skies and trees
lakes, rivers, and countries.
Stars, moons, and sun. Something
for everyone. Jungles, forests

and blooming gardens. Mountains
deserts and crystal waterfalls. Buildings over
a thousand feet tall. You can't see it
all in a lifetime. I'm drunk on it

as if it was moonshine. Have the eyes
of a child. Look at a butterfly and
smile. Hot as a chili pepper. Swing as
a dance hall stepper. Don’t sit as bump

on a log or bellow as an old
bullfrog. The colors are golden and
crimson. Unlock the door of your
prison!

goes round and round,
a conveyor belt. As sweat
melts off every man and
woman standing bored out of

their skulls, homing in as
a flock of gulls. Mashed together
as broken shells around this
carousel. And waiting. Baby screaming

out her lungs. Boy sticking out
his tongue. And the colors swirl, gold
red, blue, and purple, a Van Gogh
painting. And waiting.

put me in
stitches. But I won’t let them
tie me up. I hitch myself
to a star and swing out on a

milky bar. If I have an itch, I won’t
switch my plans. I’ll just take them
in a new direction! None can tell me
to ditch my dreams, or pitch to me

their button-down
schemes. I have this twitch. And I won't
unhitch my dreams. A glitch is only
temporary.

doesn’t stop the Redwood
trees from reaching their
heights. The moon doesn’t tell
the sun not to rise at dawn. So,

don’t you tell me I can’t
go on! The dandelions push
their golden heads through. And even
if you lop them off they’ll still

spring back on top. The baby
sea turtle climbs out of the nest to the
shoreline. And here he dives into
the sea without his mother’s company. So,

if he can do it all alone I can too
on my own. Murky with predators I'll swing
my red cape like a matador! And take the bull
by the horn. My wings shall not be shorn!

to crack an egg
break it apart
but remember beaten eggs
make savory omelets

It takes someone
to cut a tree
saw it down
make it fall
but remember fallen wood
makes homes for all

It takes someone
to light a candle
make it shine
brighten a room
that once was dark
like a tomb

It takes someone
to plant a seed
grow a garden
to till the soil
that once was harden

calories
in my bed
tossing and turning
from things deconstructing
in this head

I’m burning
rubber
on the streets
racing from
all my defeats

I’m burning
bridges
shore to shore
to even the score

I’m burning
down the house
I built
Flooded from the flames
I didn’t learn to walk on stilts
Now I’m locked in chains

I'm burning
alive
all  the maggots
eating up my insides
with rage

I’m burning
incense
cinnamon and sage
my friends
in old age

as a broken mirror
I can’t see clearer
as my eyes, nose, and ears
aren’t aligned in the tiers.

Shattered
as a battered locomotive
running at high-speed
falling off the tracks
crashing on impact.

Shattered
as a rock thrown
through a window
smashed to smithereens
along with all my tattered dreams

Shattered
as a flying bullet to the brain
I stain white walls
with splattered blood and
red cat calls

He groomed me
as a Faberge painted
in azure, with pearls placed in rows
like lace. Standing in gold

legs, to be looked at. So, as not
to break. But I cracked as mother
hen sat on me. And none put my pieces
back with flattery. With jagged

edges, sharp as swords, I was
***** and dusty like a barnyard
floor. I birthed myself in no
opulence of wealth. Scattered my shell

like raindrops. Flecks of me
on rooftop and trees, blowing
in the breeze. But not to live as
a Faberge'. I'm a scrambled egg.

as the petals fell from a blushing
blooming rose. Worn like a pair
of pantyhose. Now I’ve rips and
holes. Stretched as he fetched for

his revolving door. Waxing his
ego. Tallying the score. Feeding his
libido with a silver spoon, as if we're in
a cartoon. Bathed in this infection

he cloaks as an *******. The sickness
hasn’t left me. Still fluttering like a  
honeybee. I tell myself I'm strong. But
I'm wrong. I’m torn. Like an axe to

the tree. I’m split into three.

when the trees were stark
the days cold and dark
ground hard with frost
the cost of love lost

Remember June
when heads fell swoon
slept like bears till noon
dancing silhouettes under the moon
trees as green as the grass
warm days slowly pass

in love too much to ask
if this ember can light December
like the star on the tree
or drop like mercury

Is the sun too bright
for the sky? Does it burn out
the azure like a moth trapped
in a light fixture till it dies?

