Sometimes it’s hard to find
the right words that go together.

Often there is no reason
as to why things happen. And clichés

get in the way of healing. People say
them only because they’re not

thinking. There are no explanations
as to why certain things happen. I’d

rather not force my bitterness on
one, to be the bitter berry. I’d rather cut

my tongue.  Or worse yet -
be the bowl of cherries
in a pile of bile

You told him

today that you would
Not
Yesterday impatience was thumbs twirling,
sadness over happy news/realizations unconfessed
Got
to make a starting date
But
you think about the taste, its sweetness mixed in or brine depending on what is put in, whether cherry or olive
And
are you ready to look for another? Ready for change?
If
the homeless, disheveled man didn't pace back and worth in front of the place, you'd wouldn't have run off as you did yesterday
It
left you wondering, what you told him/what you did
Not

My insides color
my out,
through a window
of cut crystal.  
It gives me
great pleasure
to enter
the lips
of another.
I was made
to be drained.
So is the glass.
But the glass
is a selfish sort.
I, at least
share my port.

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!

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?

is not something
you steal
or win
not something to play with
it doesn’t have strings
it’s not something you give
till you’re dead
you can't place it in a cast
if it's broken
it doesn't mend as a bone
sometimes it doesn’t mend at all
but it’s the only thing that keeps beating
twenty-four hours a day
the only thing that keeps beating
asleep or awake

and exits. I try to let the insipid out
and the sapid things in. But sometimes
I reverse the order and only take in
the insipid things. As a writer

my hands are my mouth. And what
I take in I also put out. So, I’m trying to put
into this well-oiled machine something
clear, crisp and clean.

is all I’m asking for
forever is romantic lore
held by people trying to desperately hold onto
something elusive as this
waiting for the stars to align
I’d give up my last breath to have
one more day without time
A day where I could look deep
inside your soul
A day we would mold our imperfect bodies
into one misshapen hapless love
A day without our bodies
A day two spirits ride the wind
A day is all I’m asking
but I’ll take
a moment

I Want to

Pluck you as a chicken
Pull you as a dandelion
Uproot you as a turnip
With these hands
Yes, with these hands

Shake you as a cocktail
Pour you in my glass
Taste you
With this mouth
Yes, with mouth

Tease you with words
Unease you with lines
Bend you with the rhymes
With this mind
Yes, with this mind

you! You and all
your complaining. You growl
as a badger and screech as
a bat. You’re aloof like that

of a cat. You're indolent as
a sloth. And as for your promises -
you've broken every troth. You've
the morals of a snake. You've given

me only heartache. You drink like
a fish. You're despicable as
a rat. To me, you're just a spolied
brat!  You're wrinkled as an

elephant. And flabby as
a walrus!  And about as chivalrous
as a mouse. So, get out! I don't like
you! You're old and ugly too!

I'm divorcing you -
myself
I'm taking it in my hands
to rid me of myself!

is simple. It croaks
and splashes in the pond
from dusk to dawn. To be
glad jumping from lily pad

to lily pad, not on
the run. To catch my meal
by sticking out my
tongue!

takes away dreams. If it doesn’t ****
you it rots out your brain –
Permanently
You’ll slowly recover so that

you can eat on your own, and walk
again. But you’ll never come home. You
won’t be able to retain anything. You will
not work or go to school. You will not

have a girlfriend. You will go nowhere
on your own without a staff member
helping you. You cannot even tie your own
shoes. You can’t go the bathroom

without someone wiping your ***. You
cannot do much. But you can pack a punch, or
leave a mark on someone else when neurons
shoot off and you get upset. So, get the *******

vaccine for your children. I would have
for mine. But it didn’t come out in time. It came
out a mere three months later after he was already
infected lying in a hospital bed, disconnected
from everything he knew his whole life.

