We play dress-ups and
you are the monster
while I am the queen
I wear a pretty dress
mascara, lipstick
the whole ******
thing
And you hide under
the bed

You are too terrible
to be seen

You are the reason
children take a running
leap from the door
to the bed and
over the floor
(lest something awful
grab their ankles and
shake the muffled
shrieks from them
no, no, no (no
okay... yes)

We play dress-ups
have smokes between
acts, mommies and
aunties and all pretty
women smoke lovely
cigarettes

(you, stay under the
bed)

I think she was there
the entire time, watching
my thighs, shins, ankles
feet disappear each
night and
I should've heard
it breathing, her
under his side
of the bed
while he was ******* me
he was ******* her
in her head

Let's play dress-ups
let's pretend he is the man
and you are the woman
in his demented scheme

(I imagine her mouth full
of his kind of love, something
dreadful indeed

anything to accommodate
his seething hate)

Open wide and she is
full as a balloon on a Sunday
afternoon birthday party
in June, pretty dresses
and ugly, dead
inside

Let's play dress-ups
I am the queen and you

You are that infernal machine
called hate

It is not a fact that beauty
lies in perfection or even
in perfect proportion-
sure, we find it pleasing
when both the eyes
line up and when
one leg follows the
other more or less
in the same stride
teeth are good when
they grow where they
should and number
in the thirties, most
can agree on this
and also that hair is nice-
some prefer a blonde
while others insist on the
virtues of a brunette
(none of us have ever
mooned or crooned
over the virtues of
a bald coquette)

tis your fate
lick it off a plate
proffered to you
under the table
and between
your knees
(love comes in at
at the eye and
quickly
heads south
you see)
you there, you
with the mouth
pretty please
open wide
and guide a fella
straight inside
(love saves the
day, not yours but
someone's)
anyway

We all make a lot of noise
hoping someone will hear us
even the most demure has
her own din, voice thrown
into the mouth of a cave
as she pushes the lid
down tight from within
Her unremarkable voice
still leaks as easy as
breathing, as brittle
as tin
Or
like me:
banging around a cage
a self-made cell not so
much iron but a filigreed
and diaphanous hell
In
the present:
I drag these clenched jaws
behind me, like a ticker tape
stuck to my ankles and toes
like wedding cans and bells
stuck in the throes of a big
hot noise of celebration
melted into concrete and
bouncing down empty halls
of frozen woes, tired toes
and somewhere my feet
keep the clutched rhythm
of me
if
and only if:
sunk below the sill
at the crack of dusk
what remains in a husk
and I wave from my paned
pain, silent on the outside
but what a racket from
within
p.s:
dear sir you did nothing
but throw me out having
once taken me in

It's not sadness it's not loss
or rejection or pain it's not
the absence of love or the
fury of hate it's not
anything but
minutes torn inside out
and stretched into infinity
and as each beat of my
heart lands in my mouth
I would give almost
anything to
not be
this
all of my parts ripped
out and laid on a rock
like a squirrel, a child's
sick project for the
day anything to
keep boredom
away
I love you, why
not?
your project for
tomorrow is to learn
love anything but
hate start with
your mother it's
not too late then
move on to the
living not
you
not anything
but me

Time flies. Unless you
can't tell time.

A word to the wise is useless
if it makes no sense.

Passing an irregular verb.

I'm happy to see you
(answer) I'm happy you're
happy to see me.

I wake up like there's a
fire ******* up my ***.

It's like getting half of your
**** ******- and not the
top half.

Dog (sketch of dog).

****** smile.

Barry's number in case
I forget it (no number written).

Miss What Felony
Police (illegible)
no Jeopardy.

We're still anonymous.

(Thank goodness I write all
of this stuff down!)

