I held it swiftly
and swiftly it passed
like a car crash

and the causalities were many
like a box of Good & Plenty
white and pink capsules

those oval rascals all jounce together
unravel like a sweater
caught on a hook

I am
by yesterday
hung on every word you said

like clothes stretched on the line
in wintertime
frozen stiff in place

because they’d rather be there
then tucked away
when will I cease

like a flaccid *****
I can’t enter anything
here I go again

like an acorn
from the old oak – kerplop
in a shower of nuts
I couldn’t stop

I fell
as a bowling pin
hard and straight down
with my head spinning round
and around

I fell
from the sky
like a lightning rod
and split a tree
as I hit sod

I fell
in a second
like the second hand
on a clock
racing at top speed
just like a ****

on my line and cast them out
two at a time? Some swim
around them. Some stop
in their harried day to take a breath

and catch a glitter in the
corner of their eye. Wipe the glitter,
as if it a speck of dust that swept up
in a wave. But can they stop to take

a bite? Plucking my shiny notes as
apples off a tree, the juices running a marathon
in their teeth. Or cutting them up into pieces
for the pie, making them all the same size.

as a terry washcloth
in his tight-****** hands
and all the dewdrop beads
fall as strands of pearls
torn from the necks
of daddy’s little girls
and scatter as roaches
in the crevices and holes
some roll under the cabinets
and grow old

or stick the pieces together
with Gorilla glue. A child’s eye
that is black and blue can fade.
But you can’t cover

a mother’s brokenness with
a cloak of tenderness. You can’t
wipe out the horror she saw with a cold
damp cloth. ******* hands on

a handicap man is the devil’s
work. She doesn’t sleep at night. The darkness
in her breast is hard to digest. She’s
losing weight and doesn’t eat. White as

a sheet she walks through her day
in a purple haze. Her life’s a pack of Jacks
thrown into the air, with pointy spikes that cut
like knives. Men are scavenging cockroaches

with belly’s bulging from greed. You can’t sow
the seeds they planted like an old woolen blanket,
than you can sew her heart together like
an unravelling sweater.

like my uncle’s Cadillac. When I
went for a ride as a child it felt
like a limo in size. It had deep red
seats, red as a cardinal I believe. And

because he was Italian it felt like
I was part of the mafia family. He would
smoke those cheap cigars until the air
was thick with fog, like a rainy day

in London. And I wondered who he
had bludgeon. Because he used to be
a boxer in his youth, I swear he was a
sabertooth. He was fierce. Didn’t say much,

just gave you “the look” and you
knew. That’s all it took. I used to fish
with him early in the morning, when the sky
was black, black as his Cadillac.

to earth. Give the man
a wide berth. The crash puts him
in pieces you try to collect. But no
room is left in your pocketbook

of tricks. You picked him
out of the lineup of men. He stood out
as a topiary in a forest of trees. And blew
through your blouse as an ocean

breeze. He painted the rose
on your cheeks. He slipped the glass
slipper on your foot. The bell strikes
the hour in your ivory tower. It rained

ashes the day he fell. The sidewalk
looked like lumps of coal from hell. The pedestal
crashed to the ground. You don’t need
a ladder to climb up to the sky. You can float
on a cloud. . And wave to the passerby’s.

as if I’m a distraction
in the middle of what
you’re doing. I’m not
your bladder that needs
emptying out.

Don’t call me
as part of your routine,
because I’m penciled in. And
it’s one more thing to do
before you retire for the
afternoon.

Call me
honey. Call me muffin,
dear, maybe cupcake. Call
me smiling. Call me laughing.
Because you’re thinking about me.
Sweet

calories
in my bed
tossing and turning
from things deconstructing
in this head

I’m burning
rubber
on the streets
racing from
all my defeats

I’m burning
bridges
shore to shore
to even the score

I’m burning
down the house
I built
Flooded from the flames
I didn’t learn to walk on stilts
Now I’m locked in chains

I'm burning
alive
all  the maggots
eating up my insides
with rage

I’m burning
incense
cinnamon and sage
my friends
in old age

dead end roads
in this town
one-way streets
climbing weeds
the air thick
as black-eye peas
sidewalks uneven
pretty soon
I’ll be leaving

