down
Fall Up

Don’t fall
flat
Fall full

Don’t fall
in
Fall out

Don’t fall
short
Fall long

You’re gonna fall
just learn to
do it the right way
is all

those dead layers of skin. They’re dried on
and peeling and making you itch. They’ve been pasted
to you as a cast to a broken bone. It looks like a coat
your mother has sewn. Many have spelled out words and

written their names. You’re toting around
the hall of fame. Liberation comes with release. It feels
like you’re holding back a sneeze. Or are you
remembering the burn? Those days when you stayed

out in the sun too long. When you were young
consequences were like gum. You could easily
swallow it, stick it under your desk at school or spit it out
the bus window at some passing by fool.

Dedicated to Dr. Richard Geist

More Snippets

The time I sat in your lap and felt
the curve of the mole under your shirt. Then my hand
went south
to the flaccid place in your pants.
I walked out. We never got the chance
to talk about that afternoon when I was the spoon
in your gravy.

The time I brought in a bone, and wore
the metallic collar like a dog. You walked me around
your office on a leash. You’ve yet to tame the ravenous
beast. You only think that you do.

I called you naked one night I couldn’t
sleep. You were sleeping soundly in your bed all alone
with your telephone. You answered it in a pleasant voice,
and called my name and said how happy you were
this August night when I woke you up under Maine
moonlight.

After my biopsy you packed some ice for my breast,
gathered in a paper towel. I pushed my shirt down and
placed it there. Ice-cold warmth from your hand.

Our one-year anniversary. You lit the candle. I split
the chocolate cupcake right down the middle. You
poured two glasses of organic milk. We drank/we ate
on the couch, celebrating, what else? The two of us.

Don’t hold on
with one hand
dangling off
You can’t
get a grip
You’ll slip
Unless
you grasp
with all
your might
How are you going
to push yourself up
to safety’s landing
You’re not standing
You’re beneath it
It’s got you over
the edge
You’ll hang
swinging in the air
Fear is the height
Courage the plane

looked as a mountain
with hairy legs. I begged it
to stop tramping on my
living room floor. It grew

large as the zit
on my forehead. People are talking
at the sebaceous gland. It has an eye
and a black pupil in

the center. I can pop a zit. But I
can’t pop a shadow. I can squash it
with my foot if I’d moved. I’d have to
walk up to it. And seeing my hands

running down with sweat and the *****
of my feet soaking wet makes my
head swirl as the dust does dancing

on my floor. Is this a dust
bunny? It’s funny I’m scared of
a rolling ball of hair!

I’m Hollow

hollow as an unfertilized egg,
with nothing but the yolk-sac inside,
hollow as an unmarked grave, where some forgotten
soldier laid down to rest after he gave everything

he had when he was alive. Hollow as autopsied bodies
after the organs have been removed. There’s nothing
behind the slats. They’re stuck together by heat and
dust as most things are that never see the light. I’ve tried

to bring them to life. I’ve placed them neatly arranged
in kind homes, gave them a name, prayed and
hoped. And one or two of them out of the many
thousands got a little attention. For that I’m grateful for.

the sound
would be muted.
Robins wouldn’t sing,
and the crickets all’d drown.
The waves out in the ocean
would rise up without a splash.
What would matter?
The rain upon my windowpane
wouldn’t pitter-patter.

I told him
the scene
would be erased.
There’d be no colors.
The green grass would
be brass. There’d be no golden
yellows, or no sky azure.
The marmalades would fade.
All would be obscure

I told him
if he leaves
the rose would not perfume.
I wouldn’t smell the mint
in the garden, even in full bloom.