Not for want of rain, no
not why I give you my pain
expecting this immolation
to gain a self- in other words
mine and not yours
I wouldn't even want that,
the declarative words chanted
as my funeral pyre is pushed
into the current of any river
but especially the river of life
no, not me, I am not that
antique wife
Dear sir, if you are blessed
with luck and if time is your
friend, when seconds count
and especially at the end
no one will hear my charges
against you or wonder
at my pointed burning finger
as fire is overcome by water
and all is right again

There are many things
well worth doing and  
even some that might
preserve my soul-
the hot pursuit of
the good and eternal
seems a reasonable
goal
But the moment I ought
or should or must do this
or that or some other
virtuous thing
all of my best intentions
simply leave me bitter cold
and send me headlong
into flames eternal

Of all the really dubious decisions
(and this is the only one we know
about, knowing nothing about
much of anything)
Mother hatched us barely three
or so yards from the swoosh of
the interstate- and not one of those
two lane chicken **** things where
nicotine addicted deer meander
freely, shooting the breeze and
chewing on a fresh **** tossed
from a window into a nice morning
like this
Mother saw fit to hollow out
a capricious tunnel sort of thing
under a pile of god knows what
(and god knows even less
than we do)
Was she fooled by all the greenery
or was she just plain pooped,
too tired to find a decent tree
like any decent mother
would do?
Somehow this eight lane
truck route seemed ideal
even as we are thrown back
and forth by unnatural winds
and great heaving gusts of
gasoline and diesel, where
one errant breeze is sure
and shrill death
We are a soot covered clutch
that even mother love cannot rescue
(not that we know anything about
that) "What you don't know won't
hurt you" she was wont to sing
hinting at the ones that came
before us and the ones that
will surely follow
The crows gather at dusk and we
can almost hear their bone crunching
laughter and the buzzards do lazy
fly-overs, no one is in any special
hurry under this layer of traffic,
the constant bleak black motion
There is no appealing to the bird kind
in any of them, that we would compare
our lot in life is an act of desperation
you see, because Mother held life
lessons in her grip with the mercenary
coolness of one who doesn't waste
even a moment of joy on those
not meant to live long enough
to appreciate it

I bang my head
against the floor
harder! harder!
and one time
more
Alas, but I hear
someone banging
back?
A man in blue shorts
and a leather
sack?
He says to me
I hate to tell you
but you're banging
your head on the door
and not the floor
ma'am

(it's only scars) but
it hurts! from Mars
you see: from far away
The Lord of Indifference
dropped a seed (she's
just a ****)
O but the pain!
and the No and
the No and the No
and you can't get blood
from a stone (lemme
show you my river
of red throbbing
with a tide all
my own, hurdles
at me O COMET
OF PAIN (am I
really and truly
this insane?)
The red licks the
lips of all the red
gone dead tongue
dried to a crisp
all bones and stones
(and yes I really
am) sorry folks
follow the arrow
and pay your dues
egress is thatta way
and no one remembers
the precise way to
doom

Your outrage is a foot
on my throat, my mute
mouth is no match
against the clatter
and bash, like
the banging of pots
and pans on New Years
Eve, your outrage is
expressed as joy
while mine is broken
into a thousand silent
pieces, mine now
yours
Your outrage has
made mine invisible
and even improbable
You are the worst
kind of thief
of uncountable
things
with no evidence
of your onus, once
mine, heavy with
time but made
light of
No wonder your
outrage comes so
easy, weightless
as it is
I do not want
to be any part
of the cause
you took from
me, made
ridiculous
squalid and
squandered
I want you to feel
the real thing, at
least. up until the
moment it silences
you

No one need
tell how we met
again here
      under
         the
            steady
gaze
of the moon
plumped by love
first silvery and
jelly smooth,
         nothing
   daylight could ever
            improve (this
is what I think)
when I face the window
and let the moon
lick my body
   when you are  
      through
                     You
heat the wet side
of me like syrup
in a spoon
while the radiator
clatters, sings
way
out of tune
      (ribbons of heat
         over flesh cooled
            by the moon
Back and forth)
if only
I could stretch the
      night; I whisper
I love you and
again
      I say it
too soon

