wept all over
the mahogany table. So, he cradled
them in his hands, till the color
ran down the length of

his arm. And his hand
was a prison for the wrinkled
crimson. Men before him spread
the soft, curled petals all over

their four cornered brass
bed. And they died without
water. They died without sun.
They died dried up. They'd been

picked too young. All that is left
is the appendage riddled with
thorns. She piddled her life on men
since the day she was born.

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

I like the ocean
as it mixes with the sand
to form a cast of my foot
where I stand. It molds

in-between my toes, around
my heel and under my arch,
kinda like a paste of water and
cornstarch. As I lift my ankle

I see the impression of a
size seven. And another just like
it, and another and another,
leaving a trail behind me. As I look

out over a cornflower sea
I feel the cool, soft sand massaging
my feet. I feel like the leader of
a band. I don't need a man

to hold my hand. This walk will
be a memory. The footprints will
wash away as the tide rolls in.
Nothing here can stay.

when his cell
played her song as her name
displayed on his screen
to pick it up. He delayed

checking his messages. And all
her emails sat in his in-basket
left unopened, taking residence like
a list of presidents. He didn't think

she'd not show, like she had no place
to go, only to his house. He didn't think
as days turned into weeks and not
a peep of her there. And dust bunnies

made their home in the corners
of her chocolate velvet chair, as autumn
closed in, with crimson, yellow leaves
falling to the ground, billowing in the

breeze. He didn't hear a sound
from her. Not even a tease of the
cheesy smile she once wore. He didn't think
as the numbers on his calendar changed
that it was strange she hadn't called. Or when

was the last time he laid eyes
on her petite figure? Or jumped in her
laughter. Or see the sun bounce off the
long honey highlights in her hair? Or how

her perfume filled the air with lilacs in
his room. Or the plume of her thrift-store
rainbow dress. Now that the old burly
oak tree with painted leaves in emerald

green standing outside his windowpane
left a stain of her dancing pirouettes around it.
Her running in the rain along with her mascara.
Confound it!

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

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

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

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

my head floats off my body. I'm in
a board meeting. I'm out the
door. I'm taking notes. Sweeping
the floor. Checking off lists

of things to do. The taste in my mouth
of last night's beef stew. My tummy
is jumping. Must be gas. The clock is
ticking. Will this pass? The sun is rising

out my bedroom window. The ceiling
fan blowing the dust below. Counting
the minutes till he is finished. Adding in
sound while I'm diminished. Flattened under

his weight. Riding my tracks
like a long freight. Drying up like the
Mojave Desert. This is just a sport
before my morning chores.

with an old dish cloth
as I do the plates when I wash
them after dinner, till the remnants
of Salisbury steak grow thinner. Or sweat

that runs off like a trough
down my nape from the steam
in the bathroom. Wipe him with
a tissue as I do the mist on the

mirror. I dot the glass. And a little
spot grows clearer. But it fills back up
again. Till a breeze from the window
blows in. He's ***** matter stuck in

the groove of my sneaker. So,
as I move, I tread it into the house. Spreading
it like a disease. And the stench of it
knocks me out. But even ****

that’s smeared like shaving cream in
peaks of brown and green
can be wiped off the floor. But not
the memory I neatly store.

climbing on my bathroom scale
making me wail
in shock
the falling
of bonds and stocks
breaking limits on my speedometer
the mercury
shooting up my thermometer
on store price tags
they rise so high
and through the years
how fast they fly
but through the night
they flash at me digitally
the book reviews
rating me in stars
all the burning candles
on your birthday cake
reminding me
how old you are
this expanse
on the tag
in the back of my pants
if I could rid myself
of digits
a life with no limits

and the smell of rubbing
alcohol. Rows of beds and
machines that beep. How does
a young boy

with such noise sleep? Tubes
in throat, arms and legs. This
is how we live every day. Paging doctor
so and so with a color code. Stuffed

monkey from the gift shop
lays propped up on the blanket. She hasn’t
tanked yet. But she’s on her way. Looking out
the window into the smog. Eying people

rushing off in a fog, all unaware
of her sleeping in a chair. A scream from
the room next door. Yesterday’s apple
core turning brown. A visit from the circus clown.

in my pocket. I wear it
as a locket on days when I’m
down. And even when it
is hidden I can tell that it’s still

sound. I carry it
to breakfast. It floats in my morning
coffee, sweeter than the sugar
and cream. Brighter than the sun’s

early beam. It lights up my bathroom
mirror. Dissipates the fog
on the glass making it clearer. Filling
up every room like a bottle of Channel

perfume. I carry it out of the house,
driving the car and walking the cobblestone
streets. If I dazzle you, it's not me! It's
his smile in the billowing breeze.

like little boys as they sleep
with lashes that sway
like a cradle in day
sweet like a bloom
over fluorescent moons
and arms tucked in as wings
floating on billowing pillows
top of box springs
lips of rose petal
where beads of pearls settle
gently pull apart
if this didn’t tug at my heart
then a sandy head facing heaven
puffing like leaven
with porcelain cheeks
and legs twisted in sheets
like fields of honey wheat
taking my breath
drifting me in caresses of lullaby
moistening my eyes!