I told him
I would not be heard
or seen. And all that I touch
would cut. He was the only softness
I’ve felt. And the days would run
like the molasses flood until I turned to rust.

every week. The answer
is the same. He can look
at the clouds and ask
how it rains. He can listen

to the woodpecker peck
at the trees, ask how he doesn't
leave, as not a spec is found. Man
has asked if the earth is round. He can
look at the stain in his carpet. I haven't forgot

it. True as the harvest moon,
a life in the stain. The woodpecker
pecks for insects in the hollow pit
of dead wood.  He pecks for answers

in the hollow pit of a dead stain. It's caked
on as the bark. Just a touch and it falls
off. The wind blew down the tree in her
yard. It's ashes now as her grandpa's

cigar. Planted years past by a woman's
hand, a madman's plans -
now is rotten as the stain. All's forgot. But
the plot it sits in silence.

the high
the glaze on the cake
made of sugar and artificial color
once the spill fizzles

you're left with the drizzle
like a Monday morning rain
and you carry the pain with you
it's in your stiletto

and running pantyhose
in your nightstand drawer
with the poetry book he bought
and your nerves taut

as the strings of a bow
till you let the "bleeping thing"
go
but it follows you

hollows you out as a log
feet stuck in a bog of his lies
swarming like flies in your face
and not a trace of him –

'cept his picture in the nightstand drawer
along with the poetry book that he bought

has had me up these past few nights
tossing like a beanbag thrown into the numbered holes
putting on the lights, wetting my face
with a cold washcloth, scratching my hives
making pockmarks
as the liquor wears off
worrying and excited about seeing you
frightful as when I look in the mirror
after this dreaded night is through
having nightmares of black creatures and
the old homestead up in flames again
restless as a meatball that can’t stay on the plate
cooked up short and half-baked

twists upside down
the second I turn around. His waterfall
hardens to glass as I pass. Something was
missing when his song

spit out like hissing. His azure eyes,
a badger. Underneath his silky sheath
of dress was armor. His teeth white as pearls
cut the hearts of little girls. And still, I stood

at his side, waiting for
the tide to wash over me in a sea
green canopy. But I drowned in the foam
I swore was my home.

from the sky. But I’m no longer
third eye blind. Buzzing
down as hornets from their paper
tree nests. Flocking toward me

like the gulls at sea,
tenebrous grey unrest. This
red pin cushioned porcupine
cannot roll with sharp, long

spines. I jab the sidewalk. Dab
in side talk. Once the sky snowed
luminous butterflies. Pirouetting like
ballerinas. But now I'm handing men

subpoenas! Maybe this cornflower
prison that I’ve been living will pour me
some buttered *** from the flask
of the golden sun.

The sun is most admired
when it’s either rising
or setting. Beyond the
horizon I reach out to

yesterday; I long to
cling to my *****. Hold it as
its casting a silky figment
dancing far away

obscured by the land,
trees and mountains. I spread these tears
as a fountain to water the earth
in their chaste covert.

as peat on the bog
a planted seed
the fat bullfrog
sleeping in the reeds

I’m the wind
I’ll slap your face
mess up your coiffure
and just as the air
take all the space

I won’t be overlooked
as wet cut hair
that falls to the floor
from the old barber’s chair

I’m the scissors
sharp and shiny
the pointed edge
the sun and the briny

I won’t be overlooked
as a hush
the dew on the grass
I’m the morning’s rush
the horns blowing
the beating pavement
a traffic jam
a star-made firmament

as a grain of sand
on the shore. But you sparkle
as a diamond gem dancing around
moving feet, til you build
a castle high as the clouds
on the beach.

You’re made to feel small
as a snowflake
that falls from the cold
grey sky. But you’re taken by
a breeze and fly amongst
the trees, as a room of butterflies.

You're made to feel small
as a star shining. But mountains
look small on the horizon. And just like
the sun you'll be rising.

You're made to feel small
as a raindrop. But with every kerplop
on the ground the water pools into
crystal blue streams running through
a forest. And floating above a chorus of orioles
and woodpeckers drilling holes.

was a dark bar. The kind
you go when you don’t want to
be seen. After unethical ***
when you are dressed you hide

inside the hole and watch football
on the wall. You can see every play
in this place, no matter where you’re
seated. They’re also generous with

the drinks. They give you the martini
with an extra little glass that has the excess
from the pour, with ice to keep it cold. And all

the olives you can swallow if you’re
too cheap to order food from their menu. You
can go out the back entrance that leads into
the local parking lot if you forgot your money

to pay. This has happened over and again. But
it looks like he just went to the bathroom.

like a gold button, leaving me
with the hole, the spot that filled me,
held me in tight, now a slit overnight.
And soiled did he blight. High on
his horse, no longer enmeshed!
Another Macbeth.