No one need tell
We met again
Here under the
Steady moon
Gaze plumped
By unfortunate
Love
You
Heat the wet side
Of me, syrup
In a spoon
While the radiator
Heats the other
Torrid hot!
Flesh cooled
By the moon
I love you
Again I said
Too
Soon

People like you they
eat **** and call it
caviar and never
offer me a spoon
full (no thanks
******)
People like you
carry Hellos like
indented designer
scars FROM BLOOMIES
screamed in my ear and
FROM BARNEYS
(*******)
People like you
run over cars instead
of cars running over
them taxis even stop
and pick them up
and **** like that
People like you
smell different
to feral people
like me, sitting in
Central Park waiting
for the Museum of
Natural History to
open cuz it's free
and it's cold and
I stink and The Oak
Room threw me out
decades ago do you
recognize me?
People like you
live forever, are 30
years old forever
not me, I turned 80
on my 8th birthday
People like you
do not see me
thankfully the
shock would add
a good 20 years
to the bottoms
of your shoes
nope you don't
have to tell
people like
me dead from
the neck up
unwanted from
the neck down
dead like that
people like me
put a fancy dress
on it, buy it a bicycle
and a cashmere coat
to hold in the disaster
people like you don't
want to see

Valentine's Day
makes me think of
VD and if only
syphilis had
overtaken
Thee
I called him 'Thee'
for the shortest while
(wasn't that a royal
week?) the easier to
transition from 'Thee'
to 'The' and ain't I
tricky?
After convincing him
I had lost the second 'e'
to a stroke I woke up
one morning, took it
in the mouth, and
called him 'He' which
made him feel like
he had left the room
already
(if only)
'It' was the end of
'He' and also 'Me' (no
matter that we were
equal now
see?

what does little Ernest croon
in his death at afternoon?
(kow dow r 2 bul retoinis
wus de woids uf lil Oinis

For those who say
the way to perfect love
is to trust and let go
of everything
and you can't love
fully unless you
put your whole heart
into it
that love is a risk
in each case and
nothing ventured
is nothing gained?
The aftermath is
anything but romantic
dontcha think?

There lie your dreams
you on your back and
your eyes fixed on
the screen
the ceiling
the nighttime
screams
(convince yourself
in those squalid moments
this this THIS is what
you want THIS is
romance THIS is
the man of your
dreams
While you lie pinned
by the center of your
soul, arms and legs
spinning around
like a clock with
too many
springs
this is the hour
of your regrets
your squandered
bit of everything
and nothing is quite
what you thought
it would be, like you
love him and of course
the screams

Asked my daddy when I was thirteen
"Daddy, can you tell me what love really means?"
His eyes went glassy, not a word was said
He poured another beer and his face turned red

Asked my mother, she acted the same
She never looked up, she seemed so ashamed
Asked my teacher, he reached for the cane
He said don't mention that subject again

My big brother told me when I was fourteen
It's time I showed you what love really means
Girls like kissing and romance too
But a boy's got to know what a man's got to do

He gave me a book, the cover was plain
Written by a doctor with a German name
It had glossy pictures, serious stuff
I read it seven times, then I knew it well enough

I read it in a magazine
(Read about love)
Cosmo and Seventeen
(Read about love)
in the back of a Hustler, Hustler, Hustler

So now I know what makes girls sigh
And now I know why girls cry
So don't tell me I don't understand
What makes a woman and what makes a man
I've never been to heaven
But at least I've read about love

And now I've got you
(Read about love)
Where I want you
(Read about love)
I got you on my test bed, test bed, test bed

So why don't you moan and sigh?
And why do you sit there and cry?
I do everything I'm supposed to do
If something's wrong then it's must be you

Well, well, well
When I touch you there it's supposed to feel nice
That's what they said in the reader's advice
I've never been to heaven
But at least I've read about love

