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

My life is organized colorful squares
cut out and sewn together
through the years smiles and tears
sailing on in all sorts of weather

A storybook of girl and boy
sickness, birth and death
years I could not enjoy
but some took my breath

Pet hair and spilled lily perfume
baby spit, sand and ketchup
the highlights of this bedroom
a quilted blanket of the mess up

To pass on to my children
as passed onto me
this life we're building
and lives we cannot see

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

I'm a stone.
Hurled in a hurricane.
A ripple in a pond.
Thrown in from the rain.

Making waves.
I triple.
And reach beyond
his tangled hairy day.

Radiating halo rings.
Burping strawberry bubbles.
To him
a skating fling,

standing scratchy stubble.
Fast water jets.
Sharp bayonets.
As rings in a tree

you can count every
go around.
They all fall back on me,
in a painted poppy scene.

As the blues slam-dunk
the greens
the toad drones.
I'm a stone.

waking me from the longest
night's slumber. Peeling my clothes
off like a cool cucumber. This buzzing
in my ear. His wavy jet-black hair. Swimming

in ocean eyes, the size of apple pies. The waft
of cinnamon is my insulin. But a man with
violet cotton shirt and cufflinks the color of
rose pink is an eidolon that swam off

like a swan in the raining pale
grey dawn. But in this head, he smokes
of feather silky strokes. The bumps on
a goose. This man I can't shake

loose. I've not of him to hold as the years
grow me old. The girl in me died dancing
a whirl on a rainbow slide, falling off
a cloud just as her eyebrows.

bye. Is there is good
in bye? The letters
are strung together, like bird
feathers, and fly between the tides

and sighs. They're pushed
in breath and pen, in cards that
men and women send. It's just
become a greeting at the close of

every meeting. And then? The hands
on the clock move on. And night
becomes the dawn. And memories
are a fawn running past us till we strike

them moving. And they are dead on
the side of the road. Some disproving. But it
doesn't lighten  the load.I left as autumn leaves
in a gusty breeze of colors, from red to yellow.

in as a hurricane,
thick saturating rain running
down the gully. Everything
that he touches ends up being

sully. Knocking
down houses and trees. Hurling
debris out in the streets. Smashing
windows, shards of glass flying. Every nook

that I look women are
dying. In the garden all the flowers
are squash, just as her dreams. Rosemary
fell with the thyme into hibiscus cream. Chairs

are swimming on my front lawn. This day
the sun lost every ounce of brawn. The water
colors are grey, same as the sky. This is the year
that June ate July.

as ***** clothes
on the line.
I was strung out
from the ***** and lime.
And so, as the tree
I grew green with pine.

He Strung me
as plastic beads
on a string.
But he didn't tie a knot
at the end.
So, I fell off
scattered all over the floor.
Rolled under the bureaus,
and straight out the door.

He Stung Me
as a winged hornet
after he sang to me
sweet sonnets.
And not just once
but over again.
And still I called him
a close friend.

He Wrung me
as a washcloth.
Squeezed ever last drop
till I lay dry and limp.
How I hate
that I'm just a simp!

every day. His hands
drive him, steering him straight
and back, over sidewalk
cracks.  Turning him left

and right into the night. Taking him
up hills and down streets,
into the grocery store without
leaving his seat. In the rain and

the snow, as the March winds
blow. On a hot day in June, the scorching
sunny afternoons.  Looking at women
from his chair. The walking world

so unaware of the car
that hit his bike. And left him
in a coma overnight. But his sneakers
don't *****. He’s worn the same pair
since the ripe age of thirty!

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

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

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

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

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

from the cloudy skies.
Dewdrops on a morning blade.
Running rivers from blue eyes.

Lolling in the Everglades.
Streaming in my clawfoot tub.
Sudsy as I sprawl and scrub.

The kettle says it hot.
Steaming in the ***.
Swirling down the drain.

A puddle in the rain.
Pour it in the coffee grounds.
But it makes some men drown.

It’s a part of me.
A drink for the flowers.
This garden’s raised on showers.

The birds wet their feathers.
Cleans the stain off my leather.
Pitter-patter on the windowpane.

How it grows the honey grain.
We need it to survive.
It keeps us all alive.