Meningitis B ***** Up Lives

time had stopped and I’ve gotten off the train
going south where people yawning with
open mouth having indolent dreams
of fairies and queens, sit as department store

mannequins with a cup of coffee and
newspaper in hand to read about the grand schemes
of Politian’s, and mending local bridges and who
murdered who, the 4 alarm fires, who fixed what

to get their kids into Harvard and walking
the platform as if I was reborn into the fog I roll
as a bus passes me by slow, I blow a kiss
to the existentialists

I’ve lost equal space and friend
Lost monetary things
Lost pride
Take the bread
Take the water
Take land
Take the soil where I stand
Take the robin’s morning song
Take it all
Bare are these bones
Unadorned

But the low ones are just lovely. They’re
soft woolen blankets that cover me. Sparks
will burn out after the blast. But what I have will be
here when all else has passed. I don’t hit

the high notes. They’re short and they’re screechy. They
scream and the whittle beneath me. They’re like pepper
that makes one sneeze. I prefer the salt of the earth,
the strength of the sea. I don’t hit

the high notes. They’re not sustainable. Sure, I’ll admit
the lure of them is attractive -
until they fall flat and become inactive.

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

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

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

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

I’m numb
in a rage
next I’m locked inside my head
as a bird in a cage
I’m wistful
fitful
then I’m broken down
exposed
I’m morose
Gross
a cut-up
a joke
a scandalous wanton
a vagabond
a hoax
a yegg
dreg on the bottom
an ***
a sozzled ****
full of *****
most times
I do not know
who
or what
the ****
this is
a pixilated
titillating
enigma
is this

a branch
to sit in my reverie
not the trunk of the tree
a couples of leaves for shade
as I wade through the day

I just need
a stream
to wet my feet
not an ocean
some rocks to walk across
and cool myself off

I just need
a handful of blueberries
to quiet my rumbling tummy
I’ll leave the lot on the bush
for someone that’s hungry
so, they won't have a rumbling tummy

I just need
a roof
to shield me
from the cold and rain
doesn't matter size or shape
just a place to call home
when I don't need to roam

I just need
a few seconds, my friend
to catch up on things    
not a whole afternoon
it appears a lot to ask
life flies by us so fast

I just need
someone that receives me
not someone that nods their head
at all I said
or refuses to look me in the eye
when we’re not on the same side

the cottontail munches on the
sweet green grass. The squirrels
circle him as they pass, chasing
each other up the old oak tree,

to reach the birdfeeder and eat
the seeds. The blue jay jeers
his resounding call, as another
acorn falls to the ground with a

kerplop. The bunny hops away to find
a quiet place with shade. A honey bee
flutters around me. Two ducks waddle
into view under a cornflower sky

of blue. I sit on my deck drinking it
all in with a glass of lime and gin. A robin
takes a dip, splashing into the birdbath. I take
a sip and smile. Life like this is all worthwhile.

the sun will rise
high as apple pie
in blue chiffon
as the day you were born.

I suppose
the rose will bloom
in the garden. The petals
won’t harden
as I.

I suppose
the salmon will jump
up the waterfalls,
ducking bear claws,
******* up
water as straws.

I suppose
children will wet their toes
playing in the snow. And their faces
will look as cherries. Their breath
will hover as a mother.

I suppose
the earth will orbit
the sun, as another year is
over -

You've stopped growing older.

as new cells grow in

broken branches
from the electrical storm

hair that’s cut off
fallen to the floor
swept up
tossed out
not part of you
no more

the cracked shell
after the chick
breaks out
that becomes debris
mixed in with the grass
and leaves

a banana peel
after he’s eaten
his fill

a miscarriage
named Sarah

friends

me

in the wee hours of the morning
sits a middle-age woman
at her computer in nothing more
than an underwire bra and trim *****

singing as she’s typing, line after line
exposing her flesh and her soul for all
to graze upon, like the cattle in the fields
she yields her sweet milk for them

to drink, unpasteurized of course. Her
voice hoarse and the words integrating.
Isn’t it exhilarating! The whole world views
the artist on display

the apple tree
when it’s bearing fruit
and bright green leaves.
But come the winter
when branches are bare
you don't notice them there.

