in my glass
because it salted my drink
and dissolved in the liquid
like octopus’ ink

I cried
in my hands
because his hands are busy
wiping up the tears of so many
I grew dizzy

I cried
by myself
because people cannot stand to hear
a grown-up woman
shed so many tears

as a candle in the rain
and the smoky vapor hung
leaving shards of purple pain

Your light blew out
as a broken bulb
flickering
a fish out of water
thrashing about
till it wears itself out

Your light blew out
and darkness crept in
a shadow on the wall
flat as a silhouette
breaking out in a frothy sweat

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.

too long in the same
spot. Your roots are
stubborn. I can see you
are stuck in the shade of

what grew up around
you. You’d do better if
you were somewhere else,
where the conditions were

more favorable, the earth softer
the sun warmer, and the days
longer. Where you had plenty
of room to spread out to

grow into yourself

sweeping her arms
across the water
nature's daughter
sleeping in the mid-day sun
little ripples tickles finger leaves
that skim the water in a breeze

green umbrella cloaking
every gal and fella
sitting under her
a canopy of love
the cooing of two doves
dancing in the branches above

now a feather sailing as a ship
from the swan
lying on the lawn
after a morning swim
near the rim of the pond

the sky cornflower blue
and the iris's sweet dew
rolls off

I'm a dwarf
in a mountainous world
a pill bug curled
passing through
milking the view

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

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!

Lonliness disguised itself in smiles
And pretty made up faces.
It doesn't show the wear and tear of the miles,
Hurt accumulated in places.
It dresses itself in many styles
Stockings, garters and laces.
And goes through such audacious wiles,
As to leave behind no traces.
You'll never know of its affliction or trials
Or what it's heart embraces.

Those circuitous walks
The empty talks
The sleepless nights
The dizzying heights

You never know who they are
until you greet them at the front line
If in fact, you make it that far
You’ll fall upon the sign

It can either end right there
or be a new beginning
somewhere -
else

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.

of water
falling
from my eye
is because  
a leak’s in the ceiling
and it’s raining outside.

That drop
of liquid
trickling  
down my cheek
is a clogged duct
that I haven’t fixed
in a week.

That drop
of moisture
running
into my mouth
is just some sweat –
I’d been working out.

I wish I could say I grew
But I’m stunted
I wish I could say I knew
What happened?
I wish I could have come out of this
Better
I wish there was a lesson in this
Never

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.

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.

full of life and flame
none can blow out this light
I'll not fit into some man’s wooden frame
I’ve turned my arms into wings
now see how high I’ll fly
my hips have carried a child

my legs have walked for miles
my hands have baked and sewed
eyes have wept and glowed
this ***** that fed my babies
now flops and hangs so lazy
the stretch marks across my stomach
are from birthing two boys
whose heads had plummet

the line on my face showing my age
are filled with love now and sage
my head hasn’t swelled, only my ankles
for standing for years in this shell
I buried my father and mother
as God took my son’s only brother
and smiled through all the pain
dancing and singing in the evening rain

You cry out for help
But no one hears you
You haven’t a friend to care for you
The bottle is the only thing near you

You ask for assistance
But are met with resistance
because of the sky-rocketing cost
You can’t take that kind of loss
So, no one helps you
The bottle is the only thing near you

You say over and again
You’re going to stop
The days come and go
You can’t give up the only relief you know
It’s become dear to you
The bottle is the only thing near you

You’ve grown to depend
on this bottle as your friend
You look forward to its company
It takes you out of your misery
If only for a little while
It masks the emptiness and loneliness
and hole inside your heart
How could you come to part
with something that means so much
I really fear for you
The bottle is the only thing near you

We reached a sunken end –
Like two ships lost at sea
Thoughts of you are haunting me

Goodbye my friend
You were too young
You hadn’t done all the things you said you would
Now you never will

Goodbye my friend
I’ve caused you pain
I left you crying in deep shame
And I’ll live with deep regret
Because I never will forget

Goodbye my friend
What can I do?
I wrote this just for you
And I’ll share with anyone
Who’s willing to hear
A sad, sad song

Those little piggy’s that went
to market and cooked roast beef can barely
get their feet onto the floor. And those busy hands
that typed all night need only to switch

on the light. Because the sun
hasn’t come up yet. If it’s too early
for the sun to rise then why should I? There’s
a coffee maker on the kitchen

counter. But the kitchen seems like
a journey from here. And this bed feels too warm
and comfortable to leave. This mind,
just wants to go back to sleep and dream.