They look to mars
across the stars
for spaceships hovering over the sky
are they friend or are they spy

flying saucers in the air
to whom this life do we compare
green men with elongated heads
Rastafarians wearing Jamaican dreads

Tattoos on limbs/rings in noses
women are men and red as roses
earth's burning hotter every day
we're all part of the same milk way

full of crimson
not stark as a prison,
where gnarly limbs scratch
the frame of my house. Or stripped

as a ***** that's turned over
and again, so that its grooves
have worn thin. They see
a flower, not the stalk of

thorns. The sun dancing on
the sea, not the blackness
underneath. I dove into
where the sun doesn't

shine. I waltzed in a pyramid
of brine. I imploded like a
submarine, lit like a match
to a tank of gasoline.

in the washer
tossed with the coloreds. Pure as
driven snowflakes was I! Sweet
as ma's apple pie. Then bra's

snapped their straps
at me. The dungarees wrapped
their denim long legs around
me. The red thong bled its crimson so,

I was no longer as the ******
snow. I wrinkled in a mess of pa's
stiff cornflower shirts ma had
pressed. Mangled in sheets and

sweaters. Drowning in suds. The rocking
back and forth of this washer with
a thud. I flew out of the machine painted pink,
blue and green. I shrunk down a size or

two. I didn't fit. So, I was kept in the closet
down the hall to wipe the walls and
tabletops/ an old dust cloth. Till I grew moldy
and black. Then they threw me in the trash.

of the morning
coffee percolating in the Corning
pendulum swinging back and forth
hands traveling south and north

the eggs and bacon are now plating
this full bladder is done waiting
doltishly climbing out of bed
legs of rubber/feet of lead

clouded eyes cannot focus
breakfast table hocus-pocus
punching keys of grey
for two crumbs of pay

flickering of light through the glass
dew drops clinging blades of grass
robin chirping/squirrels scamper
***** clothes pile in the hamper

like a hornet
black tie yellow jacket
singing like a sonnet
letters tied in a packet

bright red and burning
welts dancing in pain
tossing and turning
he Tarzan, I his Jane

I didn't see him land
off in a trance of gin
cannot say life is bland
he's underneath my skin

I pen it in blood ink
with ice to cool the swelling
and as I slowly sink
epoxy for the telling

at summer’s end,
as birch trees bend
in the breeze. And butterflies
flutter and tease. My hot breath

on the glass. The smell of
smoky crimson ash. Dew drop
pearls on rose petals. Dancing water in
stove-top kettles. His whispers dangle

in my garden. Like the hammock
hung in the yard in the nook
between the trees. I shook him off
in one tight squeeze.

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

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

to breathe
the blooms
a garden grows
lilac perfume

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

to brush
the blackened silhouettes
and sprinkled showers
of rainbow confetti

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

and tripped on every rung. And fell
into the slats so hard I burst a
lung. I've hit my head on walls that
pushed to close me in. And through  

the midnight calls threw back
a fifth of gin. My knobby knees have
buckled. My soles have all worn
through. And how the men

all chuckled at scars that I
accrue. The stairway twists and
turns. I cannot see around the bend. I have
my concerns that this all has no end. Every day

I struggle to take a step. And all that I juggle
and still with smile and pep! Some days I just
sit back and watch the folks go by. I'd say
this life's a hoax. We're all just gonna die!

in the head,
a dark canal
for wax to build and
shed. A place to hang

a loop or push
a stud. Or rest a strand
of hair around two protruding
organs.  And the dust flies

in and out. Fleshy twists
and folds, a place for buds
with music and string. Some
stick out like ***** of

wings. Covered in hat
or cap. A spot to stick
a cotton swab. Not much more
than a useless ****.

He Left a mark
on fervent breast.
Was just a spark
he combed and pressed.

It lit a path
into the wood.
A row of lath
no backing stood.

A rose
with no trellis.
To pose
with no pelisse.

