cut-up, bloodied hearts
you can string them
or fling them
for fun

you can be old
or you can be young

cubed and arranged in angles
go on, make them dangle

neatness is for geeks
Ok! Ok!
I admit -
I’m a freak

has not a trace of
love. It hangs on
the neck like a pair of boxing
gloves. Brows are thin

and spread uneven. The eyes
have no shine. They're clouded
thick like meat in brine. The nose
rose like a mountain in the air. I see

through the nostrils all the grey
hair. Cheeks are pale. There's more
color in my glass of ale. The mouth
is stuck in a pout. Cannot catch a

smile. I'd have more luck fishing
for trout. The head oscillates like
a fan. You look the same. But
you're not the same man.

He was sweet
as honey dripping
until he spilled
his last drop.

He was bright
as the stars shining
until he shut
the lights off.

He was cool
as a fan blowing
on a hot July day
until he pulled the plug
and took his breath away.

He was bearing fruit
as the apple tree
until the winter frost.
I stood starving
under him
until I was lost.

I hung my bleeding body
on to dry. At war with myself, I saw
a place to lie.  A satin red
flower erected on a tower of

spines. And fell on a pincushion
of needles and pins that made
my head spin. And ripped a hole
in my side. Torn so wide I split

in two and grew spikes in
my pupils from a man with no
scruples. This, from two stars
colliding. I'm sliding on a fast track

back to earth. Still at war with
myself.  Now the spikes that girth me
are my hands and my knees. And there's
no soft place to lie.

in my coffee cup
every morning
filling it up
as the sun’s dawning

I sob
in the shower
my tears blend
with the soap and water
but I can’t wash away the pain

I sob
in the rain
til my mascara runs
a black stream
over a mountain of nose
and cheeks
into a dead dream
that doesn’t speak
the same language as me

I sob
in my soup
swirling between the carrots
and noodles
hair matted to my eyes
as a miniature poodle

I sob
in my pillow
muffling the sound
of the white noise
from the broken ceiling fan
spinning around

I sob
gobs of electric blue
til I shock myself
over you

There’re more curves to the bends.
There’re more pieces of what’s broken.
Your holes are entrances for my love.
Your scars are burning stars.

You’re not stationary; you are motion.
Like a pendulum you swing.
I’ll catch all your tears.
And with your tears we’ll swim.

When we reach the end, we’ll fall over together.
Don’t know what that’ll bring.
It doesn’t matter.
Because if we break, we’ll blend.

is null and void
the papers read a scumbag
white cop wiped his head up
like a mop

George Floyd
is drawing crowds
on the street protesting
justice for the black –
none covered his back

George Floyd
unarmed
just a 46-year-old black man
lost his job
with a sister
and a brother
and a woman
Courteney Ross
the world
is at loss

George Floyd
pleading for his life
with his head pinned
by the cop’s knee
handcuffed
gasping “I can’t breathe”
“mama”
“don’t **** me”
all eyes saw
him draw his last breath
under the cop’s knee
flat out on the street

when you are so far away? I could
give you a love song to put in
your heart
something that will stick in your head
from the moment you get up
until you go to bed
something that’ll dream you to sleep
on nights when the temperature rises
that’s gentle
with no uncertain surprises
something that you’ll sing when it rains
that’ll put a smile on your face
it could be our little secret
when they ask why you laugh
just be coy and say “nothing”
can you keep it?

your problems
I’d wear them
but
cut off the sleeves
if I could take on
your tears
I’d drink them down
but
with some ***** and cherries
if I could take on
your pain
I’d wrap it up
in cauliflower and cheese
and bake it
in the oven
and they’d be leftovers
to eat again
and I’d serve them
with
***** and cherries
in my cut-off sleeves
and be buried under
a canopy of
willow trees

behind me? Footprints in
the snow that’ll melt as the day
grows old? Or am I an ice cube that'll
lose shape, watered down

thin as a crepe? A silhouette
on the wall for all to discern
like the Rorschach test in turn? Am I
just a fallen log that’s ****** on

by passing dogs? Or am I spackle that
oddballs like to tackle? Don’t spread
me out as filler. I’ll carve my initials
with a hammer and chisel on every pillar

and door/ on every mountaintop and
marble floor.

were autumn leaves. From a snap
of cold turned golden yellow
to mud brown, twisting off
falling to the ground.