umbrellas on a sunny day. Run off
to hide in the shade. They carry the
weight of the world upon their backs, packed
all tight in their gunnysacks. They carry their anger

in a powder keg/ waiting for someone
to set it ablaze. They carry their cards in
their breast pocket. And button the top so they
cannot drop it. They carry disease like

a dog carries fleas. It’s in their hair
and in their teeth, in all the spaces hard
to reach. They carry novels in their head. And read
them out loud every night before bed. They carry

themselves to the breakfast table
like a crafty red fox from an old wife's fable. And sit
as a stone staring in their creamed coffee. They carry
this off without apology.

the climb is steep
the footholds not deep
to land my shoe. The air is
thin. And no rescue. The drop

is sheer. The top is just a resting
spot to sit for a minute. This mountain
has teeth. And should I slip
into oblivion I'll burn in the sun and

freeze in the rain. The days are
chains of smoke poking me
in the side. I'm on this vertical
ride till I slide off. But till then I'll

pen the scenery in cool azure and fiery
crimson. And leave the flags for my next of
kin. Then bid them tidings of my findings. So,
they may read the records of my climbing.

and for lunch eat
fettuccini wrapping the vanilla
strands tight as bird nests in
my hands. I want to lay out in

the sun till I'm golden brown
like a loaf of bread and dip and
splash till I'm waterlogged
and lobster red. Don't call me in

for dinner. I'm listening
to Lynyrd Skynyrd. Big wheels
keep on turning. I'm burning up
the old 45's. It's here I am

alive. The leaves don't fall
off the trees. All I wear is
shorts/no sleeves, flip-
flops and a wide-brim hat,

sitting in a lounge chair with
wooden slats. Sipping frozen
drinks out of paper straws. Life is
better put on pause.

the *****
nothing

to lose
when you’ve

nothing

it’s what you chose

as your clothing and shoes
masks

your inferiority
as the liquor

masks
your authority

just a face
of crimson cheeks
and painted lips
that seldom speak
wearing thick spider lashes
that flashes a smile?
And when it's washed off
it hangs on cloth
the painted guile.

Am I
just a body
of bouncing *******
pressed in a tight sweater
with legs dressed in black leather
wearing red stilettos
like white trash from the ghetto?

Am I
just a child
underneath my clothes
that strikes a pose for men
and weeps with paper and pen
in lines I rhyme and send?

Without the cream in my coffee
it would be dark. Without sweetener,
it would be ****.

In this very dark place, I need you
to be my cream. Lighten up
my cup. In this acidic world I need you
to sweeten the ***.

It hasn’t gone down well since
you’ve been gone. I’m not the type
to take it strong.

Those Hypocritical Men

He shows off his biceps. She shows
her gams. Isn’t he handsome? She must be
a vamp! A little cleavage and she’s a ****. She’s asking
for trouble to parade her stuff. Tight, wrangler jeans

on him look ****. Isn’t it delicious how you can
see each curve of his bulging manhood? He
can talk. He knows the stock market. If she says
something it’s immoral. He says **** when gets

angry. She says the same. It’s only because
she has no other vocabulary. She’s lived with it
as a kid. It’s no different now than it was back then.
It’s very painful, those hypocritical men.

women like me
that have neon signs
from their head to their knees
flashing letter “L” in megawatt caps

that men like to tap
it’s water-colored eyes
blinking dewdrops
running down men’s lies

it’s a cherry prison
a heaving chest so risen
it's the droning of the wind
her confidence so thinned

it’s the butterflies tied
the crushed wings
that once danced
and flied

years digging out of holes
just like burrowing moles
it's tramping through the sludge
that's a daily drudge

clings to August not wanting
to move forward to October and shorter
afternoons with cooler breezes. Not having
long stays at beaches. Giving up

green for color, pumpkins, apples
and cider. The end of vacation brings forth
much frustration and discord. Everything
back to its original form of schools in. Buses

lining the streets. Where’s the hot dogs
and ice-cream? The back -yards barbeques? Bikinis
turn into jackets and sweaters. Lazy days of
flip-flops and long walks are almost over. Where’s the

bullfrog and the clover? It’s not easy being
sentimental, yearning for the unconventional. The
tomatoes have died from of early frost. The grass
looks like moss. The thought of winter makes one want
to cling to an early spring.

the bleeding scars
they’re baked
in smiles and candy bars

You can’t touch
this heart
it’s sold
it’s airbrushed
in solid gold

You can’t touch
this burning yen
not you alone
or a thousand men

You can’t touch
the able wings
they’re not encumbered
by man-made strings

You can’t touch
the broken pieces
a mosaic made from azure
and crimson stone
not a man can duly clone

You can’t touch
the lines of ink
they’ve warmed the nights
like a stole of mink

no one will. Everyone has
left me. They said I had too much
on my plate. Well, what the **** –
I wouldn’t be coming here if

things were great. I guess they
want the easy cases, the ones you can
fix in a few weeks. Not a psychotic woman
who acts impulsively. Not a woman who

****** her shrink, stripped for another
and wrote about them all in the books
she sells on Amazon. Not one who

runs to the licensing boards whenever
they misbehave. Not one who files
lawsuits and collects the ****** wage. Not one
who knows her stuff and can analyze them! And

has many times shrunk the boys down
who thought they were men. If you don’t do
it, no one will. We’ve been back and forth for
fourteen years. And I’m no better still.

time
burning up the hours
as if they’re calories
and I’m on an exercise machine.
Not for this queen!