The debut of us, dear
our red carpet affair
hangs in solid crimson
all up and down the stares
Darling you do understand
I cannot keep you under
wraps? (the wrap party
is happening now,
between the cheeks
of my ***)
And the curtains part
(o boy!) and my legs part
(o joy!) dear Sir we had
total Fuckability (now
didn't we?)
I ever and always
deferred to you
the director of me
(what an awful job
but someone's got
to do it)
And when you said
"CUT!" and cut me
in two? that's okay-
I will make do
And when you said
"CUT!" once again?
That's okay, the half
of me will survive
with the all of you
(wondering how many
times I can be halved
and quartered and still
be there, under the half
the heel of your boot
black shoe)
You, darling
you

Razors pain you;
Rivers are danp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.

The worst part of being
left and half undone
is finding all of the
loose ends and
where was I
torn
(Me, ball of yarn
you, so many knitting
needles shoved in
one scar or another
and each time, indeed,
The inclination to pick up
where you left off pulled me
toward the worst and most
terrifying possibilities, a
nerve hanging by the thinnest
vein but I still yanked at it,
you see I would never
leave a job unfinished
even if the yanking of
the yarn undoes everything
one or the other of us
meant to finish
I've put too many hours
into this, gathering or
scattering, assembling
or finally tearing myself
to shreds
I've lost the meaning
or at the very least
shouldn't building
feel better than
destroying?
O what a hateful trench!
this could be, was for awhile
this life of mine then scattered
like each season, I expect nothing
more and less would be a blessing
I have lost the talent of
renewing myself and
never had the patience
to watch it come upon me
naturally so you see
The twelve year old
left half undone is still
waiting for me
Home. a word, not meant
for  that twig of a girl
Sometimes in a quiet rage
I imagine arriving home
disassembled as I am
(again, again, and again)
with my mouth made mute
by the layers of my dread
and so much packing tape-
I laugh to imagine a chorus
of folks intoning the word
Home and in all it's meaning

In the end I want to be
the worst most horrific
delivery ever landing on
your porch, no return address
because I have returned
with no intention of leaving
and even when I tell you to
handle me with care I doubt
you will recognize me
I've spent my life fancying
myself to be the kind of person
who would not ****** someone
like you but here's the problem
*******- no matter how well
I put myself together I always
end up back here, the ugly
part of you

ACCURSED from birth they be
      Who seek to find monogamy,
Pursuing it from bed to bed-
I think they would be better dead.

Absinthe, I carried under
My coat and over the border
From Spain to my latest
Fling with hope
The clatter of language
Is different but the more
I learn the more I understand
None of them, neither coming
Nor going, has much more
Than a veneer of charm
We are doctors
Above all else
We do know harm
Pity, ain't it? That death
Sounds so much better
In Spanish although
I wear my German
Like a saw
Cured, *******,
Broken heart and all

From a child's angle
all lessons come from
above; and the lifted
chins with eyes empty
in search of truth-
whence comes that
whirling dervish
of a thing, whence
comes all lessons
in love

Perhaps this is seed
and the source,
to believe love is
something to look
up at, while those
trusting eyes that
encourage lies
only reinforce
the curse

And then next there
was Santa Claus, who
expressed his love in
in more solid gifts
and another lesson
yet to learn- if you
hate what Santa
brought your ***
shut the **** up
and move on

I take small bites like
a stomach locked in
      a corset
my heart, too
is trapped under
a vice
I do not make
a pig of myself
I give my eyes
a sense but not
a solid reality
why linger in this
tomb (you see
the moment we met
he was already dead
to me)
Love my dear is
a eulogy
Buy the cheapest
box and move on
Cardboard
Victorian
The last of that
model and would
      it be pretentious
to have my stone
      inscribed:
The wallpaper was
killing me
?