One too many
masked faces
races
clogging up
my arteries
with grease
greasy lies
greasy smiles
greasy hands on the dial
I’m moving out
for a while

a fledgling
dawning as the sun
selling everyone
with my melodic song

puffing out my red breast
flapping my feathered wings
trying to impress
the bonny spring

trying to soar
like the osprey
lift off this grassy floor
with no man

to teach me
so, I'm robbing
like a bee
out of amber honey

and bobbin to the beat
of car horns
in the ***** city street
a baby bird is born

stout moths. Like
lint they’re flat and fall
off. The fuzzies float in
the air. Man can’t hear them. They’re
dust on the chair.

I weep in silence
black satin rain that pools
in the cracks of my face, leaving
a stain of questions to wear. Man
can’t see them. They’re fog in the square.

I break in silence
pieces of plaster, that chip from
the ceiling creating a bust of alabaster
frozen in expression, that over the years
has not freshen. Man can't touch
the stone. It's dyed to blind their eyes
and cut through bone.

that eats snowflakes for breakfast
collects empty bird’s nests
paints pine cones and hangs them as ornaments
and cockle shells on the beach
skinny-dips
and potato-chips with whipped cream
catching frogs
sitting on logs and thinking of –

the kind of boy
that could eat snowflakes for breakfast
and enjoy the beauty in an empty bird’s nests
and painting pine cones for the tree
picking up cockle shells on the beach
and skinny-dipping with me
eating potato-chips with whipped cream
who wouldn’t mind catching frogs
and sitting on logs thinking –
wouldn’t it be nice if we meet?

Now I’m a cactus. It took
practice for my petals to turn
to spines. Sticking out
and sharp, none can touch

without a stabbing *****. I’m a walking
needle stick. I was sweet perfume. My bloom
filled the room. I met many devils. Every man
pulled out a petal. Kept tucked

under his pillow. My head hanging
as a weeping willow. I ran out of brine;
and lost my shine. This is as I grew
the spines. Now I stand untwined. No more

can man cut or pluck me. He’d bleed
if he tried to shuck me. I’m not soft and
sweet. Now, I’m thick and can take
the heat! But I miss the garden. The earth
underneath harden.

The leaves have fallen.
The ground, a dwelling bottom.
The shooting stars have splintered
into the coldest winter.

I, myself turned
from golden crimson
to burned. Charred leaves
all cover the streets. Only blackest

ravens fly. The end draws nigh.
I hold my cup up to the moon
for dewdrops of the spring draw
soon. As I see ****** buds poking holes

into the bloods I awaken. And the world
breaks into the greenest pasture.
We'll have a morning after.
The song of the lark and blooming crocus
makes us focus.

a lot of head space
over him. Recounting every touch,
hanging myself on a memory, swinging
in his clutch. Shrinking inside the silhouette,
smaller than a bead of sweat.

I wasted
so many days in a haze. Weeping
dewdrops, running down my face
in a trickle. Sour
as a pickle floating in a sea
of brine tangled on his fishing line.

I wasted
myself in a bottle of alcohol,
living in this gilded cage, and turning
out page after page every day.

I wasted
my youth
on things that were lies
not truth. Stuck as flies
to paper. This pain does not
ever taper.

expecting them to grow
even when they're buried
under the snow. Even as they hang
limp in her hand, even when

their heads are drooping
and colors are bland. She takes them
inside her home. Feeds them sweet
honeycomb. She sings to them

like a starling, coos and awws
and calls them darling. Plants them in
her fertile soil, only to see them
recoil. Day after day the petals fall. She lies

among them, weeps and sprawls. Remembers
the spring when they were lush. The memories
she has of her crush she stores in a drawer
as potpourri. And lives to write and tell the story.

The rain washes away these footprints
My tears wash away the time I spend trudging upon yesterday
I overturned every stone to collect what’s underneath
But all I collected was more dirt under my feet
And I stop and look back to where I was
But there are no footprints, only mud

You can live it up
fill it up
with mistakes
and woes

And when you can’t clear it
of its clutter
you get another
And -

Live it up
fill it up
with mistakes
and woes

And when you can’t clear it
of its clutter
you get another
And -
so it goes

Each step
precariously maken
Every turn
variously taken

Each thought
erratically selected
Every emotion
dramatically projected

Each piece
tenderly created
Every crease
slenderly sated

They Cut You

the minute you’re born.
They cut you and clamp you like ears of a corn.
Leaving a little hole in the middle of your belly.
You like swiss cheese they bought at the deli.