Footprints ebb
In April snow.
A spider’s web
to snare her woe.

blue ***** dig caves
under sandy rocks
and the smell of salt
boats tied to docks

the gulls swoop low
to catch a bite
and plovers wade
as horseflies bite

footprints make a trail
boys and girls building castles
with shovel and pail
green foamy seas

lined with cockleshells
and balmy breeze
driftwood and seaweed
tangled around my toes

and knees
tanning woman lying
on colored towels
as sunburned baby

in sagging diaper howls
coconut oil
permeates the air
as old folks sit

on navy beach chairs
bags of chips and kegs of beer
and hairy chested men
that often stare

a bunch of teens punch
a volleyball over
a long-stretched net
my nape breaks out

in a sweat
riding surfs on boogie boards
dripping ice-cream cones
sandpipers call this their home

as they lie on nests in the dunes
while radios blare 80's tunes
life's troubles out of reach
a typical day at the beach

as I. Without a parachute
I cannot fly.  And land so hard
I broke apart. My arm a tree
branch limb that couldn't swing

or swim. My leg a rolling
log, without a foot to jump or
jog. This head a bowling
ball. Eyes and tongue just

loll. My chest a hollow
stump that sits there like
a lump. It doesn’t hold a beat,
cold as rain and sleet. The sun

rises and sets. The sky full
of clouds and contrails
from the jets. And the frost lost
its bite, since I fell from the height.

his thin mouth,
roll right past his tongue.
Then flitter all about
till the pearls are strung.

They fly verbose,
heavy as a jet.
Flat lines of prose.
Some pose a threat.

I see them on paper.
Hear them in the shower,
hanging there as vapor.
Not a drop that I can scour.

They don't match
his deeds.
The egg doesn't hatch.
internally it bleeds.

on their hands
wearing wedding bands
in swivel chairs
hunched over screens

friends with pixels
not having dreams
smoking crystals
hands glued to a phone

legs bent over knee
hovering like drones
anxious to leave
another Groundhog Day

spent the same way
till the mad rush
to sit in cars
and cuss at traffic

then hit the bars
to swirl on stools
to sit at tables
till dinner cools

to sit some more
on the couch
to watch the pixels
dance and sing

and act the grouch
the same old thing
the bane of life
is in the sitting

the ***, a pillow
for more than *******
the men just billow to bed
and take a pill though,
to drop their head

I cannot be heard.
All this violence
and what it has stirred.

A slow train to hell
that won't let me off.
I bang and I yell.
and ***** I quaff.

Pitted and hollow
wearing a suit of armor.
Singing as a swallow
I can be a charmer.

This pen is a mike.
Tape up my mouth.
Ink rolls like a bike.

in a half-inch puddle of water,
simmering at the freezing point.
And if my life grows hotter
I'll crack just like my joints! I walk

in the same spot.
The scenery doesn’t change.
I walk a lot. But the horizon's
out of range. I, the ice

princess living in painted castles
of clouds. A wife and a mistress,
a poet that thinks out loud. I lost
my breath lying under him, not at

the gym. I toppled
from the bottom. Such a long
fall. It happens when you
build a house with no walls.

thin and salty,
packaged in colorful
wrapping. Covering
his holes with a

flavorful spread. He cannot
hold weight like a loaf
of bread. His toppings
slide off.  But he likes

to dip like a potato
chip. He crumbles and breaks
under pressure. I’d say
he needs a refresher. Dry as the

desert sky. He doesn't
rise as a soufflé.  And hard
like a pound of clay. That’s how
he greets his day.

like two pairs of  
socks. I'm an ankle. You're ribbed,
rolling up to the knee. I'm bright
red. You're white. We're mismatched.

You can see on sight. I'm
a mitten. You're a glove. You've slots
for fingers. I just shove all into
a big comfy pouch, with only

a space for the thumb. I’m a
hoop. You’re a stud. You have
backing. I have none. I am round. You are
flat. I hang down. You're a tat. You’re

a sneaker. I’m a sandal. Sand
and surf is all I handle. You run
fast. I like sun. You’re *******.
We contrast. Opposites in the same pack.

she'd leave. So, when she did
he said she'd return as the crimson,
golden leaves blow off the old oak trees
in autumn. She'd hit the bottom

and sprout up green again. But it's been
two years since then. He didn't think
she'd live without him. He, the sun
moon and stars. Drinking gin,

reading memoirs. No, he didn't think this
out. He just went about his day, a slave
to the work and pay. The phone, glued
to his hand as the day whittles. Then lying

on the nightstand as he mimics sleep. No,
he didn't think he'd see sheep jumping fences
or weep in his defenses. Lighted numbers
advance. He challenges himself not to

glance. He didn't think this last. But the years
are flying passed him. And he cannot recast
them. His temples greying, teeth decaying. The flesh
hangs off his bones as another hour drones.

plump, cherry smile?
It's painted on.
With a crimson lipstick
it is drawn.

