rose
with soft petals
smelling sweet
cuts you with razor thorns
till you bleed

The same
sun
shining brightly
in the azure sky
burns you in no time

The same
tree
growing crimson, golden leaves
and canopies all around you
detaches and grows bare
in the cold autumn air

The same
lips
spreading moist, warm kisses
mouths off to you lies
the same
arms
holding you in the night
flail at you
the same
hand
cupping a pretty face
curls into a fist
and hits you like a ton of bricks

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

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.

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

like a Rat Tail comb running through
my hair, with his bone. Back and forth
with rows of teeth. Encircling my head
like the red and golden ***** in a Christmas

wreath. Hovering like a hummingbird,
******* my nectar with his whetted
needle. Singing a song from Taylor to
wheedle. Like a child pulling a prank. Bending

my torso over his lap to spank. I grew
blue in color, like a fish tangled in
the net of a trawler. And as bantering
boys on the school playground

he was quick with a sally. Every fling
that he flung he knew I kept tally. But I too,
batted my lashes. And we kicked up dust
as we burned down in ashes.

My words have wings
They fly over your head
As the nightingale sings
In a graveyard of dead

My feelings have legs
They run off at the mouth
As a poor man in dregs
Dreams of the south

Oh give me a vessel
To hold these things in
I’ll no longer wrestle
With where I have been

as the wind. She blows
through the trees. And swirls
in a billowing gusty breeze. But nobody

sees her face. She's the mist hanging
in the air, the drips of sweat
on his neck from ear to ear. She's the

condensation on the bathroom mirror. He
looks into hoping to see clearer. But he can't wipe
it off. She's a lipstick stain stuck

on a cloth, hidden in his breast pocket. She'd
hoped to be Tiffany's locket, gold, and shining
in the sun/not covered over as a nun.

Big. They cost me my sleep –
restless nights bedeviled about your
indifference. They cost me my health –
turning to the bottle for help. They cost me

my inner peace. I’m at war with myself. But
most of all they cost me my faith in human
ambiance.  I can no longer rely on what is. Ruminating
how does someone give you so much love,

make so many promises and then
retract everything. And that cost me with
having future relationships. There’s a wall up
now ten feet tall. And I hide behind it every day.

What’s Your Name?

she asked over and again. “I want to play a game.”
“I want to play a game.” “What’s your name?” There was
a ****** in her eye the size of Madison Square
Garden. And a 911 urgency to her pleas. Mother nowhere

in sight. Her tangled mustard hair clung to her head
like overcooked spaghetti flung on the wall during a
a spousal fight. She demanded the use of my chair, as if
there were no other ones without warm bottoms planted like

pumpkins in this garden patch of a library. I got up
and helped her find a game on the computer. I called up
a few. She pointed to Dr. Seuss. But I had to go. I fetched
the librarian for her. As I was packing, she stood

up and asked, “what’s your name”, looking at me
through eyes tinted with honey. Sandy, I said. “What’s yours”
I asked her. She told me she forgot. This disheveled girl
knew not who she was. But she knew exactly what she wanted.

Straight to Heaven

You could be a painting hung in the Louvre,
in your very own display. I watch you as the protagonist
in a Miller play. When you talk I’m listening to a Wolfgang Amadeus opera of modern day, your skin, blood red

porcelain, diaphoresis fire. You might think I’m crazy. But it’s not anyone who makes me feel this way. I read you as The Great Gatsby, the highbrow of society. You make me gush, as the Trevi, in old Italy. You walk as a GQ model wearing Armani. I smell

you Straight to Heaven, such an inspiration. You awaken
all my senses, woods, musk, the earth. I walk through
your smile as Claude Monet’s garden in Giverny, actually I’m floating up in the trees. If I go any higher I’ll reach

other galaxies. Your eyes are sapphires, I swear were stolen
from the queen. You would taste as Dom Perignon poured
in a goblet of Waterford, every sip a crystal drop resting on

my lips. You might think I’m crazy. But it’s not anyone
who makes me feel this way. I would say that you’re
humble. You don’t see your own reflection in the pool. That’s what’s makes me love you. That’s what makes you beautiful.

when I’m down
and I’ll fly up
like billowing dust
in the cold bitter wind
and blow in your face
again, and again

Kick me
to the curb
and I’ll disturb
your reverie
you’ll tangle
like a fishing line
and strangle yourself
on the gold braided twine

I’ve kicked
the habit
that was you
and put myself first
leaving you behind
like a *******
with brass
and no shine

are made to be
pulled. You pull the
one on your ******
when it’s saturated
in blood. You pull the
one on your kite, when
it’s flying
way up high.