Her colors
bled out in a wink
from the wash, the crimson red
to salmon pink. From bright to
dull, the sort you didn’t cull.

Her colors
peeled like an orange rind
as she was sectioned. Men
chewed her up and spit out
the seeds.

Her colors
chipped standing
in the sun. She's brittle. Flaking
she'd whittle into dust. Flying
off in a flurry.

Her colors
cracked. Someone
took an axe and hacked
her walls.

shore to shore
with a big blowtorch
till there no more
lies in my path
they’ll all turn to ash

I will burn bridges
by land and sky
with kamikazes
that I’ll fly
till there’s no more
caustic fuel
spilling out from the mouth
of a mule  

I will burn bridges
that cross into places
I shouldn't go
burning them slow
into the ground
till the fires lights up the black
and sparks of memories
are hacked

I will burn bridges
and then build new
with my hands
laying every plank
as it were seed
and plotting it out
braiding the tweed

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.

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

cereal or eggs and toast
dress or pants
prose or verse
do I step on the scale?
what I don’t know won’t hurt
which bill should I pay?
the one with the shut-off notice
there’s more than one of those
eeny, meeny, miny, moe
I wish they all would go – disappear
up or down
how should I wear my hair?
should I do it today
or put it off until tomorrow?
should I wish her happy birthday
we haven’t talked in years?
it would feel awkward to me
people come and go so easily
Should I flip the finger
to the guy who cut me off
or just cuss under my breath
or roll down my window and cuss
to him?
should visit my mother-in-law
again
she’s very old
and who knows when -
should I pick up the ***** on the
way home?
I should really get sober
I’ve been saying that forever
should I summit to another magazine
just to be rejected once more
or bother to visit the local book
store to be placed on the shelf?
should I end this poem
or go on talking to myself?

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!

to a rainbow
diamond kite
wound around
a handle tight
fly high into
the bright sunshine

Strings tied
on my finger
help me remember
all my plans for
this December

Strings tied
to the center
of two round wooden disks
of a yo-yo
go up and down
in my hand
to and fro
but do not land

Strings tied
to my violin
I play with a bow
held under my chin
sweet music
making me grin

Strings tied
to my goose
as he bakes in the oven
I let loose before I feast
and he's salted
and well-greased

String Tied
to me
that don't suit me
leaving me in a rut
are the strings
I got to cut

Strings tied
to this heart
are the type
I cannot part

Some people have tattoos.
Others don’t wear shoes.
The kindest people I know
are not afraid to show

all their colors boldly.
Though they’re greeted coldly
from narrow-minded folks
who snicker and make jokes

at people different from them.
Treated as coughed up phlegm.
What a sad world it’s become.
Swept away like a crumb

because I hold my ground.
I never will be bound
by other people’s limits.
Those so-called people are dimwits!

I hear the roaring rapids
splashing up their spray. And the pine
needles waltzing in the hay, as I
shuffle my feet along the path. A drop

of dew is the morning bath
to the black, cloaked ant. The grey squirrels
can’t sit still. Running, climbing
and chasing on fours. Nature, my friend

is never a bore! Golden, crimson
marmalade of shade are the trees in
autumn. Ferns are the fans for the dwellers
of earth’s bottom. A butterfly circles

a shy violet, as a robin plays pilot
in the clouds. The crowds of scurrying
chipmunks dash into the crevice of
a stone fence.

And I lose my sense of place
as I’m face to face with a doe, lowering
her spotted head at my toes.