They cut off your fingernails and locks of your hair.
And if you’re a boy, well you better beware!
Soon enough they’ll cut you off from the breast,
giving you processed food to digest.

Then they start cutting back on your care.
You cry for them pitifully when they’re not there.
They cut you in more ways than one.
They cut you with words while you’re still young.

As you grow older, they cut down your pride.
Leaving raised welts like smelts on your hide.
You reach out for other people who
are masterful at cutting you too.

Until you grow up and cut everyone out,
even the people who try to help out.
You cut them out like paper dolls.
And end up drinking in bathroom stalls.

You’re so good at cutting things.
Blades become your captive wings.

He's inutile
as a baby toe.

No point of recovering
an appendage that's a runt.

If he were cake, he'd make a Baby Bundt
with a gaping hole in his center.

Should've left
soon as I entered.

without the label
or sidewards glances
that he is able
to grow in the purest
as a crystal snowflake
the sunrise over the horizon
a sapling sprouting from the ground

If they'd hear him
without note or sound
with feathered wings
and sturdy bough

If they'd love him
as I do
without measure
as he is
he's a treasure

a crystal beach
of snow-white sand
and turquoise sea
so, within my reach
a violet starfish in my hand
til the day you ran

I thought you were
an azure sky
of marmalade dancing butterflies
till the day you lied

I thought you were
a lullaby
soft on the eyes
lulling me in reverie
on feathered twilight wings
how could I tell
the heartache you’d bring

I thought you were
the golden sun
a blooming garden
I was young
but as I leaned in for a kiss
darkness fell like an eclipse

a twig
into a fruitful oak tree –
that’s what passion’s done
for me

Passion turns
a lonely flute’s crescendo
into a rocking house concerto

Without passion
the sun would be fatally jaundice
our dreams would be beyond us

the world would be flat
it’s opening a slat
gusto is a must, though I’ve seen

some chaps with their heads down
in their lap looking so discord
because they are bored –

their face and emotion are ashen
what they lack is passion

the olive
you’ll get oil.

If you puree
the apple
you’ll get sauce.

If you squeeze
the orange
you’ll get juice.

If you cut
the bean down the middle
you’ll get vanilla

When you break
something open
you extract something
beautiful, made in
the process. It will only
rot staying intact. It needs
metamorphosis

Darling I see you
metamorphosing in front
of me.

he’s never by my side. He’s off
a hundred yards ahead of me. I fall
behind like the leaves. He drifts away. I,
in dreams. I stop and stare at a scurrying

chipmunk that busts up my thoughts for
but a moment. But enough to get lost
from his sight. Have you ever felt lonely in
someone’s company? Have you ever felt

like you're drifting in the wind and carried
someplace where you want to be –
inside your mind; inside a dream? Though
your feet step lightly

How long have I lived liked this?
Something always goes amiss.
I keep saying “wait till next year”
But next year is practically here.

In this land of the strange
Isn't it time for a change?
I’m like a clock that lost its chime.
I have the numbers but don’t tell the time.
My hands are spread eagle wings apart.
I don’t function: I’m a piece of art.
Soft on the eyes, but ******* the heart.

I haven’t done all the things that I said.
Some days it’s impossible to get out of bed.
I’m growing older/days are colder.
I’m losing insight on those long nights.

In this land of the strange
Isn't it time for a change?
I’m like a clock that lost its chime.
I have the numbers but don’t tell the time.
My hands are spread eagle wings apart.
I don’t function: I’m a piece of art.
Pretty on the eyes, but ******* the heart.

How long can I go on the same way?
Putting it off until tomorrow, today.
It’s no use; stop pretending.
It’s a merry-go-round ride, never ending

of my head.
This reverie sticks to me
as the sweaty sheets
in my bed. Wrapping around
me as a burrito, clinging to me
as a beach ***'s speedo.

I can't get him out
the door.
He's blended into
the furniture. He's woven
in the tapestry. We're packed
together like bananas
in a banana tree.

