today? Are you wily
as a snake? Gentle as a summer's
breeze? Or so fragile that you'll
break? Will you sting me like a hive
of bees? Or rake me like the autumn leaves?

Who are you
behind your bedroom door,
lying in the dark rolled up like
a cigarette, above the hard
wood floor? Staring at the
the ceiling. Walls peelings like
your sunburnt skin. Who are you
before the drinks kick in?

Who are you
with her? Who are you
with him? Who are you standing with
your face in the bathroom mirror? A silhouette
in the shadows, when the lights
grow dim?

It’s portable
not hospitable
outrageously contaminable
but highly notable
some think it’s a fable
those that are arguable
say their freedom is terminable
this is survivable
and life shall be doable again

The Solid Ones

Some people weave in and out of my life
faster than cars switching lanes. But the solid ones,
whom I depend on, always stay. What makes
these people special? Sets them apart from

all the rest? When others have turned their backs
on me, their loyalty surpasses every test. Seasons
change; but never them. They stay true through thick
and thin. I’m not an easy person. I’m hard as the

frozen ground in winter. I’m not an all-together
person. I’m fragmented as a splinter. The years
have not been kind. Yet there has been kindness
in the years from the few who’ve stuck it out

with me. They’ve shown me humanity,
despite my fragility. I thank each one of them. They gave
me the faith to believe in something, a reason to go on,
when all the other reasons were gone.

I’ve taken the ice-cubes
out of the freezer and dumped
them into the thermos on the counter,

so when they cool they will not be square
or formed or hurt my hand when I hold them tight.
They will have liquified.

do you roll it?
cut it?
squeeze the hell out of it?
go get another?
curse the last person?
have a spare in case?
do without it?
Just don’t eat garlic that day.

from the sting
of forcefully squeezing out
into the light
after the thirty-six
hour birth

They dried
from laying in the plastic box
the doctor called an incubator
no rhythm
of a mother’s drum
a swaddle around my middle
not arms
the cold stare
of the tired overnight nurse

They dried
from begging her
to stop
the woman that cut me
from her body
The paddle -
hard and hot
leaving welts, the size
of leopard spots

They dried
the day daddy
left in his 56 Chevy
the powder of smoke
from the exhaust
filled the air
like a blanket of chalk
after clapping the erasers

They dried
from my cousin
pushing me in the washer
on the spin cycle
I came out
wrinkled

They dried
up in my flower bed
with the lace canopy
all the nights I couldn’t sleep
from the throwing glasses
and the screams

They dried
in jar I kept
in my desk
dabbing them on
as mascara
so I’d look sad
if I was called to


those were the last

from the inside you don’t stick
out. Dark as stout you fade in a chocolate
sky. The stars shine around you. But
a storm’s inside you.

When you’re torn
from the outside everyone runs. Hot
as the sun you burn them with scorn. You’re
adorned with spikes, a cactus on ice.

When you’re torn
from the top you pop as a balloon. All the
air leaks out of you. Men stare as you
shrivel up like a prune. They scoop you up
with a spoon.

When you’re torn
from the bottom men walk over you
as the leaves in autumn. You bleed
orange, yellow and red, unravelling as
a loose thread.

When you’re torn
in pieces you’re as fleece is shorn,
a soft, billowing pile of mourn. Till you harden
as the ground in winter. You splinter into
toothpicks men stick olives in. Here’s a toast
to “this might have been”

When you’re torn
in two you’re half –
not this or that. You’ve
a twin brother that smothers you. Not
a day to cover you.

held upside-down by my feet
from the doctor/white as a
sheet and swung
like a pendulum/as a teen with a speculum
as I widened my knees.

I’ve been smacked
together as two erasers hanging out
the window blowing billowing
clouds of smoke floating in the white
dust till I choked.

I’ve been smacked
in the head by the hands
of my mother. Pulled by the hair,
pushed like the button of a buzzer
till I splintered as the timbered door frame.

