an inked spot
surreptitiously hung
a birthmark
copiously sprung
black smoke
filling up my lungs

I'm every song unsung
He's cut off the top
of my tongue
I grow back as stubble
till he doubles his precision
not as I envisioned
stepping on me
climbing the rungs

cheap cigars
they’ll smoke you
as they stroke you
then idle as a car

Men are
vultures
flying overhead
swirling as a blizzard
in your satin bed
till you bled
as a ******
newlywed

Men are
storm clouds
raining on your parade
blowing out your light
leaving you shade

Men are
Venus Fly Traps
the closer you stand
they snap
trapped in
soft hair
and cherry grin
they have you pinned

Men are
rivers
travelers carried away
and running
emptying out themselves
like broken plumbing

with truth
and they run
as a herd of elephants
stomping the ground
with elegance
and popping out
as bean sprouts
swimming
in a bowl
as wiggly worms
making their way
back into the earth
because we all know
that truth hurts

You grow-up with people
oohing and ahhing over you. And end
up with people leaving you
alone. That’s what it’s like in this

desolate home. Propped up
in chairs and beds in front of television
sets. Each face that I pass has a blank
expression. It’s as if they’re all waiting

around to die. They don’t have the
desire to even cry. Only apathetic looks
on their faces, as if they accepted what someone
has chosen for them. Someone else chooses

when they eat, what they eat, when they
bathe, what they wear – every little detail
just as if they were an infant again. Who knows
the lives that each one of them have lived. Who knows

the choices each one of them made before
they were waiting as prisoners to enter
their graves. Not one smile on anyone. Not one
sound of laughter or excitement.  They all look

like holocaust victims, sitting and
waiting for the end. Maybe if they’re lucky
someone visits them from the outside for a
short time. But it’s only a sad reminder

that there’s life outside these doors. It’s only
a bitter reminder that they no longer have
what they had before – their independence
their freedom. Is there any kind of life without that?

as you/no matter all the
whitewashing you do. The indelible
stain that lies under her chest

cannot be wiped clean from
her heaving red
breast. The lipstick smiles

and lilac perfume makes us grow
faint as she crosses the room. You
can’t gloss over the filthy mess

that lies under the stitching of her
lacey white dress. She can cover the
cake in satin gold cream but slice through

a piece and you'll see the gleam
only shines on the outside. The middle
is riddled with mold that crumbles

and can't hold together/overstuffed like
the drawers in her dresser. I'd not fare
to go near and undress her.

the nouns. The sounds can’t
pass his cheeks. High as Alpine
peaks, the air is thin soon
as he begins.

He can’t speak
the truth. It’s a decaying tooth-rotting
in his gums. Even a drill
couldn’t **** out all the tartar
crumbs.

He can’t speak
as his foot’s stuck
in his mouth. Like the swallow,
his song has flown south on wings
that grew sprouts.

He can’t speak
as the cat has his tongue. A feral
mother raised him as her young. Stuck
as a *** of gum under the high school
desk the hardened blob turns grotesque.

He can't speak
as his lips are sewn
with the splinters from all
the winters he has roamed.

he was a saint. Isn’t it funny
how people believe something
that ain’t. How people follow someone
blindly until they end up a body in a

dark alley being chased by the rat who led
them there. He was not what they thought. It wasn’t
fair how I was treated. He was the only man
who had panic attacks during the ***. And then

wiped off the ***** with a towel after it. Gave me a sip
of the anisette. Took me immediately home
after that.  No, he wasn’t what they supposed. He was
a coward who froze when you needed him

most. He told me he was thinking of other things when
his patients were talking. That’s why he took
notes while he eyed my stockings. But how his smile
could wrap around the room. It didn’t take long

for women’s heads to swoon. His dark eyes could
mesmerize anyone foolish enough to look into them.
And I did.

Something Beautiful

you took and put your own ugliness on it. You painted it
black with your fears and insecurities. You punished it
for being kind, for loving you. You pushed it away
and then screamed ****** ****** when it did not

call. You tested its strength every day to see how far it would go, how long it would hang on. It drove you to madness,
its perfection. You had to find a flaw. You drove it to madness
by breaking it down into decimals. And still you didn’t get

the point. You hung it outside in the freezing cold until
it was stiff. Didn’t you get rageful when it didn’t thaw as
quick as it used to. It wouldn’t snap back into place this
time. It was your second biopsy. You remember

it like yesterday. It felt like this time you pushed it
all the way into the black hole. You found something else
to fill the cavity, something that wasn’t sweet. Nothing would taste that sweet again.