He undid me
pressed Ctrl+Z on his keyboard
till not a trace of me
left. Then he typed in boldface
over the place I held breath.

He undid me
like a bun, secured with
a barrette. Shook me loose. Now
a hairy mess. Like Niagara Falls I fell
to my death.

after the fire. She hangs
in the air like her mother’s bloomers
on the clothesline, blowing in the dusty
greed of yesterday’s deceased. Not a thing

stands. The bark is stripped from
the trees. Life with tied hands is hard. She
loosens her hips to let in a rolled
cigar. When the sky is blazing red, you can

water it, put it out like the trash. But
the fog lurks as the Boston strangler. And every
corner smells like pantyhose wrapped around
her elongated nose. The stub of a smoked cigarette

thrown on an ivory bar that is lit burns as
the tomb of the unknown soldier. She's that soldier carrying
her canteen. She lost her green at the age
of thirteen. The doctors said "PTSD" You can't wash

the stench off. It's a pockmark she lives
with. Covers it in make-up and garters, smiles
and lace, *****, and poetry -
that no one reads.

I'm Covered All in Black

But if you scratch the surface
you'll see all the colors underneath.
As the wax flies off in the hands,
of a lepidopterist I'm a butterfly. And

in the hands of botanist
I'm an orchid. If you were a mother,
I can be your kid if you drew  
a circle for my eyes and head, loops for

ears and nose, a wiggle for a mouth
and a body with some clothes in red
and green and gold. But if you leave me
black then black is all you'll see. If you sit

back and don't look under
me. The colors are all hidden, cloaked in
a black prison. The shapes are yet
to take without a pen or stake.

if I'm not the same
as you. If I hit a trigger examine it,
reflect a bit. Ask how I evoked
the response. Don’t ensconce

yourself in venom or stew. I haven’t
a thing over you. How can you live
if you can't forgive yourself for
the woman you are. Every star

shines. We don't
sparkle the same. Every woman
has a given name.

Death has nothing on me
I died a thousand times already
You broke me
I am two people -
One, the innocent/Split
the other you dove into uncharted waters
I drowned in a watery grave
I thought someone could save me
But that someone Jim done hurt me
But couldn’t break me
You did that for him
Where’s my decorum?
Thank You
The second time wasn’t as painful
The first cuts the deepest
Enter the blade

when I’m joyful. I sing my lungs
out. And the hubster says “shut up”
and the son says “who shot the squirrel”

All I need is a song
when I’m sad and my heart is cut
up like a coffee cake but doesn’t taste
as delicious. I’ll bawl my eyes out
doing the dishes to the blues

All I need is a song
when I’m in the shower. Makes me
sing much louder. And the hubster
leaves the house for some peace. And
the son puts his headphones on to drown
me out

All I need is a song
when I’m on the ***** doing my
business of *******. I don’t bring in
magazines. Who has the time to read?

if you want it
to stop.  Call it Venom. If it robs you
of who you are. If it takes
your soul and turns it into

burnt marshmallow. You’ll
know because the pain will
become more than
anything gained. It will be

your worse nightmare. More
than a dream, it has hands
and feet. And it will come at
you and strangle you. Do you

want death to be your
only way out of it? An eternity
in hell is what you’re living
now.

your hands
a dancing butterfly
as golden grains of sand
you couldn’t hold onto it
it didn't belong to you

You let it slip through
your pearly lips
big as the Titanic ship
and it died in a stormy sea
as a razor honeybee
after the sting
losing your flighted wings

You let it slip through
the cracks
you're a train that's
run off the tracks
you crashed

You let it slip through
into the future
as a ticking clock
hanging on the wall
and it stalled

in this dark, cold basement with my
poetry in my bra and ******* for so long. I can’t
remember when. I sing a song of loneliness
every morning after the coffee has kicked in. And

write about life outside this prison. And then I post
it all over the internet. My mood depends upon
how many likes I get. It’s a sad journey
this one that chose me. It’s left me isolated

and in poverty. I wallow in the wine each afternoon
when I see the lack of sales on the Amazon
Kindle. And every evening after I’ve been sufficiently
sozzled I tell myself ah, heck there’s always tomorrow.

my plans of travelling. Now
the borders are closed. And I
cannot go.