I ate it
wallowed in it
added water to make made mud pies
I planted in it
grew flowers colorful as butterflies
I carried it into my house
wore it on my buckled leather shoes
it stained my white lace dress
brown handprints on the walls
the halls looked a mess
it hardened on mother’s kitchen floor
in dark footprints she didn't ignore
she whipped me with the wooden spoon
locked me in my room till noon
stuck under my fingernails
in the tub left a ring
I dished it out with friends
gee, those girls can sling
the men it's on their minds
they roll in it as pigs
ha, they all are suited swines!
washed out in the laundry
read in girly magazines
kicked up in the baseball field
the visiting and home teams

between my toes
in my shoes
up my nose
tossed in spaghetti hair

in my red beach towel
on my plastic chair
itching me
in my underwear

smells of ocean
taste of salt
in slow-motion
the world just melts

in my car seat
drizzling pelts
sprayed on the Persian rug
between the bedroom sheets

in my coffee mug??
beneath my feet
now the gritty crunching
between my teeth

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

onyx black
glossy from front to back
looking up from the walnut coffee table
across from the television and cable

years in the making
if it’d rise as the bread baking
but it doesn't wear a jacket
and a lot of men just sack it

letters in printed lithography
a creamy paged biography
nursed, as a mother with her babies
but through the rabidness gave rabies

bended spine and stained
every line the writer pained
can’t make the New York Best seller's list
closed off like a fluid-filled cyst

no editor, agent or publisher
not in volumes like the travels of Gulliver
this self-published and vanity
leads to a life of insanity!

on the ceiling fan,
lying carpet of grey strands.
Flying blades circle overhead
moving heat through the chalky

air. Dust bunnies hiding
underneath the bureau and rocking
chair. Under the four-post bed
they roast. As foie gras

on toast they sit plump. Dumped
on the valance and curtain. Unbalanced,
the slightest wind and they’ll fall
for certain. On the shelf they cover

her books. In the nooks they lay
as a clump of potter's clay. On the hardwood
floor swept up with the broom. Upon death
she'll be dust in the ground with her groom.

to him, light and flaky
honey wheat. Just fluffy
bedtime sweet! Yellow like
a golden raisin, and twice

as brazen. He didn't have
to butter me. I was soft
as the brie. And he saw through
every layer. He was so the

player. The girls said "he's
a dish" And so, he was
my knish. And I, his knash,
rolled and folded till I

melted in his mouth. Till I
crumbled in his hand, landed
in his lap. So full, he took
a nap. But after his long doze?

Gone was his sweet rose!

bearded and goth. I was his
flame, a butterfly dame. We kicked
up a rumpus. Both lost with no
compass.  Like a city rat

to a Cheeto I’m the sauce
in his burrito. And as flies
stuck to **** two tongues
swimming in the spit.

Like a weeb to ******
I was searching for
a Jedi. But as lambs walking
toward their slaughter this

only grew hotter, till the stench
of burning flesh took his breath. Laid
in a box like a drawer of stuffed socks
men paraded him to the overture of hymns.

that all the Brobdingnagian trees
exuviate their crimson orange leaves
gibbeting jagged appendages in the snow
and that emerald blades freeze

I'd not fall like a mosquito.
I'd grow plump as a pumpkin on the vine.
Not crushed and bottled
as grapes in the cherry wine.

And if his rounded face wasn't traced
on the mosaic tiled moon
this stock-still heart wouldn't race
and break from her blanket of a cocoon.

It hibernate in the slivers of a silky spoon,
sleeping as a nun till the lilacs bloom.
And the stars dancing pirouettes
wouldn't have me break out in a sweat!

have to talk about
girls behind their back.
They mock me and pretend
face to face

they are my friend. They could
talk about the weather, if it'll rain
this afternoon. That it's cold for
this month of June. They could talk

world affairs, the war in
the Ukraine. But they'd have to
have a bigger brain. They could talk
about a fundraiser for

the sick. Or even the movies that
they've seen on Netflix. They could talk
about style and design, the newest line
of clothes. The cons and pros of wearing

pantyhose. They could talk about their kids
or their pets/their vacations in the Carribean, wine
and e-cigarettes! They could talk shop. But they
talk about me till their jaws drop!