I can’t get him out
of my heart.
My blood’s shaken up
as cream churning
into butter. The reds
solidify and make
my heart flutter.

shape you
they hold your head
when you enter this world
the doctor shouts out "a baby girl"

These hands
spank you
for not following
mother's orders
they leave welts
and black and blues
squeeze you into
tight shoes

These hands
unite with a man
wearing golden bands
holding the bouquet
and cutting the cake

These hands
dust the furniture
make beef stroganoff
and mow the lawn
breastfeed the babies
when they're born

These hands
read storybooks
call the ambulance
shake and sweat
when the boy’s near death

These hands
fight city hall
call the lawyers
doctors and all
turn into fists
and punch the air
and land on lists

These hands
stroke men
that sit in chairs
and listen

These hands
pen the lines
so all can read
all are blind

into black and white
like day breaks off
into night
it’ll be stark
but not obscure
it’ll be harsh
but not a bore
we can play with parts
go from light
to dark
and back again
I might throw in
a red
when you're blue
have you purple
and slurp you
like a frappe
You might get mad
And tell me
Cut the Crap

and you’re plain, so smart
you borrowed every girl’s heart, including mine
but this time this one’s wiser

the hurt made it stronger
it will no longer wander where the eyes take her

where the heart rakes her over castles in the clouds
both feet are on the ground

with ivy.
So, I decided to climb.
But it wouldn’t hold my weight
So, I slid back down
at a speeding rate.

He hung the moon
with rope cheese.
So, I decided to take a bite.
But soon got full
and lost my appetite.

He hung the moon
with horsehair.
So, I decided to make a braid.
But through each twist and turn
I swayed.

He hung the moon
with an olive branch.
So, I decided to give him
another chance.

a footnote
at the bottom
of your page
I’m a star
taking center stage
a Napoleon Bonaparte
that only brightens with age

I won’t be
leftovers
you place
in the microwave
no Hors d'oeuvres
or strawberry preserves
I’m a smorgasbord
fit for only a lord

I won’t be
an ornament
you hang
on the tree
dangling on a wire
I’m a raging
forest fire

I won’t be
hushed
this woman
has guts
and won’t be
brushed away!

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

is all you have. Are you
going to listen to all
the **** empty men
that turned cold
fed you?

One move
is all it takes to make
or break you. You can’t go
down without a fight. This isn’t
a rehearsal. It’s life!

One woman
is with you. Look inside
the mirror. I can’t speak it
clearer. If you won’t fill yourself
don’t look to a man to fill you It took years
to let go of my fears that people
are talking about me. Now I do for myself –
no apologies

like socks –
mismatched
trading them as stocks

He collects women
like cards –
in diamonds and hearts
shuffling them apart
turning them to lard
till he grows hard

He collects women
like stamps –
thumbnails that are tramps
sticking them to his sheets
by pounding city streets

He collects women
like coins –
shiny tender
after an all-night ******

she screams crystal chandeliers
wired to the molded ceiling, translucent
and gleaming a fiery red light that reflects
off the lace of the stillborn curtains.

When she cries
she cries drops big as buckets
that flood the basement in their disdain.
The stagnant air sits weighty as a
homeless old lady.

When she dreams
she dreams oceans and continents,
lost planets and stars and she never stops.
Never has any plans to

every morning. Up at 4, recording. I make
hundreds a month. But it ain’t squat. I've a
voice. But it ain't sought.  **** this
Covid ****. Have *****/will travel. Paris is real

for every woman and man. Paris isn’t on
the map for me. Dried is the ink on my passport,
tough cookies! Not to mention, this type of work

doesn’t have a pension. The exercise
to have this shape is grueling. All to have
them drooling like a rabid dog. So, I can
twirl my tongue around their log.

The light I cast
makes me dwindle.
I melt, running off
myself. As I shrink

my flame expands.
I burn the hands of
the men that touch me.
When I’m a stub shall

they love me? Still,
a little flicker of truncated
love, waiting for a match
in a hollow glass, with

opaque walls. Blackness
calls. If you leave me
I'll burn the house
Down.

the air till it took off the roof
of his house. He discarded me
like a cigarette **** till I burnt him
from the inside out. He said

his pieces held together by
a string till I cut the string. And they
scattered like the autumn leaves,
like acorns falling from the trees.