Is the ocean too deep
for the land? Does it swallow
the green as it stands?

Is the nightingale too melodic
in her song? Singing all night
in the moonlight. Does her pitch throw
the switch on his wand?

Is the dandelion too strong
for his coiffured lawn? As he
cuts her down she rebounds, poking out
her head like a foot from under
the spread. He can’t shell her
like a prawn.

the sidewalk
jackhammering
blades slicing through cement
men's heads and shoulders bent
sparks pitching in the air
making holes and dents
a hundred and thirty decibels
so loud it breaks my spectacles

They’re tearing up
my green eyes
as the dust flies
the ground splits open
smoke billowing in clouds
that can’t be broken
I can’t swallow
I’m choking
men covered in dirt
sweat rolling off their shirt
ditch so deep
you can bury bodies half asleep

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.

I’d like to strangle! If only I bought
a wide-tooth comb to pull out
the knots that made a home
in my hair, then I’d shed him
as fleas in a quick sneeze.

He is the Trash
I should have put out last night. But I
was red-eyed and tired. Everything
expired and smelled like rotten eggs, moldy
cheese and sour grapes.

He is a Molotov cocktail
I shouldn’t have mixed. But then
I was fixed on him. He blew up in
my face. And I splattered like cake batter
with the beater on high. Stuck to the ceiling
and dried. None can scrape me off -
with only a wet cloth.

a quick fix. When I needed a hug
you came on thick. Thick as a wool blanket
on a cold dark night. Shiny as the
armor on a Medieval knight.

You were my high
rocket in space. “Beam me up
Scotty” and we’re outta this
place. You were not subtle. I crashed
on the take-off like the Challenger Shuttle.

You were my hangover
the morning after. My head blown up
like a red balloon squeezed in the
rafters. My pieces were strewn from
popping. I laid marooned like troopers
dropping from the sky. The price of the high!

the walk. You talk. You’re
a painted flower that has no
perfume. You’re stenciled on
my bedroom walls to look at –

not consume.  Flat and one-sided
you left me misguided. You spoke
the things I like to hear. But none of it
is true. In all the years,

I believed in you. And now I have
not a thing to show. You planted seeds
that didn't grow. You bragged about
the garden. But the frost from every breath

you took made it harden. No footsteps
in the soil. You watered me with oil. But I
didn't dissolve. I floated on top, a yellow
raindrop of gold.

If I could blow him
out of my nose in a sneeze. Be taken
as the leaves in a breeze. If I
could bury this sickness

of sobs and heaves. Cool the fever
with a wipe of my sleeve. Melt his memory
like Fontina cheese. Ice it down
a few degrees. This rash is tighter

than my jeans. It’s spreading like
acne in teens. Splitting my sides at
the seams. If I could unplug this noisy
machine making me wriggle in high-

pitching screams. Stop it from hanging
over me like the eaves. If only I could. But I can't!
So, it breeds.

like socks –
mismatched
trading them as stocks

He collects women
like cards –
in diamonds and hearts
shuffling them apart
turning them to lard
till he grows hard

He collects women
like stamps –
thumbnails that are tramps
sticking them to his sheets
by pounding city streets

He collects women
like coins –
shiny tender
after an all-night ******

in this life. I must put back
more life in my years. Living
in strife. My rage is sheer as my silk

stockings. Shuffling through the day
like an actor in a play. The only thing
dropping by are the pigeons firing

bombs. Banging my head like a tom-tom,
waiting for something to hatch. But the only thing
I catch is a cold. I roll through

this afternoon as a ball of green and blue
yarn the cat's unraveled. A tangled string
that hasn't traveled past her backyard.
A joker in a deck of cards.

blowing in the wind
moving in every direction
turning like the water mill
not a rock standing still

I would shine in the sun
like a ****'s red feathers spun
all that moves for me is time
growing old with every chime

looking to rise like the yeast
not lying in the pan
like the grease
let me live –
or I shall cease

in my living room. But you’re
living in the room of my head
every night as I go to bed. You’re
not here to hold. But I hold

you in my very soul. You’re not
here in body. But I embody you in
all I do. You're not here to touch
me. But you touch me in memory.