This sadness sits as an elephant
on my breast, bearing down squashing
my chest. I cannot breathe. I’m out of
breath. It does not leave. It's

my black death. It ties my belly
in a knot. So, my blood does not
flow. It only clots. It drops my chin
to my neck. Before my eyes

are splintered specks. And my iris
is denim blue. At night, smoky
as the flue. And in the day, like a puddle
pools. My smile is a broken locket

that sits as rocks in my pants
pocket. Clouds parades over my
head. I'm a silhouette that burns cherry
wine red. My legs are pursy tree trunks. As I

walk you'll hear this clunk. It's as if
my feet are dragging wrecking *****
and metal chains. And the sky? All day
it rains elephants in paisley prints.

he's a silver fox.
But he lives
in a ******* jack box,
sugar coated walls

with a little toy trinket
that he bangs as meat.
How can he think it
so sweet?

Holding his prize.
Wearing a ******'s hat
Swimming in molasses lies.
He’s twitching

in a buttery mess.
In a plate of
bra and *******
hose and saffron dress.

a circular belt
looping around till
the days melt,
into chirping crickets

and hooting owls.
And through the thickets
the coyote growls.
The pitter-patter

of the rain.
The chipmunks scatter.
And I strain,
in this position

with no spot of commission.
My pen is dripping wet.
My paper full
of epithet.

Running on dregs
as me.
Drinking red grapes
under the old oak tree.

Life is a painted blur,
of plotted events,
mislaid detours
and accidents.

as a wine stain in my carpet,
let go of his mock and argot. Wipe
the spill on my sofa of the cheese
and fig and mimosa. Plunge the

lace dress into the washer
that turned bright white
into mangy yellow. Sift the grit
out of that fellow. Wash him

out with the tide, so this pain
in me can subside. He's a flake,
a speck of dandruff. Shampoo
him out of my hair, this big, old

hairy grizzly bear! Wash this ****
from around my tub. Scrub it with
the bleach and gloves. "Shout" the ring
circling my collar. Absolve myself of this squalor!

dank and dark. You are stellar,
the light the spark. He's
a dirt basement, no floors
or walls. Just an encasement,

a hole to crawl. He's a vault,
a crypt. A musty cave equipped
with rickety stairs. And hairy spiders
that tarry. A spot for rats that carry

disease. A tight squeeze. Cobwebs
fill the corners, a home for waifs
and foreigners. You're the villa,
the courtyard and grape vines. He's

the pit, the shaft, the mine. You see,
he’s the bottom, below the earth. Slimy
mold of girth. You're the roof, the top.
From you to him is a long drop.

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!

as dregs of coffee
scratching the bottom of my mug.
Like the sediments of wine
in my crystal jug.

Like the crimson leaves tugging
from the trees in autumn.
As dust dancing on my bamboo ceiling fan.
And as I turn it on it lands on the four posted bed,
dirtying my green and brown striped spread.

Like a pool of sweet caramel sauce
around the flan I baked.
Like the foundation sinking
my brick ranch house.

As my friend when she chose
her driftwood rogue spouse.
Or the lawsuit with my lawyer.
And not my wages with my employer.

I'll not settle,
just to say yes.
I'll take mine.
Not a thing less.

him as a striped blue and
yellow tie I'd take off as an airplane
and fly. Not wrapped tightly around his
starched collar. Yeehaw I'd holler! And

just as a sailor’s knot I'd unloop him
on the spot. I'd unhitch him
as a trailer on the highway in
the pouring rain. Bleach him out

as a port wine stain. If he was
only a computer I'd clear the memory of
all past, deleting years from first
to last. And burn the pages of

this leather book. So, not to take a look
again. Fire up the ink in my wooden
fountain pen and paper it with a wedge
of lime and yen.

she'd stand planted there
to plunge into
as his striped upholstered chair

to kick his feet up
like he does on the ottoman
and turn to gelatin
as collagen

clear as the fuzzy slippers
next to him on the hardwood floor
lying in the darkness
as the magazine in his bedroom drawer

the printed colored cover
pulled from her perch
slender and thin-skinned
like that of a birch

He thought
tomorrow roll in
like a cool ocean breeze
not leave him holding his head
falling to his knees

as the silhouette of the night
slides into a buttery sunny day
as the robin migrates in flight
flying south for her tangerine stay

as May muscles into June
and June bounces into July
as morning pushes past noon
without a whisper of goodbye

shedding her old overcoat skin
as a snake hissing in the grass
with a crimson lipstick painted grin
transparent as hand-blown glass

like a loaf of bread
sitting in the pan
baking in the oven
to a golden tan

rising to the top
as the timer stops
a thick, hard crust
a lifted window

a honey gust
breezing through
like a pinto
and soft in the middle

as a pancake on the griddle
coated in a cactus syrup
as the buttered sun
melts into the trees

and the robin chirrups
and the dandelions sneeze
in parachute seeds
as dawn gives birth/another day

that I drink down
in my morning coffee
mixed with billowing clouds
sweetened as toffee

a sheet of paper
wrinkled, into a ball.
I, his latest caper
that they coined a moll.

