any more than the leaves
in autumn. As they turn gold
crimson and orange they break off
from the tree and fall.

I can’t hold on
any more than the emerging
butterfly from the safety of
the chrysalis. My budding wings
have spurred me to fly. If I hold on
I'll only die.

I can't hold on
any more than a snake shedding
his old skin. No longer can it stretch
to fit this body. It's thin and worn. And I
can't grow under a cloak with holes. It’d rot
the fibers of my soul.

So, don’t tell me this or that
doesn’t rhyme. I’m not Dr. Seuss. And this
is not the Cat in the Hat or some nursery
rhyme. I don’t care about meter. The only feet I have

is my left and my right.  I write with purpose. I write
of my experiences, my thoughts and my idiosyncrasies,
my dreams and interpretations, my pain and my
struggles, and everything in-between like my *******

and my *** and my cutthroat way of thinking. Some it
will resonate with. Others it won’t. Some it will
move. Others it will offend. I hope it will only help
some poor soul in the end.

It’s gone many miles,
in rain and snow. Skated on the
ice like an Olympic champion. But now its

threads have worn thin. It’s gone flat
a few times because something sharp
played it like a harp. It’s been changed

more than a baby. Rotated more
than a file drawer. When it retired to the
junkyard it was still useful. It became

more fun once it wasn’t driven. Just a rope
and a tree made it a perfect swing. It was
happier being lazy and carefree. It didn’t forget

the days of high-speed rolling. All those stops
and starts. And those lulls when the engine
was shut off. But now someone could

get giddy when it was pushed from
behind. Now it never touched the pavement. It
only reached for the sky.

each time you say
my name. The daffodils
are springing up in flutes of
pink champagne. The clouds are

making letters in the sky. They’re
composing a poem before my
very eyes. The cattails are barking
in the marsh. They’re so ***** I suspect

someone fed them cornstarch. The leaves
are falling up instead of down. My square
house is completely round. There are no edges,
even the roof does not have eaves. And

no matter how high up I look I can’t find
the tops of the trees. I don’t know where I am
or where I’m going. But whatever it is I feel
like a non-stop glowstick stuck on a pinwheel.

Your over there
The distance is an empty chair
Can you read between the lines?
Well enough to catch this vibe?
I wouldn’t want to hurt you.
So, I leave this space alone to imply
You can take it as a fragment of a drunken
woman’s empty mind
Or roll it as a snowball uphill
getting larger and heavier to push on the climb
You’ll do the former
Predictable as
This Vibe

You can only take one of this,
one of that. The toddler outside in the short-shirt sleeve
shirt, with no adult watching his back, you told him
get inside before he gets frozen. Black folks holding

overstuffing bags of whatever they can get
just to tide them over till next month. It’s your very first
time. You shamelessly recognize the woman from the poetry
group in the library. They give you a number. You’re

83. So, you sit patiently, knowing it’s one less thing
you’ll have to steal. This is what it is, when you’ve nothing
left and they’re willing to give at the church
in your neighborhood. But you’re so willing to go

on this day. So, you pack in overstuffed bags
some cans and of this and of that. And you’re thankful,
even glad, that your refrigerator won’t be
so empty. But still when you get home you turn

to the bottle, like a baby whose mother’s on crack,
just to drink out of an empty ******. Can’t believe you sunk
as low as this. Someone smells just like ****. Probably
haven’t seen soap since they’ve shut off his water.

I don’t want to look back on it
with rue. So, I’ve got to do everything I can
while I am here. Go to the places

I want to visit. Love the people I want
to love. Chase the underside of the
rainbow. Hitch a ride on a unicorn. Live my life

with full intention. Pick carefully what I leave
to chance. Come up with an invention. Write the
song. Dance the dance. Fill my heart with

a love bouquet. Laugh out loud. Play all
day. Fill my head with pleasantries –
absolutely No negativity!

Kindness for everyone. Be happy for others
and what they have done. Bid them
well. Be genuine. We only have a limited

time. I don’t want to be wishing in the intermission
that I had done something different. I want to know
when they close the curtain that I’ve lived
a life that’s certain.

with losing weight or
stopping drinking. Misery is
a heavy weight that sits on your chest
from the moment you get up to
the moment you go to bed. You can buy
jewelry – that gives you a high for
a day. You can dress yourself in lacy
******* and bra, but that won’t make it
go. You can  eat a slice of chocolate cake and
wash it down with a milkshake but you're still
the same. There is no “happy pill” like
the doctors try to push on you, some
instant cure that will snap you back from
the depths of agony that you find yourself
drowning in. You need to recharge, but how?
Going outside yourself.  They all say look
within. They don’t know you’ve been
looking into a vacant line and you’ve had it.

it is my line to walk. You can
chalk it up to rebelliousness. I'm not
the next Eliot Ness. It'll strike a chord
in you for branding my own new. I've tried

to go straight; but it's overrated. In fact,
it left me constipated. I have more room
off to the sides. I'm like a rubber plant. I bounced
up to the light/not a tin soldier with arms

and chest sewn on tight. Like an adventitious root
I spread and sprawl. But as a creeper I find myself
climbing up the walls. Some say I'm a mess of
tangledness. I'm just a **** growing in the cracks/ a train
jumping the tracks.

laughing in the snow
dancing in the rain
swirling in the wind
as a weathervane

Blue eyes
walking in the meadow
lying in a bed of purple flowers
caught in a reverie
wiling away the hours

Blue eyes
no one sees her pain
weeping in her hands
bluer than sapphires
deeper than the deep blue sea
standing in the fires of the evening

Blue eyes
no one hears her cries
as the church bells ring
out steps a wedding bride
smiling in the rain
every raindrop is a teardrop
running down her face
laughing at the crowd
she turns her back again