I’ve been smacked
as the ice in winter. Some man stuck
a pick in me till I screamed.

I’ve been smacked
in the face of reality
as I lost all my dreams. I wore a
gray mentality/unraveled at the seams. Till I
sewed the hole back together. And mailed it out
like a letter.

minus the sweetness
and the stuffing
minus the plump berries
the rising powder and sugar
egg and the oil
the silver liners of foil
minus the flour and milk
much here to bilk
but the blue hangs on
like a torch drawn song
it permeates his hands
an indelible stain
that she wears behind her
as a bridal train

but she is! A prisoner of her
own imagination. She’s a dollop of
whipped cream that sits on top. You think
she’s a cherry. But she’s not. She runs into

the bottom of the bowl, making
a great big pool of fuss as she goes. Mixing in
with everything that she sees. She’s as smooth
as cheddar cheese when its melted down. She’ll coat

you as if you’re a macaroni. Before you know it
you’ll be golden brown. Then she’ll spoon you out
to others, starving for a bite. Lick the plate
with you, not leaving a trace behind.

are shooting off
in his head again. The fuel-injected
engines have a full bed of range. Seems
as if things haven’t changed. Men

are getting burned from his
missiles. The steam kettle whistles
as the water boils. And the thistles
taste like cod-liver oil. I, as his mother,

pierced in the heart. Sick of this life
and playing the ****.  The old man can’t
help me. I’m in it alone. I crawl to
the bottle. Shut down the phone.

into roles -
the mother
poet
the seductress
an actress
the office worker
wife
friend and daughter
Some fit me
into a part
they made up –
a part they said I was
but I was not

I'm broken
into portions -
my innocence
that my parents took
my teen-age years
bullied
the working years
blending into the backdrop
the homemaking years
with a broom and dust cloth
the extramarital affairs
that made me sully
the artful
that I now dwell in

I'm broken
into pieces -
the *****
for my husband
the womb
for my children
my hands
for my boss
my heart
that I tossed
like a volleyball
back and forth
south and north

could help.
They either fell
for me,
where afraid of me
or looked at me peculiarly,
like I was something
they never encountered before.
One, I’m an itch
he never outgrew.
But’s he’s too old to scratch.
So now
I gotta find
another playground
for my mind,
another place
for this egg
to hatch.

or corndogs on a stick
Talking to the friend
I’m with. Doesn’t have to
be rose petals and candle-lit

dinners for two. I see valentines
as baby cheeks and bubbling
creeks/not champagne. February
doesn’t have flowers growing

in the garden. It has snow angels
on the lawn. A song
bringing back memories. Printed cards
of sentiment written in

print from a stranger, sold
in the dozens and bought by
husbands and boyfriends that
say less do not impress! I can sink

in a hot tub with a glass of wine
and recline on the couch without
a chocolate touching my mouth,
running over my lips, past my

tongue, clinging to my hips.  Ah,
the young are so naive. Don’t
they realize Valentines can be
puppy dogs and babies.

from flower to flower. Flying
like a hurricane in the sun and
rain. Agile and flirty are you
ruby-throated birdy. Your wings

a silk folding fan. Your beak expands
like a pointed sewing needle, dining on
blood-******* mosquitoes. But also
couples as a sword for obstinate

discord. Zipping by and chirping
notes like a skinny thunderbolt. You’re
here and then you're darting like
a serpent in the air. If I blink, you'll disappear
like the days this whole past year.

as trees lose their leaves
to regrow. Some things
in life you have to let
go of, as dust in the wind

so too, it blows. Clinging is
for vines. But not for
men. You can't make
a new beginning

til you make
a beginning's end.
Every green
turns yellow

or red. Every bough
breaks. And the baby
falls, cutting the cord
accordingly. Still wearing

the sap as the maple
tree. I'm losing my stinger
as the honeybee. That part dies
as it's left behind.