The patron saint of forgetting
has been seduced out of
     the rosebush
where she lives, the thorns
     will slough away eventually
along with the rest
     of her
                   skin

she leaves rosebuds and petals
behind, but not like Hansel
     or Gretel
she does not want to be
     found
and she will not heed
the prayers from the rest
     of you, shamelessly
searching for an excuse
     of having forgotten
          too
Saint Adolf, not such a bad guy
they say he cries watching sad
    movies just like
                               you
barely seventy-five years
devil may care
because you don't, not
     you or you
          or even
               you
we do know the price
forgetting, of course all
     of us do
so hide behind your next plague
your next atrocity, yours
     or will you forget
          that
too?

The recipe required tears
and so she squinted and
she squunched, forcing
whatever salt she could
gather between her ears

NOTHING

If love is anything like
this death, well

No thank you
dear

A box of tears

Searching the grocery store
shelves,
We got nothing

Aside from that?

Well, being all too familiar
with the whole *******
thing

Thank you
Dear

Once again I stammer
at the words left by
others
I, I, I... can't believe
stepping through
the garden of words
squandered,
slim pickings for
this bird
Nevertheless
do not mistake
my choices, the words
that feather my nest
to be second rate
even as one after
the other is plucked
from the line-up
(they can take
the best of them
and I'll make
something worthy
of the rest)
Call it a public service
Call me a first responder
Never have words
been under such
a threat
The most pithy,
the most hackneyed
march of one word
horribly placed after
another (free will
meets a firing squad
where each gun hasn't
the stomach and even
Hallmark dodges
a hit, where remorse
is lost among the
letters

My ego wasn't built
for his kind of abuse
banal, pedestrian- more
Ralph Kramden then
anything, couldn't even
finish a sentence except
with a shaking fist ("Well
I oughta...") and how many
evenings we sat together
on the couch as he listed
the ways I failed him and
why he doesn't punch me
in the mouth, how one punch
would **** me for sure ("is why
he don't hit me, at least not
anymore...")

I am but one more in a long line
of reluctant escapees, more ashamed
of my leaving then I am of staying
because the former is so visible
while the latter happens behind
of everyone's eyes (the whole
block has heard all variety of
shrieks and cries, one after
another, hustling from the
door to the car and then in
reverse, sunglasses and a hat
each day a little less of a person
first breakable then broken while
he grew larger in the same
increments, grew fat)

There is no understanding
around there, only a tsk tsk tsk
and the occasional "stupid *****"
"must love gettin' hit, why else
would she be back?"
but if I knocked on one of their
doors all ****** and bruised
would someone answer?

Even before shame takes over
they make up some excuse still
peering at me through a crack
in the drapes I AM NOT THEIR
****** MISTAKE is why I
don't leave because their kind
of abuse is even harder to take

Invisible women take up
a lot of space

See through that
big ol' hole
see through that
pickle jar
see through me
see through all
of my indented
scars
(She threw it all
away
she threw it
OUT the
window
she threw a
******* FIT
she did, she got rid
of all of IT)

But...

Mercy came back
to tease at her toes
Mercy came back
and she froze and
she froze waiting
for the Finality
of Forgiveness, that
kind of mercy, where
Humility grows and
it grows (from the
bottom up, just
like a rose) and
never from the top
down like a convertible
full of smiling people
never one of those)

The joy of the
freedom from
all thought, as
smiling and blank
faced as a stick
of gum

Us low hanging
ones worry (constantly)
about losing are heads
on a low bridge or
in a low mood

Mercy is not wasted
on the fleeting love
lorn love torn
ridiculous

Like you dear
like me here
Mercy, well
done

(Dead from the
neck down rather
than from the
neck
up)

My heart is a bassoon
once I've tackled it
to the ground, oboe
in my good hand
As a battering ram
A morning star
A mace
A flail

Nary more a tune

My heart is a bassoon!
got it now? It waits
to fill up every room

"Water always finds
It's own level" or so they
say and if my heart were
full of water I wouldn't
have a clue what they
mean by that anyway

My heart is a *******
bassoon and if I were to
put it in the bath it would
ruin it

I will get straight
to the point, shoving
past year after year
after year, count them
dear, sick puppy
torn from the pack
blood smeared
you culled me from
the herd and made me
your stuffed meal
your worse than zeal
your mascot

When I was twelve years old
you bent me into a comma

When I was twelve and
one quarter you bent me
into a fist, a fetal position
you could not resist

The love of a child
when I was twelve
and a half I fought
back but lucky you
no mother love was
listening


The anatomy of a child

You *******

Who's the hunter now?