Not all of us are going to heaven
The news starts at eleven
Not all of us can be angels
Some have hearts clamped with staples
Not everyone gets the happy ending
Some of us are sick of pretending
That’s what it is!
What it is –
Straight/no chasers
Stop looking for replacements
Nothing can sew up these holes
They’re fatter than all your rolls
So, fix your place with candles and paintings
Soft music and wine
You’ll be waiting a long time

like sap from the maple
tree. You tapped into the core
of me. I poured myself out
to you under skies of cornflower

blue.  Runny as a stuffy nose,
the kind you like to blow. Pushed
out like a sneeze. You always were
a tease. Runny as dripping ice

cream from a sugar cone, sticking
to your hand, in your lap I land. Melting
as the April snow. Runny as shampoo
in the shower, down your face

across your chest, your back
and legs, a foamy dress. As I swirl
my way down the drain I'm less
and less.

in a sky full of fire? When did
the pain turn to desire? It rains
splinters in the yard. Every broken
shard is sharpened with the axe,

and thrown back, poking holes
in their stories. They trumpet, the morning
glories in bright blue, climbing on
a twisted vine. Cutting their twine with

a searing hue in burgundy
till they bleed out their petal heads
jerkily. Smirking and mounting the steed,
riding off after planting the seed!

He was supposed to help me,
not help himself to me.
Supposed to show me
how to help myself,
not help myself to his body.
He was supposed to listen to me,
not the sound of his gaudy voice.

I was supposed to leave healed,
not broken pieces sealed in an envelope,
after pushing the bounds down the slippery *****.
It was supposed to last a few months,
not sixteen years.
It was supposed to cost me in dollars -
not a life spent in squalor and tears.

Watch the Video - Sandra Palladino (on YOUTUBE)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x6BZmkzxRJc

Gold can **** You

it turns a woman of need
into a crime of greed
taken in by all the glitter
it outdid her
and turned her crown to brass
she had no class
everything that shines is not of light it seems
it ruins dreams

resolve
not to always agree -
or give up what we believe
get involved
it’s called acceptance
support
encouragement
to go our own way
without fear
or conformity
I’m a whole person
with parts
not parts of a person
looking for
another person
to put my parts together
as if I’m a puzzle
there are no halves
or middles
or common ground
compromise - compromises
I can be with you
in your territory
no surprises
without changing my belief
a smidgen
we don’t need
a carrier pigeon
we can do this -

And I was wet.
As we ran together
he began to sweat.
We stuck and rolled

into a soft, cool globe.
We rested, then were tossed
high into the air,
circled and flared.

An avalanche fell upon us.
And cloaked us in white.
We both got drunk on the sauce,
cooked with spice.

The heat made us rise.
We were so sweet,
with red cherry peppers
for cheeks.

They all called us pie.
I was wet.
He was dry.

an ocean
You’re lost in
the notion you
have to hold back. I’ve
build a ship. And in every
drip we’ll sail till the tip
and back.

Cry me
a river
You’re lost in
a quiver. But I’ve build
us a raft. And we’ll float
in the draft, lying back.

Cry me
a waterfall
You’re lost in
the squall. But I’ve
build me a bucket. And we’ll
roll to Nantucket breathing from
the crack I’ve cut in the back.

when the trees were stark
the days cold and dark
ground hard with frost
the cost of love lost

Remember June
when heads fell swoon
slept like bears till noon
dancing silhouettes under the moon
trees as green as the grass
warm days slowly pass

in love too much to ask
if this ember can light December
like the star on the tree
or drop like mercury

make you.
Some people
break you.
But some of the ones
that make you
are the ones
that can break you!

Some people
love you.
Some hate you.
But the ones that hate you
don't let them bait you!

Some people
stand up for you.
Some stand in the way.
Take a stand for
what you believe in
and it won't matter either way!

Some people
are friends.
Some enemies.
Only time can tell
the difference
between the two of these.