Strings
are made to be
tied. You tie them
around your turkey. You
tie them on your sneakers,
on the tomato plants
to keep them from drooping. A
marionette has strings
tied to its limbs that you pull.

But I’ll never be a puppet for you.

can’t tell the date
of spring. Look for a shy blade
of grass poking out of
the wet earth. See the buds

pop out on the branches
like a sneeze. Listen to a kite
as it ***** in the breeze. Hear
the children running to catch it

as it gets tangled
in the trees. Smell the pulpy
squeezed lemons from the girls
on the corner, the waft of

the burgers on the grill,
and the buns getting warmer. The robin
chick staging a dance as it tries
to fly. But all it can do is prance,

as the bunny hopping by. The crack
of the bat as it drops to
the ground. The clang of the bell
as the ice-cream truck turns around.

Nurse These Starving Babies

You put the effort into creating them. As a child
with a toy, you anxiously, in a frenzied state,
tear apart at the box.  And as soon as you’re done
playing, the novelty wears off. You crave

another that’s held inside a white container,
and then later, the same thing. You leave it there
starving for your attention. No more! If you want these
children of yours to take flight, fly off

the pages and into books and magazines then
you have to carefully cultivate every word and stanza
before you tender. Don’t release them without their walking
legs. Give them love, attention and praise.

I’ll ride you, flat tires,
broken shift. Me and you baby,
off into the sunset.

I’ll ride you rusted,
with dented fenders. We’ll just pretend
er, that we’re something better.

I’ll ride you without the hubcaps. I got a
Nightcap of Black Jack that’ll have us
loose as the skin around your neck, Jim

I’ll ride you without a muffler, so when
You puff er, the noise won’t be heard
over the broken stereo, Joe

I’ll ride you with the stuffen comen
out of the cushions, and the brakes down to
the floor. We don’t need to stop. I’m not

getting off. Hold on John; It’s gonna be
a bumpy ride!

is cheap as a bottle of wine
that I buy at the nickel-and-dime. And it gives
me a big head. What will you serve tonight? White lies

or a red herringer? Whatever the flavor your mouth
is derringer. You shoot the **** right on cue
like a professional playing pool. Eying what ball

he’ll drop in the pocket. Seeing what doll will shine up
his rocket. It hasn’t launched in years. You can’t
see it over that paunch hanging there. Maybe a joey will

jump out. I wouldn’t be surprised, myself.  Instead of
your shoes you should get your mouth polished. You could
lose a few pounds if your words were abolished. Just think of
the peace and quiet without the one-man riot.

I told him my dream –
a room within a room
67 dollars
for 4 minutes
he looked serious
it was my father
I sat on the couch
because last session
the chair farted
it was good for a laugh
but not much else
I don’t take myself seriously
these days
I dissociate with *****
and play music
on my laptop while
I’m stringing out
another line
and sending it out
for more rejections
heck
I’m use to them
said I was born in 65
that would make me 2
in 67
that’s when
“it happened”
but neither of us
knows what “it is”
only that it ****** up
my life for sure
that is

engulf me as a wave,
and spray their mist
of warmth, as an elephant
washing himself. “Don’t leave us

to lay flat and still” as grandma’s
quill. It’s my cotton cave. And I
brave the day naked as a beach
in December. All I remember

is the burning sun. The day calls me
as my angry mother. I can't listen. My covers
glisten with last night's sweat. And I fret
if I move out of my cotton cave. I'll have lost

all their warmth. For I can't carry
them. They're an army of men. And I,
a bedbug nestled in as a morsel of chocolate
inside the cookie.

greyer than the day
than the clouds that hung
like dung
on a horse
that cannot run

greyer than his hair
what’s left of it
up there
even greyer than the news
and that’s grey as
donkey’s hooves

the ground that I
was walking, turning over,
breaking up everything
in my path. Knocking over

the flowers with his
wrath. Pulling on the roots,
the baby green leaf
shoots. His rollerblades

smashing me as a pin-
ball arcade against my walls,
through the screams and
squalls. I gave birth to his

broken earth. As the sun
set the crimson sky wept this
broken ground wet. Thank you
Mr. Miller, the machine-man tiller.