Not you, nearly seventy
years old, ***** hippie
with one dry pointed
finger (you know
which one)

To be

To be continued
when I'm done

I am going to have a dinner party
(my heart is set, do not try and
discourage me)
The psychiatrist asks, "How
long has this been going on?"
fuckingtwitfuckingassfucking
doctornowaren'tWEtwee?
my inner dialogue kicks in
without the slightest prompting
I am going to have a *******
dinner party and not even you
can stop me
(you see I lived in a hollowed out
shell was stuffed inside onetwothree
sometime in 1962  or was it '63?
I think I think at least I think
it was me
until
they dragged me out by
my leg and plopped me
down on this bug eaten
couch O
THE INDIGNITY)
I'm going to have a dinner party
then they'll see
this little dump here?
naturally it's only temporary
that's what they keep
telling me
but they won't, they won't
stop pulling at me,
rubber fitting for my mouth
"Bite down!" how bout how
bout say please? and the rest
of them they sit in a row
and tell me it's for the
electricity (who's
the crazy one now?)
I'm going to have a dinner party
and none of you can
stop me

Aaah but how laaazy
we are you reaching
for the remote (and I ain't
lifting my *** for
nothing, even my
sense of humor
lies limp) the
weather channel
the same channel
as your arm slides
back and forth
across my belly
my **** and then
you rest your
lips, napping
one muscle
at a time

We love the local weather
dude cuz he looks like
he sleeps in his suit
sways back and forth
his whole body
a five o'clock shadow
covering the whole
east coast and we revel
in the comfort of knowing
that weather still exists
at all (just in case we
choose to stick our
heads in it)

How many love affairs
start like this, the novelty
and the simple inability
to find all those faults
you will hate each other
for later?

How many lovers had me
convinced my despair is just
a wrapping I can push away
and replace with their charm
their assurances and their
delightful plot twists?
(how's the weather up
there?)

There is a certain amount
of folly and even stupidity
to believe I can dig a hole
out of terror and despair
and put yet another lover
smack in the middle of me
yes, THERE (I have made
my simple mind up- you,
darling, are not going
anywhere)

This, you me and that
bit over in the corner? I
believe love is hiding under
the hands of a clock, under
your hands too (fill me
another drink, fill me
with your ****)

Sated, she is
proud, he is
up to the task
not quite love but
this thing here?
this thing was built
to last

So much for love
Yes
and all of that
crap (He grabbed
my face and) led
my mouth
to that

place

that drove
both of us
Crazy
willingly,
and at a full
run

But)

not in love
nope
just so much
fun

thank you dear
and so much
crap

(wanta do maybe
one more
lap?)

I spent half my life
as a homeless agoraphobe
think about that
I have been predisposed
to fling myself at anyone
or anything that has even
a hint of promise of a home
Home. Searching far and wide
What on earth is it anyway?
as a child I would spend
half the day starving
and the other half gagging
down what I was told
was a meal
I didn't know broccoli is
green until I had some in
prison. Home.
Transitory.
Devilish.
The Easter bunny visits
homes but in our case
sorry kids, he broke his
leg this year and that's
when I found out every
adult was a liar. Including
the Easter bunny, in his
disheveled fur stinking
of gin with two perfectly
good legs.
And those were the good
years

I thought nothing of living
in a tree house at the age
of fourteen which baffles me
(why did this come so naturally
not to wonder at my lack
of sturdy walls and a family?)
and anyway my favorite saint
hung out in the upper limbs
of trees, throwing rocks
at her suitors, mostly
old men, stooped and
earth bound
Her father had sent them
one after the other until
she finally shattered and
winter was coming anyway
time for her to scatter

As did I.
The breeze was killing
me.