I Look inside
through the open window.
There is bread and cheese
on the table.
Decanters filled with rose',
a beautiful, floral bouquet,
of marigolds, roses and lilies.
The girls all in white lace
and pink ribbons
are looking pretty.
The candles flicker,
from a soft breeze blowing
through the open window.
An old man sits and rocks
in his chair,
reading the daily newspaper
without care.
His face as stiff as his beard.
His interest politics
and the stock market.
I should not want to
be discovered.
The main course is coming.
I stand frozen
where I am
wondering............
There's a middle-aged woman
holding a platter,
her face intent on the contents.
She looks pretty eloquent
for a subservient.
I notice the wife at the table
spooning her soup
with the ladle.
Through the open window I watch
a dismembered family.
Looks like her husband is drunk
again on the scotch.
There's beads of sweat on his head
between what little hair is now left.
I slowly walk away.
Through the open window
music plays.....
I think the song is slow and romantic
I'm enjoying it
because I'm actually hearing the words.
I enjoyed the company.
I actually was there seeing them,
more so than they could ever
see themselves.
The boy opened the door
to let the dog out.

curls, as the cat. Swirls of hair
dusting the chairs,
the lamps and the bureaus.
The wooden stairs
are her heroes, carpeted
in golden honey brown. She’ll
be flying out of town.

She's shedding
light as fireflies
dancing in the night. Sparkling
as diamond rings. Fluttering
her arms like butterfly wings.

She's shedding
skin, the snake. This reptile
suffocates. Coiled up, hissing
in the grass. She has to break
this mold/pass from
the python's hold.

She’s shedding
tears as dewdrops
rolling off a leaf, high up
in the trees. She’ll water the lilacs
as she weeps. The perfume sweeps
across the rows of painted marigolds.

The squirrel, he scrimmages
to find a hidden nut,
to fill up the hole
in his hungry little gut.

He delves quite feverishly
in his absented minded way
looking for that last little acorn
that hopelessly gone astray.

He sometimes scurries up
an old oak tree
hyper vigilant to sudden movement
that could interfere with his binging spree.

Dressed in formal grey
He's a furry ball who's spry.
Our persistent little chap
got quite a roving eye.

He searches far and wide
for his underground treasure.
And holds fast his lot
with each careful measure.

As he ravishes each scrumptious
hardy bite
his cheeks fill up fast
as he packs it all in tight.

And I think to myself,
what a peculiar scene!
Enjoying his antics,
as he enjoys his cuisine.

Her decisions are petals
of a daisy,
plucked off one

by one. It makes her
crazy. She can’t undo what is
done. These gaps make her sour. Too many

for one little flower. All she can do
is hold onto the remaining ones
and hope that the light

of the sun will be forgiving to
a petulant floret, who remains sore at
the ones who tore at her petals

for their own puckish pleasures.
If all is lost
she’ll stick feathers in

where the petals have been. Each one of them
she’ll splay. Then pack up and fly
away

We cradle it
On the cusp
In our hands
Puffballs
catching wind
Spreading
Two little seeds
Flying
Impregnating
In love
Floating
In their fuzz

to walk the paths of the
minutemen. When they were
marching with musket in hand

they didn’t have to worry about the
distance between themselves. The enemy
has become the men in your tribe. I tried

to keep the six-foot wide rule that no one else
was adhering to. But in order to do this
I ended up in the forest. It was so dense with

overgrowth that I began to choke. As I
meandered out to see a mix of people trialing
only two feet width someone shouted “that forest

has Tics.” So now I’m worried of getting sick
with of all things, Lyme disease! All for
avoiding the present company!

of you second-guessing me
he said. He sounded perturbed
on ever word.

I’m sick
of your rage
he told me before. But if he
lived the violent life I had
he’d have some rage for sure.

I’m sick
of being lovesick
over you. Sick of you making
promises that you never kept. Always
saying that you’d be there –
then left
fighting to get back
a semblance that was

I’m sick
because I relied on you
and then
you broke my heart


I’m sick
of being sick
and never
getting fixed!!

And I'm too sick to start!

I want to sip it
like brandy.
You're strong
and oh so fine.
Your love is honey.
I want to pour it
on my tummy
until the bees start
chasing me.
Your love’s molasses
as it passes through
this heart of mine.
I want to whip you
like cream.
You stepped out of
my dream
to become my valentine.
Sticky like taffy,
your love leaves me wacky –
But sweetie, it sure
makes me shine!

whattsa matter?
The rain has you
down?

Swish-Swosh
like applesauce
falling to the ground.

Ker-plunk
like a drunk
uneven.