You were round as the sun.
But you were the moon.
I thought you were deep as the ocean.
But you only fit in a teaspoon.

You were so full of color,
crimson, and gold.
But as the autumn trees, you shed your leaves
till you were bare to the bone,
like a carcass, the lions feasted on.

In you, I saw a Tiger Swallowtail butterfly.
But as we danced in the flames
you burned alive.
You turned into a moth that drowned
in the broth.
I swallowed you whole and cried.

like the cow over the moon
like the horse jumping the hurdle
you make my blood curdle
like an athlete vaulting the high bar
I've pushed you out of my head this far

I’m so over you
like a skydiver descending in a parachute
flying in the air
everything’s little up here

I’m so over you
I tell myself over and again
we aren't friends
and go to the ends of the earth
to show it
but sometimes I just blow it

you see streaking down
my cheeks. I’m cutting onions
for the stew. And they just stung
my eyes for a few. No, it is not

a teardrop plopping from
my nose. I have allergies. So, I
sneezed and let go. The little drip
on my lip is only some sweat

that slipped and slid on my chin from
running around the block again. No,
my puffy eyes are not from weeping
all night. It’s the dust mites from sweeping

the floor and polishing the furniture
bright. I'm happy. Can't you tell? It's raindrops
that fell on my face, oh so well.

in the pockets of my head. And just as
a tenant that won’t pay the rent
I’ve no room left. My emotions
all spent. He’s lasted past the date

I’ve ousted him out. Standing still
like a big toe with gout. Painful to move,
swollen and red, I'm a mechanical pencil
without the lead. I've drowned him in a hundred

proof. But he didn't leave as my head
hit the roof. If only I didn't let him in. If only
I listened to the voice in my ears that
grew or cut the wings of the butterflies that flew

in circles in my stomach,  I wouldn't have
plummeted into the abyss. If only I knew his kiss
is my death wish.

And I was wet.
As we ran together
he began to sweat.
We stuck and rolled

into a soft, cool globe.
We rested, then were tossed
high into the air,
circled and flared.

An avalanche fell upon us.
And cloaked us in white.
We both got drunk on the sauce,
cooked with spice.

The heat made us rise.
We were so sweet,
with red cherry peppers
for cheeks.

They all called us pie.
I was wet.
He was dry.

to make the sweet wine.
Pluck them all first from the vine.
You need to cut the roses
for the wedding day. Every bride

needs a blooming bouquet.  
The apple must be pressed
to make the cider. And the meat
is ground for the meatball sliders.

So, I too have been crushed
cut, pressed, and ground
down. And as my bits fall together
I stand out from the pressure!

to the ground. Worms
are crawling in the holes
as it rolls down the hill. Fed

as swill for the pigs. Too fat
for the slender twig. No man
picked it as it hung, spry and green

when it was young. Ripe and
full of juice it broke loose. It was not
plucked. A man didn’t

duck. And hit his head on the orb
of red. All the others turned to pies
and sauce. Or golden juice. Or served

with lox. If it only was a shooting star,
not ashes flaked off man’s cigar.

because you’re green
and I am blue. Then look at
the sky hanging quietly over
the grass. And ask how they pass
the afternoon.

If I ruffle you
because I fly around
and you're tied
to the ground, I won't let
my castles in the air
make your molehills disappear.

If I ruffle you
because I won't walk a straight
line or stand in the shadows
or fall behind or fit in the frame
that you hand-made it's only because
I don't like the shade.

of people. Their noses high as a spire
on the church steeple. I’m the elephant
in the room or hidden dust that didn’t
catch the broom. I wander around

like a clown wearing a red painted
smile upside-down. I hate this isolation,
feeling like the train has left the station. As I
stand on the platform out of breath. To chase

it'd be my death. I miss the forest,
where the branches dance and the birds
sing in chorus. Where the rivers run. And the only
thing set is the sun waltzing on the horizon. It’s no

surprise then, I don’t fit in. I stick out
like a candlepin. Standing to be knocked
down. Counting the seconds till my hundred
breakdown.

back the rind. You’ll find
the soft flesh and sweet juice
of youth.