No one sees fourteen
year olds who live in trees
I assure you, NO one.

We are legion, our invisible
army of doom, no wonder
so much comes naturally
to me, having been taught
to not see the worst of
atrocities, I am perfectly
able to not see too

I'm not that different
from you

If you've read your Charlie
Dickens you would see me
through the gloom, a bit
of an anachronism but
it will just have to do

On the same night
I found my mother's scotch
and my step-monster's gun,
I learned how to deal from
the bottom of the deck
and find a fella easily parted
from his folding money yet
still think he's having fun;
That a 12 year old girl can
Make quick work of 14 year
old boy (learned the word
"sucker"), learned Barbie
was just practice for bigger
and slightly more challenging
toys;
How to hold my liquor
even if it refused to hold me
and that warm feeling in my
belly was only a short reprieve;
And at the crack of noon, after
the adults have come and gone,
how to get rid of the remnants
of a night of squalor... and
(finally) were they stashed
the ****

THIS one told me
my life is in ghastly
shape
AFTER PULLING and
plying me with all manner
of tools
A SCULPTOR and his
muse
THE CREATOR of what
was otherwise mine
now abandoned
the artist is bored
he wipes his hands
of this
ONCE DECLARED done
he stands back from it
his singular and great
work
THIS ONE told me
what a disappointment
I've turned out to be
(THE GREAT artist
walks away from
me, now it's my
mess)
ALL of me undone
GOODBYE MY one
and truly handful of
none

There came a time when
I would have to let the machines
either finish my great project
of dying or god forbid
start over
I can laugh at them from
deep inside, cracking one eye
open to see if the one in charge
of watching me is finished
with her knitting
I have a great impulse
to tell her HEY THAT IS ME
that sweater in your lap
and it doesn't matter
how fierce your effort
because all things come
undone like me and and
and JOLLY GOOD WEATHER
(I scream and scream as if
from the depths of a dream
but no one hears me anymore,
not ever)

They think they've won
I stopped eatimg, they added a tube
I stopped moving, they added wheels
I stopped talking, they found a way
into my head

That was my wedding day

When they fitted my mouth with
rubber it was like getting fit for my
gown and I demanded the bride's
maids be fitted too, only in a smarter
color

And the reception was a whirl
as each of my guests danced
out of my head, one jolt after
another

I keep my groom hidden
to this day, one bit of me
they can't take away, stuffed
in my womb, a Freudian thing
I can't help but be his mother

You hodge podge
of a person you
random facsimile
you who would
pull yourself off
of four legs just
to have a go
at me

Climbing up the
evolutionary ladder
keeping me at bay
while that lizard
brain of yours
feels the real time
of our mutual
decay

Something soft in me
the warm red blood
in me, you could smell it
even from under that stone
with one eye peering
above the mud while
the other eye plays
dead, white as a
bone

You kept your weapons
well hid but in the soft
light of night and under
a bowl of stars I could
hear your claws sliding
over white flesh and
scars

You, fooling me by
standing on two legs
and showing off those
practiced and opposable
thumbs- how ******
gallant of you

(And I watched him
fall on his neck, biting
himself in half; in his
parody of a human
he forgot to add a
spine)

Sisters, with love
hanging from their
clasped hands
swinging back
and forth like
a jump rope
double dutch
double something
a team, you would
think, but no
Faith is full of
christian love
while Hope
is morally
broke
cashed out
so to speak
but she keeps
her mouth shut
these days
while Faith appeals
to Charity, their
first cousin
a ***** (shouldn't
she have plenty
to spare?)
Faith moves around
from square to square
like a chessboard
piece, missionary
turned mercenary
cashing in on
blank checks
from God
Faith is fat
with Trust
while Hope
wrings her hands
and casts an eye toward
Charity, whatta ****
never there when
you want, that's
love, two sisters
at each other's
throat, charity
torn in half
bashed open like
a piggy bank
where's Trust
when you need him
most? (looking up
the skirt of Hope
while pinching
the *** of Faith
taking the last shards
of Charity, you
betcha) see you
next Sunday
see?