Served with can’t
and won’t. Don’t feel
This. Just don’t. Put it in
a box. Seal it with heavy duty

industrial tape. Label it. Put it
upstairs in the dusty
attic, along with all the rest
of the boxes. You know

it’s there. I know it’s there.  But
let’s not talk
about it. Let’s not bring
it up. Let’s pretend it’s in

heaven with your father,
snuggled in his tobacco-
jaundice hands. Let’s not make
any plans.

in a suitcase
sent it out to sea
so, it wouldn’t agitate me
thought the balmy air
and palm trees make it cool
but it didn’t fool it at all

I packed my rage
in an icebox
closed it airtight
so, it set on ice
thought it chill
but still, it’s fiery hot

I packed my rage
in the attic
sealed it in a box
told it “Get lost"
but it fought to break out
and I’m faced with
the same rout

I packed my rage
in the recycling bin
along with the tin cans
and plastic bottles
to salvage
but it landed as regret
now I carry it as a debt

he couldn’t give you it
threw you out the door
without a second thought
said you were too much

he was afraid
afraid that you would misbehave
you asked for
one last chance
but you knew before you asked
the answer wouldn’t be yes

So, you plucked off your smile
threw it in his wastebasket
and stomped all your dreams
on his back doormat

took
one last glance
at his deck
with the chairs neatly arranged
as his thoughts
while you, the scatterbrain
walked to your car

one last time
stopped
to look at the number 50
that hung on his house
before you drove off

like an apple pie. Do as much
as I can before I die. Drink all
the flavors like cherry wine. Swing
like the monkeys from vine

to vine. Some day I’ll be too old
to chase the wind. My arms and legs
pinned to a chair. I’ll fly with the gulls
in the warm air. And circle

the clouds on a carousel, till the music
swells in a crescendo. Before my eyes
have cataracts and I’m stuck in bed
lying flat on my back I’ll run in the

breeze, cross oceans, and seas –
before arthritis sets in my knees. Before
I’m lain in the ground I just have to
get around. No man can hold me down!

cannot remove the mats
and tangles of this life. The prongs
are broken on the pulls. The knots
are raging as the bulls. The handle’s

broken off.  It wasn’t a quarter
the cost. So, you cut it off,
like you did as a child. But the tattered
splits make you look wild.

acquiescently.
If you pull my reins
I will buck.
If you use the crop
you’re going drop.


I’m not going
soberly.
I’ll kick my hoofs up
And throw you off
until you land in my water trough.


I’m not going
quietly.
I will snort; and I will neigh.
But I will never pull your sleigh.

smaller.
Is it because people don’t fit
in? Or is it because
I haven’t
made the room for them?

My corner is getting
colder.
Is it because I’m facing
away from the heat? Or is because
my back
is toward the outside?

My corner is getting
tighter.
is it because I’ve grown? Or is it because
the world
has grown around me?

Void the space where I was.
Yes, where I was.
But I was there long enough to seep in.
I was there long enough to fill the holes.
Some say, I was there long enough to do the damage.
And as a result, I am.
I am in them.
Therefore, I take up space.
I am not nil.
What was nullified is valid still.

in the morning stops
my groggy yawning. Has me bright-eyed
and bushy tail, ‘stead of sluggishly as a snail.

Coffee in the afternoon has me floating
higher than a balloon. Gets my **** off the seat. Gets me
jumping to the beat.

Coffee in the evening increases
my breathing, prevents me from sleeping. So, I drink
water instead before I go to bed.

on the sun
little dots like ***** shots
blotting the sky
with a tapestry of poetry
and a side wedge of lime

Freckles
like ladybugs
on a redhead passing by
rising up to the top
like mom's homemade apple-pie

Shekels
jingling in her pant pocket
bits of silver castanets
like hand and feet
come in sets
making music to the beat
of a silhouette

Heckles
from the crowd
jeering jabs of barbed wire
can't fence in
this spitfire

Deckles
framing paper pulp into sheets
to pen the lines
of valentines that couldn't
take the heat

unleashed to roam without
a chain have a home, to shelter them
from the rain. This amour was
growing from a pup into a great

Dane. He pulled tight on my black leather
collar. I was spent like a dollar squashed
inside his billfold. He didn't hold me
for long in his quivering hand. Passed me

up for a cup of dark coffee at the
newsstand. I just wanted a soft
warm lap, a spot to curl up
and take a nap. A smiling

face to greet me at the end of
his day. A ray of golden sunshine
when the sky is black as coal,
and the clouds are grey with snow.

my ******* are drums
my feet are numb
can’t move –
strung on the notes he plays
hung on the melody –
Breathlessly
the stubble on his face
Ivory
his curly hair
a harpsichord
his fruity stare
a glass of Chambord
Waltzing the Matilda
with him
swinging hips
looking trim
under the glare
of Times Square
eyes locked as keys
in the ***** breeze
of New York New York

don’t go in winter. The ground
will harden. The trees will
splinter. My breath will hang
in the hair like a cloud of smoke
if you disappear.