You see this
round head?
It's long golden locks?
It's been turned
by gibberish talks.

You see this
shoulder?
Round and clear?
Too much weight
it’s had to bear.

You see this
rhinestone stiletto shoe?
You haven't walked in it!
Now have you?

I'm alone. I'm a raging river;
he's a jagged stone. I dance around
him in the billowy air. He's fixed
as a toilet on his stare. He's a ship

in moor. Not a thing I can
procure. The two of us,
a heavy tanker, weighing me
down like an anchor. My wing

is clipped. I cannot fly. I've been
stripped, ****** and tied. I lost myself
next to him. The silk shades drawn.
The light is dim. All I learned

undone. My ****** pen is now
finespun. I'll plant him in
my rose bush yard. As a scarecrow
to stand guard.

is this head
propped on a pole
that's how I’m bred
but I just let it roll

as a woolen sweater
tossed for hours in the dryer
should have known better
I’d burn in the pyre

So is my wallet
thinner than a crepe
that's how I call it
empty with a gape

and like a popsicle
melting in the sun
I find it comical
this is a dry run!

as the Milky way
from the dawn's gleam of light
to the black edged sword of night
divided as the oceans

on a seascape terrain
landing as a pin
on a galaxy pulled to spin
she planet Earth, him Neptune

with no bridge
to cross them over
green as a field of clover
under a grey goose sky

hailing with stinging bees
a woman's silhouette
with pen dancing pirouettes
her soldier turns and flees

she lost him in the dust
blown like spores of pollen
he cannot hear her callin
the horizon has leprosy

on my shoulder
is waiting to knock me
over. The cloud above
my head is filling me with

dread. The ground
beneath my feet is naked
and fleet. This air I’m breathing
is smoky and wreathing. The fog

on the horizon is not
compromisin'. This speck
in my eye I cannot pry. My head
is a mountain that is mount

on sky a hundred and sixty
stories high. I’m drowning in
a puddle through a fuddle of *****
and gin. I cannot bear to win.

the rain is my shower.
The sweet, green grass my bed.
Perfume is the lilac flower
that dangles on stalks of silky thread.

A canopy of trees is the roof.
A dancing breeze, my fan.
No man here to reproof
or make some onerous plan.

The squirrel’s antics make me laugh.
Lunch is hanging from the tree.
I cut a red plump apple in half,
and down it with a wedge of brie.

My song, the melodic canary.
No television or radio,
just a swinging hammock and sherry.
Life's too fast not to take things slow.

running the reds
bleeding in threads
sticking as green algae
swirling the blues
in nostalgy
into the browns
pirouettes spinning
in striped corsets
plucking them strings
like Raymond Dorset
a palette of color
on a grey canvas
twisted as a cruller
Dust in the wind/Kansas

she slips
into his grip
as red blood lips
press together
and locks on mouth
make hands move south
cupping her bottom
pulling tightly his *******
rotating in this slim jim dance
eyes lit the skies like Paris, France
he drinks silky milk from peach jugs
as he plugs the sugar walls
Oh my Gosh! Niagara Falls
her hair a scarf around his face
he's so undone like his shoe lace
hands on clock
rotate

in colorful bloom.
Don't wait till I'm set out
as folding chairs in the little
room. Roses red as the blood

before it was drained. Deep as
the purple in the chapel’s glass windows
stained. Gold as sunflowers rising tall. Sweet
as the orange lilies painted on my bedroom

wall. The magnolia and peony smiling
down on me. Lilac’s dancing  pirouettes in
weeping willow trees. Let me run crazy
in a field of sweet daisies. Rubbing

buttercups between my toes,
in a garden hammock with a canopy of
green leaves for shade. Don't wait for
the day for this old body to fade.

as a pancake,
somersaulting high in the air
an acrobatic made of eggs, milk and flour.
Scared the sleeping, curled up cat,
lying on the kitchen chair.
Falling flat into a frying pan of sizzling butter,
Plumping himself.
bumping against the sides
filling the whole bottom.
Gold as the leaves in autumn.
Shining as the sun,
but none to turn him.
He burned from outside in.