Splish-splash
lightening flash
I believe in.

When the sky is grey
like a hornet’s nest
I'm messed
like the weather.

I Put On

a smile
like dungarees
to tease men
as I die inside
to hide the scars –
men see stars
lipstick pants
dance

I put on
**** lingerie
beg men
not gay
showing the rabbit hole
down below –
not the gaping ditch
in my soul

I put on stilettos
cuts into my bunion
men peel me
as an onion
but they’ll not cut
to the center
of my splinters

Gonna hold me back
Tell me what to do
Ain’t gonna take no flack
You don’t like it –
*****

I am larger than life
Gonna rise to the top
Like the yeast in a bread
I’m not gonna stop
No matter what people said

You give me no
I’ll turn it around –
To on
Aint no one
Gonna bring me down

in crime –
one who isn’t afraid to
to get caught.
It’s the thrill of the chase,
not the fear of the thought.

I need a partner
for fun –
one who isn’t afraid
to let loose.
It’s the freedom of will,
to be your own duce.

I need a partner
to love –
one who isn’t afraid
to hand me their heart.
Will let me play it again,
just like Bogart.

in the morning
as the sun jumps over the horizon
as the sleepers crawl out of your eyes and
the coffee percolates.

She's not there
in the noon
as calls fly over the wire
and papers stack up like
flames of a fire
in a room filled with binders and files
with a wall lined with subway tiles.

She's not there
in the evening
as you stare at the empty chair
eating the frozen dinner
you microwaved.
Running your fingers through
a memory you shaved.

She's not there
in the night
as the moon sits flat
as a crepe. And you look
at a show that you taped.
The sheets on her side of the bed
don't pucker. And you can’t kiss
or tuck her in. So, you drown
in your fifth of gin.

of love. They write
poems of war, of beautiful
woman you’ve not seen
before.

They write poems
of mountains, lakes
and streams, of birds
and books and trees.

They write poems
of death and life –
poems to put you to sleep
and keep you up at night.

They write poems
at their desk,
in the blackness of
their closet, on their hands
or a napkin. Something happens –

and so they write

If I could train myself to have people’s remarks
bounce off of me like rubber, instead of sticking to me
like blubber, it would not matter when I flubber.

If I could train myself to be happy with what I got,
instead of looking at what I’m not, I could give it
another shot.

If I could train myself to be more real,
instead of  worrying about how other people feel,
I know I would heal.

If I could train myself to wear a smile,
instead of feeling vile, I could go the extra mile.

You are some place -
far away
I don’t know where
that is
I don’t know what
you’re doing
or who
you’re doing it with
But my one wish is
you know this -
That although I’m not there
with you
or the person
you’re doing things with
You’re in my thoughts
And that’s as close
as I’ll get
to being intimate

your list
he said. He doesn’t like
black on white. He can do
with less marigold and crimson

skies. Less waterfalls and
lullabies. He’s a doctor with degree
to the degree that he doesn’t
see a blue bird chasing a worm,

or the smell of leaves
as they burn. To the degree
of mercury that has him sweat. And the
mint that covers the garlic from lunch

on his breath. And I, as Santa
check twice crossing out the x's
and o's like a game of tic-tac-toe. Not
hanging him with my vertical lines, or

salting the page with feverish pines.

will deaden you. It’s a slow
trip to hell –
It takes away your
memory. Makes you do

stupid things.   Gives you a big
head.  Makes you puke. Eats away at
your brain. Causes damage to your
liver and other organs.

Stops a heart from beating.

It took away my friend –

do you fantasize
when you close your eyes
that it’s me you’re making
love to? Do you picture

my curves
up against yours? Your
fingertips caressing
my plump *******,

taking your mouth
to them? ******* them like
a juicy plum? When you ******
do you tremble and feel

disassembled
until you open your eyes and it
hits you hard that this old, wrinkled
overweight woman in bed is

the only one
you’ll ever make love to
time and again.