Peel
the debris piled on.  Thicker than
the lawn. It's a clutter
of pain. A clog is in the gutters. So,
they can't drain.

Peel
away the dead skin
of sin. So, it'll grow
anew. Clear the smoke from
the flue.

Peel
off the red paint
from this wall. Underneath it
all is a lost city.

only in the winter
as I’m stripped of my red
cloak? When the yellows have broken
and scrambled like egg yolk? When I can’t blanket
you in shade. And my bark is sharp as blades?

Do you see me
only in early spring
when my buds are tightly closed
like a fist swinging in the air
and breaking someone’s nose?

Do you see me
only in late autumn
when my colors are bleeding out
and fallen to the bottom. And my nut plunks
someone’s head so loud it shakes the dead?

Do you see me
only in the summer
so green and much
younger? A haven for the thunder. When you
laid under me and fell asleep at my feet?

turning from bright green
to red hot fire burns. They detach
as a chick hatched breaking
from the shell. Swirling

in the swell. Then they fly off
in a scoff, running rivers and jumping
rocks. Leaving me with sentimental twigs
that I hasten in every swig.

where the trees are
my home. No walls or
doors/no ceilings or floors. The dirt
between my toes. A scent of pine

dancing under my nose. The wind
blowing my hair. A log for my
chair. The bellowing of the bullfrog. Sedges
and heaths by the bog. The tat-tatting

of the woodpecker. No hat or
coat checkers. No small talk
where men flock to gawk at woman
in pairs. The azure sky and country

air. Woody vines/not long lines
or the weight of a heavy stare. No red satin
dresses. Here you won’t find stresses. The only
thing running is the river. A sliver of paradise

without a price. And the stars don’t sue/just shine
in a paisley-colored sky.

with a painted map of how he did
her wrong. As the wind blows
don’t stand too close, she’ll eat you
with her prongs. With her red

fiery lips she grips men
like a fountain pen, squeezing out
their blood like ink. In a wink a floating
alphabet soup she groups into leather

bound books and sells. Every man’s a piece
of driftwood triggered from her childhood. With
the hairy lashes, she flashes she bashes them
to kingdom come.

I carry it with me as I leave
home. I hide it in my pocketbook.
It rolls in the nooks and under the *****.
Someone gave it to me. I haven’t

given it back. It’s grown bigger
over the years. It started out as a pebble
that stuck in my shoe. That little I just shook it
loose. But then it grew the size of my hand. So, I threw it

in the ocean. It made a nest in the sand
as the tide pulled back. On land, I tripped
over it. And it broke my foot/cracked the bone. Still,

I lugged it with me on the drive home. I took it
to the doctor so he'd see the culp of my pain. But he
romanced the stone and gave it a name.

running through my honey hair, leaving
my scalp bleeding. His scummy stare Medusa,
turning me to stone. His arms cleavers,
shattering my bones. His mouth

a volcano. Instead of saliva,
what swam through his gums was
molten hot lava. I couldn’t move. I fell
into the fiery pit. It wasn't hard to do, with his

dark looks and quick wit. If we
hadn't met I'd fly like a steel eagle into that orange
sunset, out over the horizon. And walk
among the burly bison.

woman. They see the polish
and brass, not inside the glass. They see
a shiny orange, not the seeds or
the pith. Not the woman,

just a myth. The men have
a crush on red lipstick and cream
blush. They can't do better
than a fuzzy low-cut sweater. It's sweet

to kiss cherry-painted toes than to rub
the soles of a woman with flab and
rolls. A woman that's walked for miles
carrying her load in smiles. A woman

that's danced in the rain squeezing in
her pain tightly like a corset. No man
can endorse it.

as this life winces
in a flash. What did you do
as you passed through? Did you
leave something behind? Something

fruitful and kind? Did you float
as a paper boat till the bath water
ran out? Did you dance with

the stars or not leave the
ground? Did you flutter over
every flower ******* up the
nectar? Or did you sprint like a gazelle

no man can tell. Did you turn
as the autumn leaves? Or rise as the Redwood
trees? Will you fly back to us as
a butterfly? Or are you spent as dust
leaving us?