As she cut into him
the gold turned black,
sticking as plague to her teeth.
Charred as ash underneath.
No honey, cream or syrup
could deter it.
And even if it could
she'd not prefer it.

like colored tinsel
on the trees. The metal coils
flapping in the breeze,
to seize the souls of men. Her stiletto

is her fountain pen. The ink
dripping, her blood, a mountain of
meter in lace gloves. The prosaic
ghouls have not cultivated

their tools. Their turgidity has no
mobility. Sits as stone. Two silhouettes
burned down as daddy's smoked
cigarettes. Crummy as mother's

week old scones. Her poetry beats
are milky as a cow's teats. But still
she drums on, praying for her lines
to spawn.

she thought of a cornflower sky
the shimmering Morpho butterfly
her father’s soft cobalt eyes
the warm waters of the Caribbean Sea
a sweet, plump blueberry
or the desert bluebell flower

Then her life turned sour.
And the blue faded into shades
of grey.
Hovered in the air
all day.
Hung like garlic breath.
The thief in the night -
a crib death

like nail polish
in specks,
leaving flecks of red.

Peeling off
like paint on the walls.
Flaking off
in shards of cornflower blue,
as she falls in her bedroom.

Burning out
like a smoked cigar.
She once was champagne
and caviar.

Dripping
like a leaky faucet.
She's drawn the line.
No man can cross it.

Me, Myself & I

at slow and steady speed
walking side by side
no one takes the lead
scaling mountains
one step at a time
fingers laced together
making the arduous climb
in all types of weather

if one of us slipped
the other two cushion the fall
we are all equipped
to handle it all
the three of us
against the world
building up a truss
head held to the sky
Me, Myself & I

she sits, a stone.
An ivory tower
as they drone.
Like a lilac flower

she blends in
the mauve curtains.
Drinking her tonic and gin.
The clink of ice and chit-chat.

She nods and smiles.
So still, she's sat
it pains her piles.
Women flutter

like butterflies.
Men stutter
straightening their ties.
Walking to the table

of crackers and cheese
she can't stable
her wobbling knees.
She takes a bite

and wipes her lips.
A smudge of pink
on her lace napkin.
Her hair piled high

with a hatpin.
She sips
her watered drink.
The lanky guy

blinks like a light.
His unzipped fly
makes her shrink
like bubbles in the sprite.

He weaves in and out
with an open mouth.
Talks with a drawl
like a hick from the south.

She's uninvited.
So, she can't decline.
Is she slighted?
Or out of line?

all the tangles
with the snap of a finger
or the toss of my head
the wag of my tongue

split the things that he said
do I go back to the place
of imaginary grace? Inside of
my youth, a prize lies

for the lost tooth. Under
my pillow, as the sun slides
down from the sky, as the shades
are drawn to a lullaby. The hands

on the clock race. Do I go back
to this place? A place of paper dolls
and bunny walls. And teacups and saucers
flying over the falls.

draping over her.
Blowing minted kiss,
In a sea of grass.
Another day shall

pass. Glazed eyes mist
into a lime twist.
Dangling participles,
arms and wrist. Head

dropped back, stuffed
as a gunny sack. Hair spread
as a shaggy carpet. The argot of
the poet's dream. All the pages

in-between
of men and silent children’s
screams. But she can breathe
the air lying in cornflower cotton

and rope. This world forgotten,
with a drink to have her afloat.
Swinging, hanging suspended.
This is the life she intended.

He Puts Too
in front of everything
I do.
Too Intense -
Too Demanding -
Too Loud -
Too Talkative -

Two is the loneliest number
I've known.
When he's with me
I'm alone.
My shell is my home.

So, as I left him
he asked for forgiveness.
Too Late

with yellow fingers spread
and a chocolate cupcake for her head.
Blooming the month of June. In August
is her honeymoon. Rising in fields

of green the sunny face
of childhood dreams. Blowing kisses
in the wind/dancing with her native kin.
Making her brim in cherry lip

Smiles. Cornflower sky for miles.
The sweetest nectar for the butterflies
and bees. Growing in the garden/a midnight spree.
Tickling me from nose to knees.

This little *** of gold/noon day cup of tea
with her own complimentary leaves.
How did this name impel
into battery you befell?

the pyramids of egypt
swim the seven seas
climb Mount Everest
but I'd not find

a man so soft and kind.
I'd bathe in turquoise waters
on a shore of pink powder sand
among cockleshells and waves

that swell and still not feel myself
without you to hold my hand.
Butterflies, key lime pie and
a cornflower sky don't do a thing

for me if I'm not with you. Morning dew
would look like sweating leaves. And cotton
candy clouds would look as shrouds
on corpses hung on trees.