I ****
men
softly with my body –
La petite mort
a shoddy sport

I ****
myself
wearing make-up
so I can look like
a model
and have men
coddle me
as if I'm an egg.

I ****
woman
with laughter.
But after I leave
the room
and take off the mask
they don't ask
about me –
Guess they can live
without me!

The world is a bunch
of ***** rats holding fast to
their scraps, engraving them with
their initials. Giving a speck,

expecting a bushel. And then
disparaging those that have more. That’s
how it goes when you’re looking for
compliments under a lamp light

that isn’t your own. Into the cold night
you ***** rats lose sight of anything
you can’t get your hands on.

laying in shards of glass
greying and hard en masse
scattered as autumn leaves
crackling crimson underneath men’s feet

billowing gusts of dust *****
lolling in trees where critters crawl
crystalizing as snowflakes
blanketing tongues and cherry face

set as dewdrops on emerald blades
or beads of sweat on humid days
hailstones that ping-pong off cars
ashes that fall from smoked cigars

painting an azure sky in a mosaic
can’t say that these pieces aren’t prosaic!
an artist’s touch brings them to life
making them shine in the spotlight

falling from the skies
driving Lamborghinis
biting women's thighs
drinking ***** martinis
scoffing mincemeat pies

Oinking and grunting
rolling in the mud
look at them hunting
thinking they are studs

Beer belly’s hanging
over their blue jeans
wishing they were banging
like they did as teens

Hairless mole rats
out mowing their lawn
covering their heads in hats
stifling a yawn

Ogling women
younger than their daughter
squeezing them as persimmon
early morning potters

Wiry hair growing
out of their ears and nose
scratching their crotch and crowing
They're all pigs and it shows!

dissolves
into dust. My boyfriend
turned to rust. He tarnished as specks
hanging from my eyes. His memory
crystalized.

Everything I touch
breaks –
the vase that holds the flowers
my spirit by the hours.

Everything I touch
crumbles
as the leaves
underneath my feet. My hands
are made of tacks, poking holes
in men’s backs.
  
Everything I touch
fades
as the shade
on a scorching summer’s day –
The grass is yellow and thin
like my skin.  Pulled and stretched
as straw. And my youth
is no more.

would I be with you? Was I
your last resort when all
the rentals were booked. Would you
have looked at me if

they opened up
to you? Funny how life picks
the woman that wears white. If he
said yes to me would we still

be? Funny how life
carries me out to sea like
the tide. But like the tide too,
pushed me back onto the

shore. Funny how the man picks
the house where I reside, like flowers
in his garden. And our castle dreams
harden. Funny how we say we had

a voice when we were frozen, like icicles
hanging on the eaves. We're knocked
to the ground like crimson autumn leaves
from our backyard trees.

You took my heart,
of course. Salut!
I’m giving my body
to the institution. This anguish

reached no resolution. The ***** –
the only solution. You come
now, shaking and unsteady. But your
aim was plenty ready as

I went down. There will be
no marker for me. My blood is
the ink that you read, drained on every
page. I tried to engage them all with

my lines. But what they wanted was
admittance in the crypt,
a pittance they’ll pay for this
sin. Lucky for me there was

plenty of them to support my
supply. Will you be like Lavinia
and hand over my verse to disperse
when this good earth has ******

my last ***. Don’t bury me
with it. Spread it as you do your seed –
let it drop and plant some trees. This
is my dying wish, to be Heard –
when I leave this earth.

have attitude –
gotta say ****
don’t let them
get to you
don’t be a smuck
stick out your tongue
wiggle your ***
they only live in houses
of glass