If you leave
don’t go in spring. The rose won’t
flower. The lark won’t sing. My kite
won’t fly without a string. Don’t cut
the ties your happiness brings.

If you leave
don’t go in summer. The angry sky
bangs like a drummer. The sun bakes
and the lake’s whitecap churns. And I’d die
if you don’t return.

If you leave
don’t go in autumn. The golden
crimson leaves blossom. The apples
are pulled from their stems. Friends
hold hands around the bonfire. I beg of you
not to retire.

fill this insidious mouth
with your tongue
so the words don’t come out
sharp as shards

and fill up these eyes raining needles
that sting with each fling like
a pesky mosquito with soft kisses
that cling like laundry without the fabric softener

then fill up my loving one
with your smoking cigar
don’t drop your ashes
and turn my legs to char

fill the ones in my head
with delicate song
cause there’s smokestacks in them
and croaking frogs

last but not least
fill the one in my heart
whose rhythm has ceased
it needs a jump-start
fill it with all the love
one man can
and if it runs out
fill it again

because I’ll never have
my fill of you –
how could the dark night
have its fill of the moon?

painted candy apple red
with hinges and doors
and all the décor a jeweler
can make. Strung with pearls;

a smooth oval, standing on
painted golden legs. Not to  
touch. I easily break.
Not to be held. It'll dull

my shine. In a glass house
next to a crystal decanter of
cherry wine. Sitting on a shelf,
the one the furthest from

the sunshine.With the tip
of a finger you can flip my
top. Underneath is a diamond,
a treasure trove, a work of art!

my clothes to the surfaces
of the tables in the laundromat. So, I
fold them outside in my crammed
car. Isn’t that bizarre!

Afraid to touch
the door handle to
walk in. A stranger
touched it. Their germs
have left an imprint.

Afraid to touch
the ten-dollar bill -
a million germs on it still. But
the machines won't work
without money.

Afraid to touch
my eye to scratch an itch. My hand
might carry the germ from
the door. Now my eye has a twitch
from an itch. And
I’m going to sneeze!

Afraid to touch
my sock that fell
on the floor. Afraid to
go out into the street. I'll
meet more people I can't
stop and talk to without
a bullhorn.

is a drip
from the size of it
it could go plop
and jump
on top
an unsuspecting bird
wetting his feathers

perturbed
that the wetness
makes his feathers
stick together
for this
gleans him
no pleasure

you hang your trimmings
on the new evergreen, might be taller
might be shorter, might be fuller
or thinner, might not even be

as fresh and pine-scent as the one before,
but nevermore you hang them there
to be adorned, the trimmings, not the fixings
you knew something was missing because

it never was enough, even
with the star on top
each one had to be replaced
dried, the needles fell to the floor

to be swept up, tossed out
to make room for the newest edition
that you watered daily until that one too
dried up on you

at another man’s mercy. Made
broken and little. Whittled as a piece
of wood. Splintered, as
my childhood.

I won’t be
condescended from some
man, that’s upended. No crotch
can ever cut me down
a notch.

I won't be
a glittering trophy displayed as
a float in a parade. A silky gold
toupee to cover a man's fat head. I'd
be better off dead!

I won't be
blind again, by the lies
of colorful men. Actors on a stage
till their next rampage.

up to family and friends,
as a conquest -
the prize he has won.
But does he hold her up
when her womb is full of son?
When stretch-marks cross her belly
and childbirth leaves her tummy
wobbly as jelly?

He holds her
hand walking in the moonlight.
Under the stars he sweeps her off her feet.
But does he hold her hand
when she's old and not as sweet?
When wrinkles cover her skin
and her hair is grey and thin?

He holds her
in reverie,
google-eyed rhapsody.
But does she become a memory
once he sees reality?

loosens from
the Oak, full of burnt orange,
crimson and gold. At the point
it does is not known. Then it is blown

by the wind. In the direction
it travels is not known. It
can lay around for days. Be trampled
on, raked and bagged. Picked up

by a girl or boy, and carried home
full of joy. If this is so
is not known. But as spring sings
a new leaf has grown.