They cry inside their dressing rooms
Inside the long-withered spoons
Inside their undercoats hide pins
Inside their eyes weather-vanes spin
in all directions

They make us laugh
with their foibles and fumbles
stupor and rumbles
and side way winks
as they blink back the tears
Yes, my child
it’s OK to cry
All Clowns cry
Sigh

like a raindrop
running down the rooftop
a jagged stalactite
dropping like dynamite

You changed
like the azure sky
as dark clouds rolling by
bringing the thunder and lightening
splitting the sky
like a bowling pin striking

You changed
like the leaves in winter
the golden crimson splinter
making the branches bare
as the frozen ground, it shares

You changed
like a bear in hibernation
you closed off
and left me guessing

I was sitting on the couch
with the phone in my hands
and my legs dangling. I held
that phone so many times. Putting

my lips to the line, with him on
the other side. The only thing connecting us
was the wires. Looking out the window
and seeing the clouds roll in grey as

the head of my aunty Lynn. I swallowed
back the rain. My voice was cracking
from the pain. Stillness hung the line
like a flying nun. He shut it down

like a circus clown, leaving peanut shells
scattered on the ground. After the show,
is a mess to sweep up. But he swept it all
under the carpet. So, I departed like my uncle
Finn in a bottle of Tanqueray gin.

If Only

I could make enough
for a few days in Venice
when is this bad streak ever
gonna end
when will the sun come out
where is a friend
when you need one
who needs a reason to
read one –
of my books
I’ll give you two
one to help a poor drunk
come out of a slump
the other
to make this woman’s
dream come true
I’ll give you a third
If you spread
the word
I need to be heard and wish
to be sober
come October
the sales will be up
more than they’ve been
the last few months

if you should leave? Trees shake off
their leaves in the fall. The sun leaves
the day as night calls. A man leaves his home
to take a wife. But if you leave my life I’ll
not shake it off.

What'll happen to me
if you should grow pale. My lacey
wedding veil fades to yellow in the wash. My face
loses  pigment as my tan recedes. But if
you grow pale? Not! For all pale
next to you.

What’ll happen to me
if you should die? The grass dies
in wintertime, covered in a crust
of snow. Worms are food for
the crow. But if you die I’ll not be
covered.

brings us together
Time
draws us apart
Time
makes the rose bud grow
Time
destroys them in the snow
Time
is a thief stealing our days
Time
is a sneak that hides in the shade
Time
is endless to the young
Time
to the old is a fling that has flung
Time
one can never get back
Time
shows all the wear and the cracks
Time
Is a teacher to the wise
Time
is frittered away by a fool and his lies

up or push it
down. Put it aside
or bury it with frosted
cream donuts and

chocolate. Drown it
in one-hundred proof. Cover
it like the weathered
shingles on your

roof. Patch it like your
ripped denim jeans. Iron it
out so no one sees
the seams. Pull the splinters

one by one and stick
them in the corkboard with
your black push pins. It's deep
and dark like the sea and bleeding

like a sonnet. Wrap it up and
tie it like a bonnet under your
chin. Now head held high. Fool
them with that wide-tooth grin.

Morrison looking for the whisky bar
Joplin searching for a piece of her heart
Where are they now?
They lived fast and short
I wonder what color Winehouse is
She left in black in front of all of us
Hendrix smoking purple haze
in his grave
couldn’t stave off the black hawk
People still talk
never will be forgot
the talented 27
God Bless
all of them

with him on a warm, sunny afternoon
in April. This was before Jim, his wife’s
breast cancer and my alcoholism. This was
before masks and distancing. It

was a model day back then. Boys playing
baseball in the field. A fly ball landed by
his heels. He picked it up and threw it back. I chewed
on a blade of grass. I don’t have days like that

now, not with him. Not with anyone. The
sun still shines a honey blossom. But I play dead
as a possum.  The grass is overgrown, as are
the memories. The boys in the field are now

men. And the only thing I lay on is my sofa. All I chew
is my lip. I’ll not let slip the cast on this broken scene -
was it real or a hibiscus? Whatever it is I'm its mistress.