The world is full of *******
that can’t handle candor
and have no acceptance of people
question everything
never learn acceptance
never make the time for friends
I’ve had it with catering to them
and their fragile egos
their pettiness of people
their drama and their constant complaints
I’m not a saint –
But still, I wish no one ill will
To me, I’m better off in my own company
Where the only stones thrown
are in the river
and the only ripples
are the circles around the pebble

Nothing left
But a pocket full of wishes
I'm bereft
Looking at a sink of ***** dishes

These dreams
Are all I have to gather
Like soap
I work then up into a lather

Air dry
These fantasies in my lil. Kitchen
I sigh
But it's better than  my bitchen

isn’t nine to five. There are no vacations
or sick leave time. The paychecks are
spotty and slim at best, unless you get
famous. And that hasn’t happened

as yet. It’s a lonely life when you
work alone. The bottle is company for
a little while. But it doesn’t make you happy. It
just subdues your worries for a couple

of hours. I wouldn’t recommend this
life to anyone. But I didn’t choose it. It chose
me incredulously. And yet I follow it blindly,
like an abusive lover. It hovers over me. But I

know in my heart I can have no other. So, I
adhere to it religiously. But there’s demons
in this. The blackness sits like a cloud of smoke
on my breast. People recoil when they find out –

treat me as if I’m a louse. And sometimes I think
that I am. But I still spring back to life again.

he’s listening. His eyes
are slats that overlap like venetian
blinds. But I’m a crayon. And I’m
coloring outside the lines.

He looks like
he hears the echoes
from my lips.  His ears
don't slip on the ice. And we've rolled
this dice more than once or twice.

He looks like
he's up for the drill. His head
is filled from music; he holds in his
hands. But I’m tired of the carousel. Riding
a horse that doesn’t touch ground, circling again
round and round.

One More
temerarious lie
one more
supercilious reply
one more
unanswered call
one more
hyperbolic stall
one more
slammed door
one more
overstuffed drawer
one more
fitful sleep
one more
day I weep
one more
promise broken
one more
day we haven't spoken


One Less
smiling extol
one less
united goal
one less
card to buy
one less
steak to fry
one less
bed to make
one less
****** to fake
one less
***** dish to scrub
one less
ring around the tub
one less
lipstick stain on his collar
one less
night we fight and holler

off some sea-beaten shore,
riding crestfallen waves
propelling a long wooden
oar. His back is slumped right

here in his rollerblade chair. But
his body is limp as his stringy
grey hair. And when I talk it's
like talking to air. His cheeks,

sunken valleys, pale as the noon
day moon. His face wrinkled and
dried like a prune. His lips hard, and
closed tight as a clam. His belly

is soft as strawberry jam. And
to think I was his doxy back in
the day, when I was young and had
moxie, and his legs were a sleigh.

as men
mock. They talk
at her, not with. She’s
a cherry. They the

pit. Chew around
it, ******* the juices. Spit
out the stone. Laugh as
men moan. So, they

complain. Ever hear
of a sun shower? It suns
through the rain. She’ll
not refrain. Laugh

with unyielding force
it’d choke a horse! Do it
again! The world can stand
a shake now-n-then!

Do I make you feel uncomfortable? I’m like
an instruction manual. If you don’t follow
the directions to the letter, you’ll be
*******. You might think

you’ve “got this” until you realize
your way over your head. What’s black and white
on paper in the sun turns ***** red. It’s the way
you assemble the varying parts

whether it holds together
or falls apart. It’s time-consuming and
frustrating these intricacies. Things
don’t always turn out the way

you think they should be. Sometimes a part
is missing that goes with something else
and nothing can get accomplished without finding
its mate. You look for a substitute

out of your tool box of tricks. But it’s
in vain. Because if it’s not exactly the same
it won’t adhere. I’ve come to the conclusion
there’s failure in substitution.