He played up
his life in his work
like a painter does with colors
wet on the canvas of
their imaginations. The starry

night in swirls of blue and
gold. He danced so light they called him
twinkle toes. He danced all over me,
but tripped on himself.

I was lonely and looking for the answers
in every stranger’s eyes as far as I could see.
I ended up compromising all that I believed.
Until the day I recognized, I wasn’t being me.
I wasn’t being me.

Now let me tell you I am who I am.
And who I am is good enough for me.
I am who I am without pretention.
Upon exam you’ll see that I’m totally free,
without reserve.
If I hit a nerve in you, I’m sorry.
But nothing’s going to stop me from being me.
I got to be me.

And that’s where you’ll stay,
sitting in a nest of hairspray. Drifting in
and out of reverie, not down here
on earth with me.

You’re in my heart
And that’s where you’ll remain,
pumping blood through
the blue/red veins, not here
held in my arms, where our hearts
can beat in unison.

You’re in my soul
And that’s where you’ll shine,
bright as the twinkling stars
that have me blind. The horizon is
flat, and falls off the edge as a cat
in a tree. Without your breath
I can’t breathe.

only seeing it
in magazines
on shelves
in bookstores
or TV?

Do you wish that
you could be
shrunk
down in size
and climb
into the scene?

Do you hate the life
you’re living?
And all you do
is dream?

Welcome to
my reality

once as supper
like swallowing an upper
like a snort of *******
hits straight to the brain!

Love me
twice as windshield wipers
back and forth
you take south/I'll take north.

Love me
thrice as a triangle
we'll tangle with another
then we'll swap -
with her on top.

Love me
quarce is a farce! To go on
like this I'd miss work. I'd miss
my friends and the news at ten. You
only die once! But not I -
La petite mort
screams and sighs

my pieces
aged and shattered
and all that mattered
was for you to hold them
in your hands
but you crushed them
as shells on the beach
and they fell –
powder at your feet

I gave you
my heart
weak and bruised
and all that mattered
was for you to place it next to yours
but it grew tattered
as a shirt in your closet
from moths
hanging on the wire in the dark
holey and sags
making red rags to dust off your seat

I gave you
my wings
battered and broken
hoping to fly again
but you cut my feathers
and scattered them
as ashes in the smoky air
blowing in the hot wind
pelting sleet in the heat

I’m no longer looking inside
someone else’s face
for recognition. I’ll look at my own reflection
when I need recognition. I’m no longer looking

inside someone else’s heart
for love. I’ll look inside my own heart. And love me
with all my heart. Inside myself is where
I want to be. Inside myself lives a unique individual

who has many great gifts to offer
this world. But first I must offer the greatest gift
of all, which is the gift of love that I offer to myself,
with no pretense or strings or relying on someone

else. This is me, incredible and crazy. This is me,
amazing and peculiar. This is me flowing and
free. This is me angry and disturbed. This is me a clown
and a nerd. This is me silly, crying and delirious. This is me

reflective and serious. There is more. Yes, so much more,
and more and more yet to come. I’ll never be done
with me, a work in progress, who gets lost and comes back
to this - being me. No one else can do “me” better.

are big and worn. I've worn them
since I was born. None can
fit in them. They only are my size. I've
worn them in sunrise and rain,

through beatings and days
I was drained. I danced in moonlight
singing a song all night. I walked the
floor in them wiping baby's

phlegm. I soiled then in my garden,
and the day I starred in woman
*****. They shaped all I was. Saw me
through menopause. They're filled with holes

and old. But even unraveled
have sole. I cannot trade them in. I'll only die
in them. None can fill my shoes. Even if
they choose to have a shot. It just isn't their lot.

ya
cryin on his sleeve
he couldn’t be ya
he’s the one
who gave ya the disease
just let him think
that things are going swell
the best revenge
is to lettem
think
ya
doing well

for me.
No in-betweens.
You’re either in
or you’re

out. There’s no
room to wobble. I hated
Weebles. They remind me
of fat people because they’re

weighed down. Never said
I was a saint. But you gotta
Love me for who I am –

Not for what I ain’t.