in his eyes. A thousand years and
a thousand tears I have shed. Now
my face has ballooned like a big
waterbed. You can say I'm the walking

dead. I was once alive, a flying
butterfly. He broke me out of my
cocoon and sent me straight to
the moon. Left me to orbit

in space. I'm lost in this galaxy. He
dropped the chase.  No longer covered
in stardust. My silky wings turned
to rust. The violet has tarnished. I'm burnt-

orange. I don't reflect the sun. I cannot
move. I'm numb. I see women flutter, as I once did
before my head was cluttered with overgrown
weeds. I'm not flowering. I've run to seed.

that sharpened them.  Every
time they rubbed against my grit
their silver blade cut just a bit. The cool
in me turned them to steel. I built

a tower I cannot feel. They shred
the lines so thin into turpentine
and gin. I laid colorful as chalk
as they carved upon an empty

block. How many times can I
sharpen them till they inched their
way up my hem. On a  blooming spree
they stung me, like the honey bee. Now

my eyes are sandpaper, and my stare
a skyscraper. No longer cool, but
burning brush from scraping metal,
and steaming like a hot tea kettle.

of your garter, that hold up
your stocking, but not your
vertebra. Barter for wanton
lure. The men, translucent
and elastic hook on in a snap
as the nylon, without the strap.

They strip you
of your cover. Your armor is
strapped on and wrapped in lace
and underwire, and shall expire
in a couple of years. You've rusty
gears.

They strip you
of your prestige, label you
a tease. You revolt with crimson
lipstick and black widow mascara. You,
a Mata Hari hiding in your sherry. Pain
ripe as berries swallow down your grief
through clenching teeth.

drip
as a leak in
heaven’s sky
not a leaf born
is dry

Rainy days
are cold
cold as holding
an old woman’s hand
with her bones jetting out
as a mountain

Rainy days
are sad
the puddles frown
as they’re stepped on
by the children

I’m a rainy day

The people remember
you. You stick in their head –
Some things you can
not forget, like the sound

of nails scraping up and
down on the black board, or
the first vinyl record you buy. But
the tattered remnants of

my desire make
me a liar. So, I’ll paint them
with glitter, hire a sitter
and go out dance!

I Could Tell You a Story

that would fill your eyes with
condensation. You would drop
your head. Your chin sitting on your neck,
almost a bow of respect for what I went
through.
But I wouldn’t do that to you.

I could tell you a story
that would have your fingers scrunched
tightly in a ball, with your nails digging
themselves in your palm. That would have your
hair stand to attention on your arm.
But I wouldn’t do that to you.

I could tell you a story
that would make you think about people
you thought you knew. That would have your head
going around in circles. That would leave you
shaking and perspiring as if you had the flu. I would
even include me in the story.
But I wouldn’t do that to you.

and saw
the grass
turned to straw
the sunshine sky
to acid rain
all the branches
pointed to me
with their stubby arms
and nubby twigs of tweed
every robin flown
the crimson leaves
have blown
the air
cold as a refrigerator
bit me hard
as an alligator
I put my foot
down in a puddle
stuck as a marshmallow
on a stick
the mud deep
and twice as thick
my heart dropped
as a hailstone
shattered
as a splintered bone
my head scrambled
as an egg
and I beg this pain
to leave
I look in
to see a soldier made of tin

and Dutch accents
tangerine slides
pop-up tents
no guides
just the stars dancing eyes

calypso music
lobsters on sticks
waiter John Cusack
maid Stevie Nicks
mascarpone clouds
raining champagne
none of those crowds –
first class airplane

take me now!

to **** out my garden.
Now there’s no room
for the roses to grow.
So, all that they do
is hang their heads low.

I hadn’t the time
to clean out my closet.
Now the skeletons
are dancing a jig
wearing my corsets.
I can’t jar the door
even if I force it.

I hadn’t the time
to dust the grey cobwebs.
Now they’re dangling
as pearls over my bed.
And bead up as teardrops
in stillness, I shed.