Anyone can love
the azure sky
when the golden sun
hangs so high.
But come the clouds
that brings the rain
you complain.

Anyone can love
a baby girl.
When she’s cooing
and smiling
she’s out of this world.
But when she cries and clings
you cut the strings.

dissolves soon as it hits
the sidewalk. A streak of saline
on the window runs down
as the wind blows. A river

of teardrops make a water
bed. As night passes the baton
the river turns red. Red as
the African sunset. Fast and low

as a Chevy Corvette. Weeping
as a willow. The stain on
the pillow is the shape of a butterfly.
If only it fly off taking with it

the rain, the crystal fountain
of pain. In the day it is squeezed
into cubes and freezes as bones
on the *****. Only taken out again
in the hands of drinking men.

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

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

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

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

not across the borders
not in the streets
but in the devil that
you greet every morning
in your head
in your head
There are large footprints
from the dead
from the dead
you can’t silence
the anguish
and the terror
you’ve been deceived
look in the mirror
and you cry
and you cry
a river
until you’re
candy apple red
and you crack –
you’ve been smacked
in your head
in your head
there’s a lump
as big as a breast
the autopsy said –

These holes aren’t holes; they’re openings.
As a watering can has on the lip of its mouth to allow the
water to pour out. An emotion of showers is a catharsis.

These scars aren’t scars; they’re colorful tattoos.
I choose which ones I want to fill in
with indelible ink. I wear them with pride.

These wrinkles aren’t wrinkles; they’re tracks
in the snow. I’m on a long journey, to where I don’t
know. But that’s the mystery and wonder of it all.

or
it owns you
it's that simple

are dripping on his pate’
with bitterness and a lime
twist. He can hold it up
and fill his glass with grouse

and rash. Go back for seconds
and thirds as he dines on
his adjectives. But he can’t cut
into the gristle of 2007 with

a fork and a knife. He can write
a paper or a book. But he shall not
enter the nook and granny, even as
it’s dripping brandy.

There're the cushioned doors
to the minstrel.
From the moment their parted
out rolls the red carpet.
Stalactites and stalagmites of enamel
surround you in an ivory panel.
It’s almost a hundred degrees!
The humidity makes you sneeze.
The farther in the darker it gets.
The saliva has you wet.
When you reach the flap at the end
It’s all downhill from then.

as a snake
shedding its old, weathered skin
lying on the ground
dust in the wind

He left her
as a butterfly
breaking free of its chrysalis
hanging on a limb
torn and sunken in

He left her
as a baby bird
flying out of its nest
testing its wings
looking for greater things

He left her
as bathwater
sitting in the tub
after he's scrubbed
*****, cold and unloved

He left her
as a piece of paper
after it's written on
crumbled up and tossed
in the trash
in a heap of banana peels
and broken glass

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?

on a three-dog night
as the cracked shades pull down
around my shoulders.
The moon is plucking

older. Morning stealthy hums
like a Trappist nun. And I’ll
trudge out of this bed like I’m pulling
a sled of bricks. Stumble into the kitchen

to fix my morning coffee. The chair
is cold and hard as toffee. But I
plunk into it like a stone. And mull over
this day with feet of clay falling

asleep in their fuzzy slippers,
as I sip on the sludge in my mug. I can’t
budge out of this chair to wash my face,
brush my teeth and do my hair. So, I stare

into space and wonder how I got here. Yesterday
I was spry and could fly out the door. Today everything
hangs like the dust on the ceiling. And the only thing
that grows is the mold on the bathroom floor.

row me out in a Clinker. Didn’t plan,
not a thinker. Pack a bottle
of *** with me. Dress me in
a red silk negligée. Around my neck

place a lei of purple flowers. Bury me
out at sea/seventeen hundred hours,
when the sky is a shy marmalade. I laid out
in the sun, as a young thing. So, my skin is

tawny. They say I’m a bit scrawny. Remember
me as a woman on fire burned by the licks of
her flames/none can tame. I lived/laughed and loved
a few. Where I’m headed? Like in life, I haven’t a clue!