Crumbles, a stale cookie
baking in the sun.
And I a rookie
holding the head he spun.

Crumbles as his front steps.
As I climb, I fall
into his bulging biceps.
I, his rag doll.

He crumbles, a statue
built out of stone,
with jeremiad words to chew.
I, a ***** of bones.

as lint on his clothes
skid-marks in the toilet bowl
snot on his nose
stones stuck in his sole

as crumbs in his lap
cat fur on the sofa and chair
pieces of scrap
long wisps of brown hair

as grease on the stove-top
stains on the kitchen floor
sauce on the porkchop
and I went back for more

as soot on the grill
in dripping mockery
and he did so at will
I'm just ***** crockery

the girl that thought
his smile, a crescent moon.
Those eyes blue lagoons.
His cheeks rose petals strewn,

and danced to all his tunes. I'm not
the lady waiting for his calls. Biting
my nails as he stalls. Pacing the floor
till I leave ruts, for once I said enough’s

enough. I'm not the woman
up at night weeping in my pillow. My head
heaving in a smoky billow. My body's
plated as an armadillo. I'm the soldier

walking the mine fields, the warrior
refusing to yield. I'm not that girl. I
wield my torch as Lady Liberty, on my
front porch.

lying on the ground in a junkyard
full of metal, broken pieces of
glass and barbed wire shards
smelling like trash and

smoked cigars. Tetani spores at
the tip. Do not trip over him. His kiss,
lockjaw. His touch saws you in
two. He stuck inside my shoe. Poked

a hole right through,
till I bled blue raspberry. My head
spun like I drank the sherry. A tin can
without a label. A dented car door

and a scratched-up two-legged
table. He nailed me, this smiling debris
over crumpets and tea. My only rue,
the day I merged with a rusty scourge.

to dry. I withered
on the line. The crows
they shat on me. The cat
scratched at my fleeces. Dust

blew in my creases. The wind
whipped me like cream. The sun
not once did gleam. I turned
a spotted grey. The sky spit

me with spray. I waved at the moon,
swimming like a loon in the black sea
of the night, in the shadow of the old
streetlight. My buttons popped like

corn. My sleeves and collar
torn. My stitching all unraveled,
like I've travelled to many shore. But I
rotted like an apple core after I fell.

as she came in
in a gust of wind
blowing through
my window
dancing curtains
flirting as a butterfly
not certain
she'd settle
a rose petal
falling off
the horizon
a crimson leaf
smuggled in a breeze
a sharpened reef
submerged in the sea
I blinked yesterday
a crashing wave
is now my slave

in
to clock.
Head down
to the dock.

Punch
the button
enter the lift.
Punch the D
and make it swift.

Punch
the papers.
Load the trucks.
Catch the vapors.
This job *****!

Punch
Drunk.
He smells
just like a skunk.
I work with
all the lunks!

Punch
out.
Shout Hooray!

Punch
Happy!
The end of
another day!

her day in the shady, hot air
under the turquoise umbrella
slouched in a folding chair
singing capella

sipping cherry wine
in a long-stemmed glass
jotting down a line
as a bee flies pass

neighbor's lawn can stand a trim
the grass is high as a mountain
kids again are screaming at him
and robins drinking from the fountain

branches brushing the deck
squirrel’s fighting over the bird seed
everything's in check
at lower speed

curls, as the cat. Swirls of hair
dusting the chairs,
the lamps and the bureaus.
The wooden stairs
are her heroes, carpeted
in golden honey brown. She’ll
be flying out of town.

She's shedding
light as fireflies
dancing in the night. Sparkling
as diamond rings. Fluttering
her arms like butterfly wings.

She's shedding
skin, the snake. This reptile
suffocates. Coiled up, hissing
in the grass. She has to break
this mold/pass from
the python's hold.