Give me what I want
and you will never hear
another peep
Give me the dagger
practiced blood
drawn from me
to you
Give me something
silent, creeping
and quiet, like
your love
never voiced
when you said
I knew what
you meant
but didn't

The brunt of your will
the hammered vacant
out of the bag look
of your swill
the brunt of every joke
especially when I'm not
joking
like when I described
our most spiritual
(ehem) moment-
I spray painted the *******
you put on the forehead of your ex-
wife's Buddha (ancient symbol
from those parts but the irony
was lost)
to place upon the grave
of our favorite cat
I supplied the pillowcase
while my dear panzerblitz
of a man dug. and dug
and I suggested that he
mound the dirt to allow
for sinking
he looked up, morning sun
in his bloodshot eyes,
"Do you think I've never
dug a grave before?"

So, now, whenever I look out
the back door the Buddha shines
not so much me anymore
I laugh out loud, inside joke
to be sure, and not my grave
anymore

I try to not make any
life altering decisions
when I don't feel in
my right mind, that is
mad, or simply
less than human
which isn't a bad
thing, I mean
in the absence of morals
even a chimp will end up
doing the right thing
but there I go
already bungling
one thought for
another
or, as I am wont to say
I DIGRESS,

What a quandary, then
when the very thing I want
to change is what is making
me crazy (and I say change
because being a moral
animal ****** is not
an option unless I hire
a chimp and
BUT I DIGRESS

I cannot even rely on
that whole ******* about
fight or flight- I am apt
to do neither while
being betrayed by
motor memory, no
I just sit and take it
dear and fight is not
the opposite of flight
nope nope nope
not around here

I've spent almost a decade
getting bashed around
the whole time remaining
as mute as a goldfish
(boy o boy- if goldfish
could *****! once again
I digress)

(Skip ahead ten stanzas)

I will not wait for her
to run out of weapons
there is no glory in
a war of attrition
although I do like
the idea of revenge
as long as it's done
thoughtfully and
with moral intent
or else with a chimp
let loose to eat her face
or not, I'll leave that
to Fate

I know there's something
wrong with me- who
doesn't know by now?
but I wonder still
how could he tell
(how could he tell
at all? I covered the
holes quite properly
when I'd blown myself
all to hell)
and the missing part
that came unglued
when I came unglued
as well?
it grew and grew
this part he knew
until it was no part
of me at all

The Facts, brought to you
by Miss (never Misses)
Battle Ax
She has taken copious
notes (and even looked up
the word 'copious')
just in case
and in this case, well
The Facts are quite simply
The Facts (follow the blood
smear, the footfall patterns
the mincing and dear
little tracks, follow her
to her corner, the one
she's worn a dent in
the one that wears
a penumbra of her
and all of her
misgivings like
a well fitted hat
The Truth) dear
kind of a little less
of that here, wanders
around kind of a
little more of a
sneer (hurts, is
LOUD) a bit of
a SMACK
and
She cannot follow
the rhythm of your
wanting because she
wants it more (than
you) would learn
to dance (for you)
would eat her own
hands for you and
follow her pointed
fingers through
every hour of
every beat of
every breath
of every (once
was yours dear)
Fact

What is left
of me here,
well, I saved it
for you my dear
in the tiny bowl
of my hands,
loose so as not
to **** it, with
fingers caged
close enough
to not spill it;
I feel the wings
beat frantically
against my palms
what sorry words
can I tell my heart
when all words
have gone?