We dip them in thought
In reverie
See them as marks on a page
In dark, in our sleep
Carved in stone
Hung on the walls
Out in the streets
Close and afar
They comfort
They wound
They evoke
They’ve brought many to ruin
From one careless stroke
They’re works of art
In all languages
In different classes
Some are spares
Some profound
Some pithy
Some glib
Some ancient
Others more modern
Everywhere we live
words

with just myself. Lying in a red hammock
curled up under a cornflower sky, with a book
to read as a cardinal flies by.  Or walking
in the woods among the ferns and the trees

I find tranquility. The chattering song of
the jay, the stillness of a breaking day. Women are
critical and glib, drooling like babies wearing
a bib. Green- eyed and petty. Raining on me

like colored confetti. Friendship is overrated,
leaving me lonely and weighted. The babbling
of a brook I'll take than that of a woman. Time is
a gift not to squander. Thoughts are words

to sit and to ponder. Women spread them like
strawberry jam, rolling out of their mouths
like a broken dam. Like the sun and the moon
I'm a solitary man.

Love is meant to be shared.
Souls are meant to be bared.
It’s beautiful when you open up.
It’s beautiful when we are in love.

I want to be free,
free to love whom I please.
I have so much love.
It’s all I ever speak of.

Love is meant to be shared.
Souls are meant to be bared.
It’s beautiful when you open up.
It’s beautiful when we are in love.

You knock on the door
Your knuckles are sore
You pound, and you claw
Your fingers are raw
You still proceed
Your knuckles bleed
Why doesn’t anyone come?
Your hand gets numb

snowballs become a fist
and a pact become a twist
I’m winded by all of this.

When did
differences lead to hate
and myths propagate
Do I wait for man
to understand logic?

When did
leaders mislead
and man have desperate need
for human companionship
I’m worried man worships
the wrong things.

When did
the news become cheap entertainment
this epidemic lose containment
Some politicians need arraignment.

tucked in my tire. I drove for miles
with you pushing your barb through
my ribs. ******* air out of my
treads. Now I’m flat as unleavened bread.

You were the pebble
stuck in my shoe, cutting into me
with every step I took. You found
a nook to set up shop. I couldn't
walk without you digging into the *****,
making it swollen and red. Ripping it
to shreds like two cats fighting on the bed.

You were the splinter
that snuck in my hand. You landed as an airplane
under the skin and infected me. Lumpy
and itchy as poison ivy. A rash that can’t subside.  I ooze
like a pimple poked in the middle covering my face
like the tide.

I glisten as the full moon
shining. But inside of me
the walls have holes thick
as Swiss cheese. You can swim
through them if you please.

As I implode
my hair is chestnut
sheen. But through every strand
runs blood-******* fleas curling
their lips for a sip of my blood,
not ever getting enough.

As I implode
I stand tall as the Sears Tower
in Chicago. But all my floors
are collapsing into a thick billowing
heaps of smoke. You can swing from
the ceiling with a rope.

As I implode
I look pretty as the cherry
rose, perfume sweet -
but underneath a tunneling vole
has dug holes and destroyed
my roots. So, man pulled me out
as a rotten tooth. Stuck me in a see-through
glass. My withered petals falling fast.