I put off
my friends for speaking
my mind. Now they don’t
take up my space. Some are so blind!

I put off
my chores. Now the house
is a mess. The laundry
is *****. And I haven’t a dress!

I put off
paying my bills. Now
I’m in debt and my credit
is nil!

I put off
going to the doctors
and taking my shots. The shots
I take are in a glass –
and I drink ‘em down with a lime
real fast!

I put off
visiting my dad -
saying the things
I wish I had. Now he's dead.
And the words can't be said.

in the cold of winter
as leaves splinter,
not just in June
as roses bloom
and the lark sings. I’ve
broken wings.

Stand by me
when I’m thin as a spring’s
pond covered in ice. I’m ready
to crack. I bore the weight
of this world on my back.

Stand by me
as I'm shorn, grounded
as a peppercorn. I fall
down as black powder. I, once
white as snow, turned yellow
on the road.

I walked up
for fifteen years. Some days
I traipsed up them
with haggard breath. Some days I

bounced up them
like a lunatic on ****. Some days
I climbed them as a mountain,
the steps a foothold. Some days I

waltz up shimmering,
a woman to behold. Some days I
ran up fast as a cheetah,
filling in the gaps as

an overloaded pita. I climbed them
wet in boots, trudging in
the snow. I climbed them in flip-flops,
sticking out my toes. I climbed

them in muddy sneakers, and studded
stilettos. I wasn’t aware until now –
planks of wood could
moisten my eyes. The carpet

covering his steps is neat and dry.

you. Time stands still,
still as the lady
holding the torch
in New York harbor. Still as
the red and blue pole
outside of the barber.

There’s no getting over
the pain. The color is ****** out
as a bleach stain. Bent as a willow
sweeping the ground. Stuck as
a dog locked in the pound. 

There's no getting over
the past. It passed through
as a high-speed train,
with the windows pushed up
letting in the rain.

There's no getting over
this ****, sitting as a lump
in the throat. There's no jumping
over this moat.

I looked for you under November snow.
You turned colors like the autumn leaves.
You rolled me up like your shirtsleeves.

Where did you run?
You beat down on me as the August sun.
You burnt me with your amber rays.
Disappeared like a needle in the hay.

Where did you fly?
I saw you in the red-hot sky.
You turned windy as a hurricane.
Spun me around like a weathervane.

Where are you now?
Over the moon with the cow?
Or dishing with the spoon?
While I stand here like a prune!

is wanting some of you,
hoping not to ask for more
than my fill. I know you're
taken. But this love

we share can't be denied. It
makes our time together have
purpose because it's so limited  -
but my dear the rest of my week

seems worthless, because the sun
only shines from your smile. And the
stars only glow in your eyes. And I
only know this moment -
locked in your arms tonight

Why can’t I be a dandelion?
So, when they cut me off at the crown
I can grow back up again.
These lil’ buggers have roots down
to the depths of the earth.
They need so little
to rebirth.

I want to be a field
of sunny, yellow kissers.
I would yield
a blanket of flowers
that children could pick
whiling away the afternoon hours.

Perpetuating my seed
in an aerial of cotton spray.
I love it when they’re blowing.
It makes my day
seeing fury fuzzy ***** floating in a marmalade sky,
amongst a backdrop
of formal trees wearing Scottish tweed.
Not bad, I think,
for a common ****.

that I ignored
stood out
like the crimson cape
of the matador. And every

sword
he flung -
I ignored the
barbed edge

that stung.  I charged
ahead as I bled. Was it
pomp and circumstance
that led me to

this deadly dance? Was it
brawn that made me
float just like a swan? And as he
took a bow, standing straight

for the crowd
of his fellow men
was it I that then
saw the flag
raised again?

put me in
stitches. But I won’t let them
tie me up. I hitch myself
to a star and swing out on a

milky bar. If I have an itch, I won’t
switch my plans. I’ll just take them
in a new direction! None can tell me
to ditch my dreams, or pitch to me

their button-down
schemes. I have this twitch. And I won't
unhitch my dreams. A glitch is only
temporary.

as the wind.
Pull you up off the ground.
Move you around.
We can go to places
you’ve never been.