water in the porcelain
bowl hanging on a chain
that’s hooked from a nail,
driven in a tree. Doesn’t see

the grey squirrel
scurrying for a nut. Or hear his
scratching claws breaking bits
of bark off.  He’s kicking his feathers

up in the bath. Sitting back I
laugh at his reverie. He’s painted
golden by the sun, a treasure
to see.  As he frolics, a red carinal

joins him. Fireworks of drops shoot
off from their tails. Snapping a picture
to frame the scene. Leaning forward,
I glean a smile. Bubbles rising in

the air. The water level
dropping. The bowl’s
bare. It will be filled to the top, once
I push my *** off the chair.

running rivers.
and flowing chocolate streams.
I cried Rocky Mountains
eating quarts of rocky road ice-cream.
Cried after my mother beat me,
leaving welts on my lily soft behind.
And when I bought the house
all the papers I signed.
I cried in my martini.
Cried in my tight leopard-skinned pants.
Walking the beach in my striped string bikini.
At my howdy doody wedding
during the father-daughter dance.
I cried pushing out my son.
And again, at age four when the paramedics
raced him out the door on a black leather stretcher.
And as I was ***** willow *****
by a  amniotic Freudian letcher.
I cried after his beating,
when I saw his black eye.
There hasn't been a day
that my eyes been dried.

I spend all my days
and nights with. I curl up
on the couch with. My ocean
fleece blanket is a pouch

which I wrap my body in. It's
my cocoon on a rainy
afternoon. This blackened
silhouette burns me like

a smoking cigarette, enshrouds
me in a fog, as I lay sleeping like
a log. Dancing pirouettes in
my crimson cotton sweats, with

a book between my hands,
a ***** and lime sitting on the
nightstand. I have no plans. I like to
doze till twilight hits my toes.

all the lyrics
every song
every note
that’s ever played
plays my heart
every rhyme
that’s ever sung
plucks
my heart strings
before the next one’s
begun
and as a kite
I fly
I can’t get over
the high
if you would
play me
one more
time
I would never
come
down

her bra with *****
her mouth with *****
she fills her ears with music
her days in solitude
she fills her mind
with memories
sad ones that make her cry
but she’s nothing to fill
her heart with
it’s empty there inside

on the inside of these walls. Spring never
did call. And summer flew south
for the winter. She’s frostbitten as the meat
in her freezer. It’s been frozen so long it

grew teeth. The floorboards are the only ones
to speak. They hiccup occasionally. But they’ll never
spill her secrets. Dust settles on them, thick as a
woolen blanket. He’s the only warmth she has. Must be

his laughter.  She melts as the words comes
out. Picks them for him as if they were
flowers. She hasn’t much of a garden. But still,
he smiles when she hands him her scant intentions.

getting money for theirs
mine I give as gifts
others getting chased for theirs
mine are filling space in the virtual world
and I do it because I must
but it’s a curse to be unopened
to put out crudely
not have a man polish it for me
not have a woman wrap it up in pretty packaging
sitting on decorative shelves
many waiting in line
maybe a sellout
for others
I wouldn’t hold out hope -
for mine

is making me crazy. Every day
is like the other. I’m stuck in
a perpetual loop that repeats itself
without a break. I drink from the

frustration of having no control
over the situation. My life is gone. Not
that I had much of one anyway. After
fourteen long years all I wanted was only

four days in Paris in the spring. Everyone
else had their vacation. Everyone else
has their family at home. I haven’t seen my son
in weeks, and probably won’t for months. When

I tried to Skype him, and he heard the sound
of my voice he looked around hoping that
I was there. He can’t understand. And nobody
cares.

washed away
from the splash of
sea spray. Tiny crystal
grains of sand still clinging

under my fingernails. Two
boys building castles
with shovels and pails. I drew
a heart around the letters. It was

so cold we both wore
sweaters. The cornflower
sky was smiling down
as salty ocean water pooled

around my ankle. You
were rankled by a thought. I was not
the woman you sought.  A proxy
with honey locks and pearl teeth. We did

not hold hands. We held lies
that pushed their way in like the ocean
tide. And so, we ran out of shore,
on a beach in Bangor.