As I implode
and everything around
me crashes,
so I'm the Phoenix
rising from the ashes.

blurring his vision
clouding his lens
an overcast, a veil
a smudge on his screen
a smear on the glass

I was a gleam
until the glint turned to rust
the sun streaks black oil
the stars covered in tar
the moon drizzled dust

the light blinds us
till we’re two silhouettes
hanging on a string
tangled on the line
those shooting stars
are porcupines

for me
when I’m with you.
No place to spread
my roots. No place

to reach out
my limbs. No place
to turn within. There is
no place to voice

my mind. No place
to find my center. No point
to even enter. There is no place
for me to grow. No space

for air
to flow. All there is
is you. You take up
all the room.

as watermelon seeds. I was
hidden in the flesh of the soft
pink meat. After you ****** me
to the core you threw me on the floor.

You spit me out
as lemon pulp, grimacing
and shaking your head. I was
a soufflé’ in the making. But it wasn’t
worth your undertaking.

You spit me out
as cobra venom, spraying the ground
with droplets of poison in a room
you let the boys in to **** me
of my dignity.

You spit me out
as mouthwash. I was the germ
making you squirm. I swirled
down the drain circling your bacterium
like sharks in a aquarium.

You spit me out
as a *** of gum after you
were finished chewing me out. I was
numb, hard and cold. None like gum
when it's old.

as a pig
on a spit
turn
turn
men poking me
with sarcastic jabs
salted with
my quips
balking at reality tags
the red apple
pushed between
my puckered lips
is mush in the flames
of a kiss
I’m browning once again
as the ground
after the rain
the patches are stains
the sun falls
as if the pins let go
I see poked holes
at the site  
that enters light

I wish soap would wash away human stain
And polish would glisten a dull man’s kissing
And perfume would make everything smell rosy
And dreams were enough to make this poor lass cozy
Stars could be borrowed when there’s no hope for tomorrow
And eyes were telescopes that looked far beyond sorrow
People were ants that could lift rubber tree plants
When you are small everything looks big
And when you are big everything looks small
I’m not sure happiness lies in either one of them
And if I had it all I wouldn’t have anything

on dotty days lost in
a billowing haze of crimson
lingerie and perfume merry-go-
rounds that lifted us up

in sweet anisette but were
dropped to the ground like
a smoking cigarette. The fickle sky
painted orange didn't

blossom. It turned into
marmalade hurling its seeds
on our show parade. Burning
a hole in the horizon

that plundered our dreams
and covered our eyes in
shards of irascible men that died
at sunrise from the ink of a pen.

plays every time he calls. And my
heart go up another notch above
the volume of the song. And then I
hit the green accept that allows

his voice to emit from the piece of
plastic that I hold with clammy hands
like a teenager again. And then he says
my name, mine his.  And it feels as if

the ring tone got it right, or else Madonna
when she sings “If I could melt your
heart we’d never be apart” And so I don’t
feel so far away. And it fills up the space

of the double martinis. And I’m already dreaming
of the next time the song plays. And I go
through the process once more, of hearing music,
seeing green feeling joy and flying unicorns

that adorn the windshield.  And he says in that
sultry voice “hello Sandy” What could be finer
than this? Well, don’t go tell him that I said
“maybe a kiss” on those soft lips.

world I’d like to break
the glass that seals him in the scene
neat and clean. Is he a fairy-tale
I can't t enter into? Or is he

a display that provides me
visual entertainment? I can touch him
with my eyes, not my hands. I can touch
the glass, but not pass into the place

he stands. He's close. But
distant as a star. And as a star, I must
leave him behind the transparent
sphere.  Here, he can hold me in a stare,

but not in his arms. I can hear the whoosh
of the butterfly rustling on the pavement, no
claimant to the stars or moon. His sparkling
world leaves me pruned.

a fluff-ball with *******
a dust bunny that’s runny
none take me seriously
just a speck, a freckle on the sun
a flake on a wire
shaken off
a fleck, a spot, a patch
a seed that didn’t soil
floating pollen in the air
a grain of sand
wet and bare
a chip that breaks off
falls
and is lost
is stepped on by a man
smeared under his sole
a blight, a blemish
mole
a cavity
a pinprick
hole