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

can’t easily be seen. They don’t
fall anymore. They’re not even inside
the eye. They’re not stuck in the throat and
swallowed down hard. What they are

is calcified. They become rock
salt. They stop flowing. They’re stuck. Some
I say are frozen from years of deposits. They’ve
very sharp corners, that once were round. So, at this

stage it looks like a person has no emotion. But
what one doesn’t realize is that this said person
had too much, and it was so overwhelming
that it crystallized. It would surprise one

who hadn’t gone through it before. But it
sure is anguish to live with this condition that
many mistake as apathy, for lack of a better
understanding of what it could be.

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.

is filled with holes
and looks like Swiss cheese
on buttered rolls

Even the moon
is planted with pocks
that stack up like
building blocks

Even the air
is blown with dust
billowing through the trees
with acrid gust

Even the flowers
are torn
all that’s left
are the leaves and
steely thorns

Even the windows
are painted grey
and stick to the frames
as flattened clay

Maybe you get something to eat
Mabe you don’t
You can’t lie down and be beat
Say you won’t

Maybe you’ll have some clean clothes
Maybe you’ll stay *****
The attitude that you always chose
is playful and flirty

Maybe your place will lose power
Maybe light a candle
Nothing’s going to turn you sour
Nothing you can’t handle

a burn out of control
a flame shooting out a hundred stories high
scorching every passerby
all the men I have passed struck the match
some poured the gas
I’m a combustion of dead love

born from a rotten egg
that cracked as it left the tube
smelled of grandpa's *****
curdled as it fertilized with a bent *****
strapped to a straitjacket
an asphyxiated germ

paddled as a ping pong ball
welts the size of Symphony Hall lit the stage
at the ripe old age of thirty-four dad left
to go to a room of painted white walls
and all the women wearing uniforms
and sterile alcohol as perfume
no skin-to-skin touch
the women don latex gloves

men in offices sit in leather chairs
papers in frames hung up
stale coffee in their cup
hand you a slip with scribble on it
tell you it'll fix it quick
the only thing fixed
is the branded mark
smoking black ink chalk

Wares of a trader
On his back
Rubber to cover
His tracks
Packed in his wallet
Foils from his youth
The highest bidder
Was “patient”
Fist hammering
frustration
Words stammering
demoralization
Crawls into
every open hole
Riding his Trojan
Selling his soul
$80,000
Going once
Going twice
SOLD!

that don’t prop me
properly. Because these two pegs,
that pose as legs are only twigs
for ****, tight pants, or for spreading

themselves out as the buffet for
hungry men, which are worthless
when they lost the yen. I might as well
cut them off –

they never take me to where I want. If they
decide to move, they go slow. When I was
young, they felt like springs. I could do
amazing things, bouncing from one

activity to another, which would
infuriate my mother. At times I thought
they were rocket ships. They’d launch me into
incredible trips. I’d run for miles on the heels

of them, dance and skip. Now they sadly sit
below my hip, with nothing much to do
but cross over the other, hanging like a long
loose **** that cannot perform the same old tricks.

Look at it
Go on
There’s a “hi”
in the middle
and the t comes before
the s
unlike the alphabet
it’s “his”
it “is”
and that’s **** special
if -
your him
you could be
it is
and the “I”
See

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?

They’ve been there too long. They’re part of the
earth I walk on. They make up the air that
I breathe. They lock me in shackles

in my sleep whispering all their misdeeds
as my body weeps beside the clock as it
ticks off the minutes as a stopwatch

keeping score. They hang loose out the window
when the sun shines behind the door. They build stone
walls between my neighbor and me. They’re thick as

a forest in brilliant jade green. They’re the cross I carry,
the one I’m nailed too. They’re the spouse I married,
the one I made a life of islands with. And I swear
there’ll be there when I no longer exist.

that’s unraveled. You’ve treated me
as gravel, walking all over me. Threadbare
from years of wear. I’m unhitching from
you pulling my stitching. Piling up

on the floor in a heap. I was so cheap. I'm a
masterpiece of falling leaves. The golds are sharp
as swords. The reds have bled their silvery heads
into a matador. And the amber can see the bull

from the tips of the trees. All my colors swirl
into a ghost of a little girl. I'll sew her back again
without the help of a dicky friend. And she'll float
in a paper boat over the horizon -

surprising all of you that said she was unglued!