He examined it with his eyes first. Took in the shape,
the texture, the smell, the color. He processed all that
in a matter of seconds. He wouldn’t pick it up
with his hands. He attacked that pretty, innocent cupcake

sitting on his plate like a kamikaze. With his head bowed
down he nosedived into the buttercream frosting
like he was free-falling through a cloud. The sweet cream
would get inside his nostrils and plug up

his nose. The white frosting gave him the appearance
of a Santa Claus beard, with thick swirls of icing
climbing up to his ears. The vanilla alone would
intoxicate him. I’m not even sure if he got

any of the cake part on the first bite. But he dived in
repeatedly until he left a hole in the center. The process
of laying the cupcake to waste was so invigorating
he needed a nap afterwards.

dropping from the sky as pellets. An angry
God shooting bullets from the trees, aiming
right at me. They hit me ******* the
head. I shake my fist and say to them

stop! I can’t concentrate from the kerplunk,
the ******* noise you nuts make. Can’t sit
on my deck without them dancing a
pirouette. Can’t walk across the boards without

falling to the floor. The ******* things are rolling
underneath my feet. And making a frigging
mess as we speak. It’s smells like nuttiness. Thank
goodness no one here has a food allergy! I’m going

to get my tennis racket and hit them back
at the tree, whence the rough cupped caps came
flying at me. The squirrels can have a ball. I hope
they collect them all before tomorrow morning.

You burned
your candle at both
ends. I suffered a loss
of light. Instead of

getting bright you
dwindled in size. There
was less and less
of you. I tried to

tell you. Yet you
told me you still carried
the flame. You couldn’t see
that it was getting

lowered down
to a glimmer
until a light breeze
snuffed it out
                      completely.

on the shelf
waiting for someone to
set eyes on me
waiting for them
to open me up
and read
one among many
as a sardine
we’re all pushed together
with only our spine to
align each other
been closed too long
never chose
just as in high school
without a date for the prom
just as shy and scared
a soul to bare
without a body
words to spare
crass and shoddy
they put me on the
lower shelf
after months of
going nowhere else
out of eye range
just hanging out
seeing others go
and new ones come
my comrades have homes
I
none

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.

as golden red leaves fall
and the trees stand bare and stall
when winter grows near
and July is only a memory
that can't fly or fill his sensory
when frost kills the grass
the light quick to pass
darkness hangs in the air
she fills out like an eclair
when her face isn't a rose
in its place wrinkles grow
belly soft and feet are swollen
her youth silently stolen

is a seed
every parent
the soil
to till and plant
or crush
and foil

Every child
is a flower
and every parent
with pardon
is the garden
hard or soft
****
or crop

Every child
grows
in sunlight
and rain
through winters
and spring
the morning dew
on the blade
evening’s shade
tall as the oak tree
or fallen
as the autumn leaves

You were a shiny apple
with emerald leaves and golden
stems. Hanging on the tree for all
the world to see. You fell into

my arms, from a gusty
breeze. But as I sunk my teeth into you,
I felt something squirm. I realized
this apple is filled with crawling

worms. Poking their heads into
the flesh, making holes. Digging
tunnels darker than my soles. I grew
sick upon every bite. So sick my skin

turned yellow. My touch
as ice. I melted like a popsicle turning
into cider. Now men drink me up
with a plate of cheesy sliders.

is fitting you?
The shiny metal kind
like a boxer wears after a match-
his eyes glass flares

or the night sky against the sea
like a street stalker's ****** spree

or the stringy hair on her head
in a wooden box-
her last bed

or this land in dust
after the nuke
all is rust
earth cloaked in puke

looked at, but not touched. None
can lay their hands on the silky
soft weave of every petal that can’t
breathe.  But curls up in a crimson smile,

hiding in a crystal tower. None can whiff
a strawberry kiss placed in an upside
down vase, holding still in place, so as not
to spoil. But stillness stirs

recoil. Well, you won’t be scratched
by thorns!  But you won’t dance on plush
green lawns, or wink at the azure sky
or chat with the butterfly.