You got to
be your own person
when they hurt you with words
flip them the bird
and carry on meister
carry on truly
pugnacious and unruly
gotta love –

yours truly

is a sad, sad state
it must be my fate with you
you  could hurt me no worse
not give reason to my verse
not legitimize my cause
if ever there was
a tendril
that I attached to
it was you
and now I sag
under remorse
because I can not force
what came natural before
no more than I could
hail the sun out of the clouds
shake the dead out of their shrouds
glue the petals of a rose
once the poor thing decomposed
as I -
maybe we can bury this
in the pages of a book
will you write it
or shall I
can we name it -
Catcher in the Rye

with your Big plans
and Big dreams
Big ideas
and Big schemes
Black and fat
as a storm cloud
with a leather jacket
as your shroud
tough as gristle
with an attitude
as thistle
thick as cement
and hell-bent on
the things you don’t have
brass is your knuckles
tacks for your eyes
you’re so sticky
you scare off the flies
I’m scared of you
I’m so little
I fit in your shoe

a rock
I was a pebble
an untreated freckle
under men’s feet
stuck in the grooves
the bottom of some man’s shoes
till I wiggled free

I am
a rose garden
I was a ****
men pruned
till the sun shined on me
and I bloomed

I am
a songbird
I was a worm
a slimy germ
for bait
hooked on a line
twisted as twine
till I sprouted wings
and began to sing

I am
a mountain
I was anthill
till I grew a set of *****
two thousand feet tall
now men have to look
up to see me

the clanking sound
at eleven o’clock searching in
the dark for a frying pan. The smell
of bacon and eggs, and thumping

legs taking the grub
back to his room, studying
all night and waking at noon. I’ll miss
the bedhead at two, as he stumbles

into the shower, and the hugs –
even though he towers over me,
at six-three. I’ll miss the kisses
as I leave to do the shopping. The laundry

will be light without all his shirts
he wears once, towels and socks. And I’ll
miss the talks on the couch as we’re
watching tv. But most of all I’ll miss the laughing!

death will come,
to me, my love, or anyone.
to friend, or foe who knows

the end? so, let us spring
to life again! and see the green
against the black. welcome all,

and not turn back.
feel the feelings, express them.
release the tears; don’t suppress
them.

you want purpose?
purpose is this -
Death can kiss my raised-up fist.

am not well learned or
political. I wear my hair big -
80’s style
I spread my thoughts wide -
nautical miles
I must write every day
put these thoughts on page
get them out there through the screen
it’s my way of mingling
without being shamed
you have a piece of me
I could commit suicide
if you don’t like me
because my writing is
my lover
my family
my friend
the host of the party
the only mingling
I do

to me as a scab
does to a knee. But I can’t pick it
off or it would bleed into my heart. So, I wear

it as a second skin, covering the
the one I’m in. It trolls around the city
looking for love or pity. Trailing the baited line

in hopes to find somewhere it can settle, safe from
fallen angels. Some have fixed band-aids to it. Some
have used ointment. But it always oozes discontent

and bruises like a cheap cigar. I take it off with my socks
at night. Lay it on my pillow. Tell it to go to sleep. It never
listens to me. I must give it its nightly bottle before I

put it back on in the morning. It never remembers
a thing of what I told it, or that I hold it out to others
to do something with. They simply don’t know what to

make of it. So, I smile and shake it in their face, wearing
the best impish disgrace I can muster up. This helps
somewhat.

in your hands
and twist
until every drop
of my sweat
is released
until my breath
sticks
to your shirt
like grease

after you unbutton
your top
I'll dig a hole
through the layers
of gray hair
into your mole
i'll build a nest
here

i'll dab my salty brine
into the lines
of your skin
so, i'll run like a river
and you'll swim

you can string the beads
of sweat
wrap it around
your neck -
dangling like a tie
lying flat
covering the shirt
the shirt covering the grey hairs
covering the mole
so, this pain doesn't
grow cold

from tree to tree
if the squirrel can
so can me.

Squirrels frolic
and run
if the squirrel
can have fun
so can I.

Squirrels bury
their nuts
and are so smart
to find them.

Squirrels dig
them up
and leave the past
behind them.

I’m like the can
of soda left in the fridge
that my clumsy son
knocks over. I spill out

on the floor. I stick
to it as lipstick
to a cigarette. Even as
the boy wipes it up

there’s a spot here –
and a spot there. The spot
hides under the chair. So, even
as I wash the floor

the spot blends
into its surroundings. As it does
it dries, and is crusted, as a brook
after a drought. No bubbling water –
the rocks jet out.

my fingers and toes. I can
count on tomorrow coming and
going, even without knowing
what will become. I can count on

the sun rising in the morning and
setting in the evening. I can count
on the changes that come with the
seasons. I can count on death taking

us away. But where it will take us
I cannot say. I can count on the tide
rising and falling, the stars in the sky,
the nightingale calling. I can count on

babies being born, suckling their
mother’s breast, and the robin in spring
preparing her nest. I can count on
snow giving me a chill, and the smell of

steak when its cooking outside
on the grill. After all this time
I thought I could count on myself –
but found I could not.