I want to be
as the rain,
a soft and gentle refrain
that you collect in a cup
and drink the contents up.
Sweet as cherry wine.
Green as the leaves
on the vine.

I want to be
as the sun,
and make you feel warm.
I want to light up your face.
You have such a beautiful face.
It shouldn’t be hidden for long.

I want to be
as the snow –
coat you in pure white gold.
Spread your arms
and make angel wings.
And sing til
we scare off the crows.

if I touch him
he’ll splinter. Bare
as the trees in winter. He wrestles
as the leaves. And he

nestles in the wood. Bark peeling
as the paint on my hood. The robin
doesn’t nest. The squirrel doesn’t
run on his branches. For friends

he’s none.  Even the woodpecker
hasn’t a slot! His trunk has holes
as fisherman’s knots.

The “Hello”

wasn’t any
hello. It was much more an
embrace. I felt it the moment I

walked in. I questioned it. But you wouldn’t
give into the feeling. It was something from
a long time ago that stirred something new. I sat

on the floor on your carpet filled with dust,
of the remains of the two of us. I saw your hand
tremble, your pants revealing the leg

that jogged in the body of a man half your age. I knew
he was in there.  I wanted to scream of the time
when I let myself delve in the dream. And you

allowed me to follow, ride on your back. Before it
got broken, splintered in half. I could have squashed it,
as times before. But I took part of it with me

when I exited the door. Just a morsel,
enough for a pang. Not enough to fill
the empty girl’s yang.

doesn’t respond
to my “hello”. He looks
down at the sidewalk,
chalky face, lacing his

black leather shoe, doesn’t
see that I’m standing
in full view. With a cough
and a toss of his head he’s

revving his engine. Sixteen years
living next to him. I can't pick out
the title of his kids, or job
or the side of the fence he's on.

sitting on my windowpane. I strain
to see him. He can fly
into that azure sky. But I can’t
touch his feathers. He only sits
as a stick.

Yesterday’s a bird
that flew. He was there! I saw
him square as my window. Now
he’s a billow.

Today’s a bird
in my hand. He takes
as I give him. And if I’m
sure of myself –
sure as the snow melts
on the late spring grass
I’ll know if I should
steady my hand
or wave my arm
like a flag at half-staff

these days. People just can’t agree
anymore. They hit the delete button
and move on. No more working things
out. It’s put up or get out. No one likes

individuality. It’s more of a herd mentality –
agree with their politics and their religion.
******* if they’re a vegan. I’m opting out
of this stupidity. I’m burning fires of lividity

by listening to it all. You’re not going to
guilt-trip me into believing anything. I’m
happy being by myself, not answering to
anyone or being judged by what

I eat. YES, I like meat! I also hate
Trump. Religion is free and so is my **** –
that you can kiss! Because I don’t give
a rat’s *** over any of this.

at the bottom
of the *******

Jack box. After wading
through rocks of sugar-
coated clumpy munchies

you end up with a scrunchy
that snaps as you
have it hold your pony.  Not

real, a phony covered in
thin paper. Thin as a wafer. If
you savored the edible trip

you could have lapped
the journey of cardboard
that pulled all the chords of

your red velvet harp. But no! You’ve
a tummy-ache and a rubber snake
for your woes!

with the slightest breeze
his flame blows out into the
wind. Circling and billowing in
my honey hair I cough and choke

breathing in his air. He burns
both ends every day, growing smaller
as he melts away. He doesn't break
as glass. He weeps hot wax

running down his wick, till he
looks a homeless bearded man
that's sick. Bent over he passes
gas in his holder. And smolders as

a cigarette. The **** years
of work and sweat. No light, no flame
no ivory tower, just a stump of man
with dreams that soured.

