. You’re not

there yet but attain to be. And maybe
you’re in good company with others
who have exploited themselves to
get what they want. Those who’d sell their
soul to the devil for their art.

The Me Before You

is far removed
from the me after
you. The me before
was innocent and
green. I was spring
before you clipped
my wings. The me
before knew
Nothing.
The me before you
was a tree
in June. The me after
you was a tree
in winter. Something
had splintered. I can’t go back
to autumn. I’ve forgotten
How. I pity the
me now.

Hello’s Pain

A beginning has to
end. When you leave
my friend, as you turn, I split
in half. I mask the pain

in a laugh. This heart is
broken. For every word said
a dozen not spoken. I fail over
and over. Some things for me

haven't closure. This I picked up
from mama -
Every life has some drama.
I'm walking through a stage

carrying my props. Weeping
in the backdrop as the players
pass. I stand to drain.
Goodbye’s pain.

to put out the fires
with just a cup of water.

She’s trying
pliers
to pull out the splinters
poking holes
in her side.

She’s trying
to climb a mountain
tied to a string
of floss.

She’s trying
not to drown
but in a riptide
she’s tossed.

She’s trying
to shake the blues
into purples and reds –

She’s lost

But they don't bark as scrounging
dogs or lie as fallen logs. The angels
dance around every branch. The sun glistens
as I listen to the lark. There's a spark of magic

in the air. The azure sky winks as I pass
by. I can stand in the same spot as I did yesterday
and it will look new. A ****** appears wet from
his swim. The leaves are trim. And footprints

squash holes in the snow. I frame the scene
as I go, so I can paint it on a page to save for
my old age as my head billows as the clouds
at all that it surrounds!

It became our ruin.
We cut into it like a wheel of cheese.
Ate it as if it were made of brie.
And it went down velvety smooth
as a glass of dry vermouth.

After everything was considered
we took it all.
Didn’t leave a sliver.
Poor wretched beings,
having hearts boiled like beans in the stew.

Who knew it could happen to us?
After all the fuss and laboring
of what was
we have nothing to show for it,
except the rind from the transit.