She’s shedding
tears as dewdrops
rolling off a leaf, high up
in the trees. She’ll water the lilacs
as she weeps. The perfume sweeps
across the rows of painted marigolds.

as a painted wooden toy
a pup attached to a string
pulled in the backyard
through blooming gardens in spring
pulled so hard
till I broke my springs
and my flakes chipped off
could no longer ping
those buttered, golden hands
lost their cling
that pretty, soft voice
doesn’t whistle or sing
de’mode’
just something he’d fling
in the back of his closet
another plaything

can't be made of chalk. It fades
as men walk over it. It blends
with the ground. So, the white
turns brown.

This line of mine
can't be drawn with sticks. The men
kick them to the side. And roll in
just like the tide, drowning me
with their energy.

This line of mine
can't be built with bricks. It make
a wall a mountain tall. So, no man
can climb at all.

This line of mine
I frame in elastic. Not rigid,
but plastic. So, I can
stretch it out or pull it back. It can
expand or contract. Not set in
stone. But sewn in my
undergarments. So, men can leave
no comments.

eat so many red apples?
How can they hang on?
His hunger's waned.
He kicks the fruit that fall.
They grow soft and stained,
filled of holes from worms that crawl.

How can a man
fill his bag of apples till it breaks?
Leave the tree half empty
from all the apples he takes.
There's more on the ground
and less on his plate.
His eyes big as mountains.
But his belly plump and sate.

I cannot scratch
like this spot
in the middle of my back
a dancing dot
below my rolling shoulders
red hot
where my sunburn smolders
A tight knot
tied around my belly
I can't swat
my hands are jelly
I'm fraught
I cannot reach
the peeling clot
with biting teeth
I plot
to shake it loose
So, I squat
where none can see
my taut
back rubbing against the tree

If I can grow tall as you. But I'm
small. So, I fall as the acorns you
grow. And just as the acorns
I'm a nut in a tough cup, covering

me up. Rolling around
the bottom. Why can't I turn
as the leaves in autumn
golden and crimson? I live

in my shell prison. The squirrels
bury me. I lay dormant as buds
on the branch in winter. I splinter as
bark. I’d like to sing as the lark. Love

to fly as the doves
for my next meal. Why can't I
take the sticks and stones they throw
at me and build a nest high up in this tree?

I'd sneeze and oust him
in the air. And blow out
his candle, ***** out the flare
in a fell-swoop kerchoo. His little

bits floating like pepper
in the stew. I'd swallow them
with parsley and celery seed
and some paprika too. The smoky

flavors added with the capers
and the rue turns into vapor as
a freight train passing through. I wear
him as a red and blue tattoo. If only

he was a pebble I’d shake him
out of my shoe. But he’s rooted in
my brain and fastened with a *****. So,
I drain him ink and sell it out as news.

yesterday up
like dust on the floor. And
stored the gritty sand
in my bedroom drawer.

I swept
his lies
underneath the rug, till the
pile grew into a mountain. I
wasn't counting on tripping
over the smoky stack with only
a woolen weave to hold it in
the shack.

I swept
my dress
along the aisle
like a bride's train. And wept
my whole bouquet, as petals
shed like rain. And the stain
painted on my back became a bullseye
for men to aim all their flak.

round and plump and ripe,
sweet and red and bright.
No one takes a bite.
They hang there day and night.

The worms they drill their holes.
Inside a fungus grows.
They even chew the leaves.
Once pretty now diseased.

The sky is weeping snow.
The apples fall and roll.
Under the tree they froze.
Blanketed in white they doze.

No juice, cider or pie.
No ****, dumplings or crisps.
No man, woman or child
to smile and lick their lips.

as dripping beads
of egg-white
lying on the kitchen
quartz. My life's cut like

my jean shorts, ragged
and straggly.  I've wept
rivers. Like standing in
the cold rain I drain. So, now

I'm tapped. Someone ******
all the sap out of me, with their hands
like milking a tree. I'm dry as my father's
jokes. They didn't draw many laughs

from the blokes. I'm dry as
the Atacama. But drier still is
my drama. Dry as the chardonnay,
and the spill from yesterday.

to fly
as an albatross
in an ocean sky.
But drowning
on a sandy shore,
picking at an apple core.

I'm trying
to swim
as a salmon
in the air.
But can't lift my weight
off this red velvet chair.

I'm trying
to grow
a castle in the clouds.
My head is floating
as a balloon.
But crowds
are tying me down
with their silver spoon.

I'm trying
to lift off
as a rocket.
But this stone
sits heavy
in my pants pocket.