of skin, arms, legs, and
chin. The only thing
that grows is the hair and the nails
on my fingers and my toes. I take

this prison with me
as I leave.  I paint it with golden
glossy dyes and red polish. So, it shines
over the men that befriend and

abolish. Most don’t see this
cage. It fits me as I age. I can fly. But
I'm not free. I can travel the world
But I take this little girl curled up in a ball

and flung around my shoulders
as a shawl with me. And she weeps. So, I wipe
her eyes with sunflowers and rose gardens
till it looks like we're pardoned. That's key.

Some are sunny and clear.
Others hazy and grey.
Some short as a nap on an airplane.
And some wear on like gears on a train
filling buckets and buckets of icy shard rain.

Some are quiet, so quiet they don’t make a sound.
While others are hurricanes knocking everything down.
Some are ****** upon us without warning.
Others are gentle as the orange sky dawning.

Some a gift and some a curse.
And some are so trite like they’re rehearsed.
Some we’ll not forget.
Others we write off like a rubber check.

But isn’t a tinge of pain in them all?
The hinge is broken and the dreams just loll.

too intense. I was a moat,
surrounding his castle walls. And he
didn't have a boat to descend my falls.

He said I was
too colorful. I was a rainbow
after his rain shower. In green, red,
blue, yellow, and purple, a blooming
garden of flowers.

He said I was
too demanding. I was a plane
that he test piloted
into a crash-landing.

He said I was
too heavy for him. I was the dreadlocks
he opted to trim.

like a banana cream pie
in the face. But it wasn’t sweet! It stung
as Mace. And I was blind from the chase.

He hit me
like a hickory stick
falling from the sky like
a ton of bricks. I wore the welts
shiny as the buckle in his belt.

He hit me
like a Mack truck. I didn’t
duck. So, I wear the tracks. Now I’m flat
upon my back.

little as a fiddle in an orchestra
of double bass. As little as a broken
piece of glass that fell off his chandelier. I
cried ice-buckets of tears. He turned me

into sawdust/then swept me up
as fluff on his floor. I was no more
than a speck on his spectacles that he
wiped off with a cloth and tossed in

his drawer. I stuck to that cloth
like a moth to the flame. I burned without
the fire like a rainy day in Spain.

the silky heads
of all my blooming flowers. I sought
the warmth of the sun. But you drenched
me in showers.  

You cut off
the threaded string
of my bright flying kite. So, I got stuck
in the trees. And couldn’t take
flight.

You cut off
the power
to my home. Left me standing
in the dark and draped
in the cold.

You cut off
the moving hands
of my clock. That was
the day everything
stopped.

as a terry washcloth
in his tight-****** hands
and all the dewdrop beads
fall as strands of pearls
torn from the necks
of daddy’s little girls
and scatter as roaches
in the crevices and holes
some roll under the cabinets
and grow old

in a little ranch house. A dark and
dusty spot under the rooftop. I’m static. No
movement around me. No talking mouths
or walking feet. Clumsily shaped

and out of place of the living space. Here
I expose my rafters, in the silence of no
man’s laughter. Boxes stacked and sealed. Past
years all concealed. If my walls did speak, they'd

drip stain teardrops of red and bleed
as a reed in the wind through the ceiling of
women and men.

together like woolen fibers
in a sweater. Out of place and
out of time. Patches covering
the holes in mine. The stitching

unravels
through the journey
of my travels.  Needle pen
in reds and golds bleeding out

in the folds. Shrinking in
the wash from every toss of man
I couldn’t get over my head. And still
creak like boards in my bed.

how I wept.
His sharp shards of ice-cold stares
made butterfly crystal tears
that froze upon red porcelain skin.

I cracked within like a chic
breaking from her eggshell home
to find herself in the nest alone.
Eyes tightly sewn.

And pieces strewn like broken glass
cutting me at every pass.
I stuck to myself
with beads of sweat.

And bloods run out
like glue that set.
So, I asked the man in the marmalade sky
why all of us are born to die.

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.