Dance in the flames of discord
Or sit in the shade of compatibility
One’s surely apt to get bored
The other an act of futility

by men that held the door
for me. Now walked out of it when I
was down.  The men that held me
in their arms now hold me in

contempt. I’m spent as a ******,
after it's used.  Cupid has me
confused! The same satin smile
that sang lullabies is now making up

alibis.  I'll not chase butterflies
painted in satin lies. Men
muscular and handsome come with
a high-price ransom. And I've paid it

with my life, weeping
days and sleepless nights. Found myself
full throttle, floating in the bottom
of a bottle. Sparkling eyes that looked

with reverie now cut right through me. Hands
that cupped my face now slap it. I gave up
the chase!

in golden harpsichords.
But the lines
are splintered boards.

You Speak
in bubbling champagne.
But the rhymes
clog up my drain.

You speak
in sparkling diamond dew.
But the jingle
is leftover stew.

You speak
in orange, crimson blossoms.
But the refrain
lie dead as possums.

You speak
and the notes flow like a song
to the dance of Paris, France.
And I ‘d like to believe you.
The chorus is beautiful.
But you never follow through.

Is It Him

you miss or having someone to talk to? It could be
the concept of someone there every day, someone who
recognizes you as a person and reaches out to you with
their own needs unfulfilled. Is it him

or something novel and exciting that moves through you
as a chill on a bitter cold day, stirring the leaves into dancing
in a cyclone with  the each breeze that passes its way. Picked up off the ground and swirled into a lover’s waltz. Is it him

or your own loneliness that keeps you stuck, has you
crestfallen? Have you built him up in your mind, though you
should have known better? As a child with a stack of blocks, one more added, and they all topple off.

like trapped dirt and hair in
the floorboards of a musty attack,
crackling like a phone full of static. Eyes
slot machines in dollar signs

bright green. I couldn't get over;
he was mixed like a box of Russell
Stover. As a turtle I was ready
to snap. Running like sap out of

the maple tree I fell and bruised
my knee and ticker. As the years drew on
I grew sicker. But I hung in there with
my scabs without keeping tabs.

as mine. It’s untouched as
a novice brush from an artist no one
knew. And I can fill it as much or
as little as I will. It shall bleed

in its delivery from being pushed out
into the open as a babe. I’m sure it
will receive its first cut the very same
day. But Lord, I pray that some

of them will be nice. That some
will even be moved and melt as the ice
in my glass of ***** when they see
me bleed on the page. Not that I’d want

to upstage anyone. Just that I
only came here to claim this lonely
spot. And to say to all that it could
use but a little sun.

don’t show their teeth. They walk
behind you within reach. So
quick to lend a hand. Till they
trip you as you stand. Once you're

down they sit beside you
on the ground, acting as if they
care. When they’re the ones
that put you there! Soft on

the outside you can't see
their leather hides. It's covered up
in glossy fur, diamond eyes and
overtures.

Hey! Mr. Politian

do a dance for me.
Make your visions, oh so sweet.
Give us something to believe.
Make this world a better place
to raise our children.
Show us love and tolerance.
We don’t want guns or violence.
Give us peaceful sit-ins,
a world where everybody listens.
Tear down the walls and let
the people go to where they’re going.
Let woman have a choice,
the minorities a voice.
Give us better health care,
wages that are fair,
so we don’t have to live in poverty,
because no one should go to bed cold or hungry.
Let people decide who they want to be,
man, woman or beast. We’re all God’s children.
Let us acknowledge our vets
who left the safety of their homes
and went out into the great unknown
so that we may keep our freedom.
It’s the way things ought to be.
A man can love a man or a woman.
Families are divergent.
And finally, won’t you please let people
die in dignity, instead of painful, slow release.
Get rid of the propaganda.
How about some honesty?
Is it too much, all of this I’m asking?
So that when I go to sleep I wake up to a better tomorrow.

in my part of town. The sky is
black, wearing a frown. It spits
its venom of acid rain leaving
a rusty stain of brick red, streaking
the temples of my head.