in her pajamas. “Why are you wearing that”
he asked. She felt like it. She wore unusual things
to each session. One time she dressed as an alien
in a full-length neon green suit, with antenna for ears

and not wearing any shoes. “You’re Unusual”
another one said. Some could take this as an insult. But she
took it as a compliment instead. She came to one session
with a dozen balloons tied down by weights. And made

the psychologist wait outside his office door
as she set them up in order. On each different colored
balloon, she wrote her feelings. There was sadness, anger
and jealousy, excited and nervous, even happy. When he

entered his office, he could barely walk. He had to
go through a maze of balloons to find his chair. Thank God
the man wasn’t visibly impaired. It was like bumper pool,
bouncing off her feelings with balloons. One time she came into

the session wearing nothing but a bikini, and holding a
humongous branch that fell in her backyard from
a storm. The branch from the old oak tree was taller than
her! She loved to taunt her shrinks., They never knew what
she’d do. And it was hard to think when a patient is wearing
a string bikini.

so, I can pop
the top off
and go back to bed. Pick
a blonde or red head

to do the job instead. I can
switch the body if I gained
a little weight if I’m not
in great shape. So, interchangeable

as this, and all before
breakfast! I would not have to
change clothes. Just pop the top
and out I goes.

will be the last
there will be. Five years
down the drain. Thank god
for the bottle;
that’ll relieve the pain. He got
all high and mighty
because I said he wimped out
of his dreams to be
a rock star. He wrote
that famous song that
Rod Stewart sings. Been to Hollywood,
was introduced to Burt Bacharach
at a party among other things. I think
I touched a nerve. I think hit a button. But
with this type of man, it’s better to say
nothing because the eggshells that line
the floor makes it extremely difficult
each time he opens the door into
the room where his fragile ego lays. Hell,
I can wipe the yolk off the bottom now;
because today was my very last day.

dough
needed life to grow
that folded and pressed
and stretched
all the years of their lives
with structure and strength
to roll out and mold
that they have not to hold
watered and powdered
and turned
everything they have learned
into the bread
and fed their family and friends
with their hands
and still reap the salt
from this land

Would you please stop
reading into my intentions
come down off your high horse (or rabbit)
you boggle my mind with your all

or nothing stance
I know you want to hate me right now,
and that's OK
I've written you lots of emails in my head,

but they are too long at the moment
to put into words
despite the hurtful "shadowy corners"
I want to see you tomorrow

Runaway Bunnies don't want to be lost,
they want to be found; that's why they run away
there should be a banner above your hutch
to remind you of that

him as he was
when time was on his side
and he was young
green as spring
when roses bud
so, I could thaw him out
and he could melt
in a strawberry puddle
in my mouth

I'd freeze
myself as I was
when butterflies danced
in my tummy
and stars sparkled
in hazel eyes
and the world
surprised me
all the time

I'd freeze
us as we were
warm as a pair of mittens
nestled and snug
purring as sleeping kittens
milky and downy
life was a plate
of chocolate brownies

once you’ve left
the safety of the ledge
you can’t climb back
to the landing –
the place you were standing

You can’t uncook
the meat in the frying pan
once it hits the heat
it’ll not be raw again

You can’t unsay
the words you’ve said
once they slip pass the lips
they’re lost in the abyss

You can’t undo
the thing you’ve done
like a knot tied in a rope
once you slide down
the slippery *****

You can't untangle
the mess you're in
like snarls in hair
you can't brush out
the strands matted
and clumped together
like hair down the drain
you can't sew it on
the head
like crusts cut off
a piece of bread

You can’t unlive
this life you have
you can’t go back
in a time machine
and live the dream

that even those noisy kids
at the library shouting at the computer
game didn’t bother me. When I have
anxiety stillness is unbearable. So, most times
I want to pull these kids by the collar and

holler “this is a library”, not a video arcade
or park to kick your soccer ball. Do your home
work, read a book or shut the **** up! You see
nothing was going to take away my inner world
of tranquil bliss. Not even these kids, yesterday.