in my backyard
make it hard for my
winged, feathered friends
to have a bite of seed. They

climb and swing, claw
everything. They’ve broken
two feeders!  On my Oak acorns
are found. And in the fall the brown

nuggets line the ground
like a rug. But still doesn't stop the
pesty thugs! They take over like
a thundercloud. Grey as they are –

in my backyard

of fighting back
getting less
Tired of black
Pitching white
spotting grey
throwing light
getting nay
the stain
stays
remains
Nothing for
Nothing or
Nothing
Not
NO
O

said this Friday
he's opening Georgia again when
bodies are still dropping. They can look
pretty for their
funeral. Their hair colored
and coiffured. Sitting pretty
on the pillow in their casket. And their
nails manicured, painted and shaped
for all to see as they lie across
their chest after this virus closes
their lungs. Yay! But they went
bowling! They knocked down the pins
as they did themselves!
Governor Kemp you're such a louse!

dry
if you take
and you don’t put in.
Love grows stale
as a garbage pail

Everything runs
taut
if you pull
in the direction
it’s not

Everything runs
efficiently
if  you grease the wheel
before it squeaks

Everything runs
out
the timer is set
as soon as we’re born –
a place of no return

like life turned back to normal
on this hot summer day. People crowed
together like oysters on the half-shell
primed for eating whole after sitting

on the ice. A little tabasco
is nice. I, red as the pepper
sauce waiting for the toss back into
the thick of things. Wasn’t it a

sour spring. And I, flying this summer
off-roading like a Hummer. For the past months
cooped up like the chickens in their cages
waiting to sit next to the mashed potatoes.

has been ******* you
but not as hard
as you’ve been on
yourself

This world
has been complicated
to say the least
but not as complicated as
your mind when
it’s ill at ease

This world
doesn’t offer many
second chances
but you have taken many
in advance
and still are here
and have much to offer
as anyone
anywhere

up isn’t going to
make me dance. Barking
as a dog isn't going to make
me cuddle. Squawking as a cockatoo

will only make me
leave the room. High pitched voices
cut across me as nails on
a blackboard, only leaving you

hoarse. Volume deafens
and threatens the listener. Level voices
are from level heads. And I won't turn
mine toward a wrecking ball that only squalls.

something
that can’t be
undone
think about it
please
once it’s
out there
once released
it’s there
in memory –
always
to be
called upon
so, think about it
before
you do
something
wrong
calm down
sleep it off
take a walk
don’t do it
in the heat
of the moment
because if
you do
it will
come back
to bite you

is the squeeze of death
like a baby chick getting mauled
by the hands holding it
it’s downy feathers cover fragile bones
that can snap by the impact of a love
that’s overgrown

these hands have crushed the life
out of most of what they hold
these fingers are bars that choke as
cheap cigars. If only I could spread them
out as petals so they’d be a freer, wider
surface to land I’m sure this love would expand

place to drive
I can save gas
in my old guzzler

One less
excuse not to dress up
I can tie my hair back
and not put make-up on

One less
present to buy
during the holidays
think of the money I’ll save

One less
call to make
during my afternoon break

One more
reason to be
very lonely

when my head is stretched out
rolling in your hands? Or will you pull back
so, that I snap as a rubber band, landing
in your trash can?

Will you read me
when I line myself as a V like a flock of geese
flying above? Or will you run from
the droppings of love?

Will you read me
when your eyes are glazed
in honeydew? When your cup of coffee
is thick as stew and sticks to you
as the deodorant in your armpits?

Will you read me
when I’m carrion and the vultures
are circling? Or will you throw everything I wrote
in the flames, to heat your home –
on paper notes?

eagerly
eagerly as a baby robin
falls from the tree
in spring
before
it earns
its wings

I could fall for you softly
softly as
a summer
rain shower
in the late
afternoon

I could fall for you fast
fast as
a crystal snowflake
during a
driving blizzard

I could fall for you easily
easily as
the leaves
when they reach
their peek colors
in a sequence of
red, orange and
yellow

This morning I noticed a ball
of brownish gray, soft and furry clump rolled
up like a hamster in my comb. And I wondered
if I should feed it or leave it alone. I couldn’t put

it back on head. I had to lay the thing
to rest. I noticed the numbers on my phone
haven’t been ringing, like the church bells tolling
the hour as they used to do. That old familiar twang

was comforting too. It sounds no more. The
incidentals drive me out of my mind, like my
keys when I need to leave in a hurry, or
the butter that’s melting somewhere

in this landscaped home of topiary. You’d think
it’d be easy to find; it’s brighter than
a yellow canary. If it grew wings it could
fly. Most of the people I know have died. That goes

with aging. You lose things more
easily. There are more funerals to attend. And
more broken hearts to mend. And many nights
awake when sleep itself escapes.