The sun doesn’t shine
through my window. It billows
a silhouette of horror and
regret, looming over my restless bed.

The sun doesn't shine
on me. I travel by land and sea. But
I'm squashed by an elephant cloud
that trumpets its trunk like a big bass
horn till my spirit's the size of kernels of corn.

are all the same to me. You have
both as a mother. And you wouldn’t
trade the stretch marks for his
brother! The saggy ******* and varicose veins

are the badge of honor that you obtain
as part of the parcel of birth. You unearth
a man twice. And the world as you see is
a casserole made from a grain of rice.

this Jim, the doctor
a black bearded man sitting across her
the smiling trim guy that mocked her
with notepad laid flat on top his Dockers
even if he was off his rockers

She believed him
this Jim, the clock watcher
she was stuck on him as his TRESemme'
he was stuck on her like tooth decay

She believed him
this Jim, the rogue
he was adept at taking off her clothes
***** *** and dry martinis
sandy beaches and string bikinis

She believed him
this Jim, the liar
like all the women he dated prior
another notch on his bedpost
another crotch that he ghosts

and then
I do it again
And I say do not
but
I cannot stop
I try
And I do
but
go back to

what I do
because
it’s what I know

I know what I know
and then
I say no
But you can’t
take away
what you know

an insect with beady eyes
and expandable wings
he dips as he flies
to paper he clings

she’s a fuzzy peach
soft and round
you couldn't teach
so she drowned

he ****** her pulp and sweet juice
licked her taffy soft flesh
then set her out loose
for another more fresh

now she's the pits
and down on herself
he's eaten her bits
saved them all to himself

Squash that bug
he's not a man
he moves like a slug
in a tin can

lights a saffron ribbon sky
in a tie-dye of rosemary and
thyme. She sits strawberry cheeks
pressed like rose petals against

the windowpane, watching the rain
sprinkle the glass. Her eyes pool of
parsley leaves stringing crimson memories
with a twist of lemon rind. The ring

of the bell swells the reverie
in cardamom and chili. Dressed in
cotton turmeric, hair swirls of
cinnamon sticks she picks at her

scabs. Her world is peppered with salty
dogs she logs in books. In script she hooks
them with her lines. Drinks her *** with mint
and lime. And falls in bed before nine.

can erase the contours of
his chiseled face
the high cheek ruddy bones
petal rose lips
kissed a hundred times
in the corners of this cobwebbed mind
the crevices above his porcelain brow
his doe eyes making me grunt
like a pregnant sow
an ectomorph with a glabrous pate
a Cheshire grin that cannot fade
the swirling cyclone clouding this head
the secret trysts in his tool shed
his lithe arms encasing me
as a chrysalis
engulfed, a **** gooseberry
in the physalis
and the world outside
did not exist
creaky windows covered
in lavender mist
the scraping of soiled soles
two breaths rise
dancing in silhouettes
no amount of time
can erase this

doesn’t uplift me. It just
scrunches and compresses
my ******* in a limited
space with wires and hooks
in place.

My Stilettos
don’t uplift me. Although
I appear taller when I have
them on. I feel that much smaller
when I take them off.

My Smile
uplifts me because it’s always
something I wear. It’s not restricted
by anything. I never take it off. It’s
the first thing I see in the morning!

that smiled so sweet,
said hello in church this morning.
I saw storming out of his house,
screaming and swearing at his spouse.

This same man
that sang praise,
raised his fists to his daughter today.
The same three-piece suit
kicked his dog in cowboy boots.

This same man
that leads boy scouts
hits the bars/has a mistress on the side.
And ******'s he has eyed.
The man
I'll call neighbor,
has to be the greatest faker.

This same man
men look up to
and woman fawn all over
is not one bit kosher.