Every morning I drain the bathtub
of all my sins and remember the time in 2009
when I drained the life out of this relationship. I drain myself
like a gasoline pump squeezing the last once out

as the numbers slowly tick the count
until they stop. And I know I’ll run out of fuel  
before twelve o’clock as I always do. When I get home,
I’ll drain the bottle to fill the emptiness of living a life

that goes out, but never holds anything in. And at that time,
I’ll drain my mind because remembering is
a blood-******* leech that feeds on my thoughts. And so,
this train makes its final stop at seven o’clock. It was nice

to know you. I left you a note. It’s under
the pillow. When you lift my heavy head, before you make
this loveless bed, (which is my throne) it will be printed on
monogrammed stationary with a title of its own. Maybe you’ll send it

out, or keep it for yourself. If you send it out, make sure
you let them know there’ll never be another….

for money.
That’s a joke.
I’m always broke.

I’m not in it
for love.
I’ve no such luck.
And I’m always stuck.

I’m not in it
for fame.
No one knows my name –
And that’s a losing game.

I’m in it
for me.
The only way to succeed –
is to do it for yourself

Its opulence
lies in its poverty.
Its beauty
lies in its deformity.
Its strength
lies in its meekness.
Its immortality
lies in its death.

This Me

is me there,
what you interpret of it,
project onto it. This me
is me here,

what I interpret of it,
what I project onto
it. Who is right then? One is
a stranger, the other

a friend. One I denounce,
and one that I love. Little hint,
the one I denounce
is struggling hard.

in the rain. His kiss was a stain –
the stain of adultery.
But I let it hale. And so, grew the tale
of lover’s woe. I’d love to

kiss him in the snow. When the flakes
were thicker than us and all this
broken trust. We’d traipse through heavy slush
using as sleds our tongues. I’d love to

kiss in the sun, when the heat of the day
was young. We would bake our bodies
as bread and got drunk on love till we both
grinned from our foolish sin. I’d love to

kiss him in the wind, when my hair
was pinned against his cheeks and caught
between my teeth. We held each other tighter
when we knew our love was fleeting. I’d love

to kiss him every season.

and I've many
I've held inside my hand.
Glossy golden copper
is a showstopper. But was I

thinking as Lincoln turned
muddy brown as he was passed
around? It didn't make sense. His worth
is just a cent golden or muddy. But

didn't the boy shine in the windows
of the stores, the drawers and painted doors
I walked through. I've a pocket full of
him I counted out in tens that jingled

in my purse. And with a flip reversed
to tails. I lost my head as I shed my clothes.
A rose in the rubble waiting for someone to
stumble over me. But it was only he.

blue ***** dig caves
under sandy rocks
and the smell of salt
boats tied to docks

the gulls swoop low
to catch a bite
and plovers wade
as horseflies bite

footprints make a trail
boys and girls building castles
with shovel and pail
green foamy seas

lined with cockleshells
and balmy breeze
driftwood and seaweed
tangled around my toes

and knees
tanning woman lying
on colored towels
as sunburned baby

in sagging diaper howls
coconut oil
permeates the air
as old folks sit

on navy beach chairs
bags of chips and kegs of beer
and hairy chested men
that often stare

a bunch of teens punch
a volleyball over
a long-stretched net
my nape breaks out

in a sweat
riding surfs on boogie boards
dripping ice-cream cones
sandpipers call this their home

as they lie on nests in the dunes
while radios blare 80's tunes
life's troubles out of reach
a typical day at the beach

for sixteen years or so. But therapy
has been doing me no good as  
far as I know. I’ve taken many a shrink
to the board. And many have bored me. I’ve regressed

no less, down to the size of a baby. I’m just as
neurotic and psychotic as I ever was. I’ve turned to
the bottle because it’s predictable, unlike the professionals
that I see. One I had *** with, the other was a coward who sang

Sinatra for me on his piano out of key. One had such arrogance
he ended the two-year treatment in a dear john email because
I told him that he needed help. His fragile ego
couldn’t take the advice from someone like myself.

hung over her. And every rain
she weathered the pain. A
bobblehead, nodding yes,
a saggy mess, hung as

a wet, wrinkled dress on
the wire. The pigeons drop
their bombs on her. She ***** as
a loose shutter outside his

window in the breeze. He hid
the sun under his pillow, catching
the rays from the skylight
in his bedroom. Shining as a flashlight

inside her womb.  The two married
in June. She, the outsider pressed
as cider from the apples
in his eyes.  She cries in amber because

he shakes her as a tambourine.

but when it's mine
it's pungent as turpentine.
I grow restless for more.
But more is less yesterday and

bigger tomorrow when dreams
are all you have to follow. And dreams
are like the weather. They change
once they come together.

as a 54 Chevy
and wan as a summer
scorched lawn. They’re glazed
as a honey-dip donut. But I

hadn’t looked. I’m hooked
on the bottle, and the rage
followed me as Edgar Allen Poe’s
Raven. The man is, after all

my haven. He lowered his lids
as a shade. I’d have to wade through
his midnight oil with no paddle. He
is raddled. And I, a wrapped up

pupa in the chrysalis, acting like
my brain has syphilis, belching on
the fragment of trust that has
ensconced the two of us.

You were round as the sun.
But you were the moon.
I thought you were deep as the ocean.
But you only fit in a teaspoon.

You were so full of color,
crimson, and gold.
But as the autumn trees, you shed your leaves
till you were bare to the bone,
like a carcass, the lions feasted on.

In you, I saw a Tiger Swallowtail butterfly.
But as we danced in the flames
you burned alive.
You turned into a moth that drowned
in the broth.
I swallowed you whole and cried.

I drink from this pairing couplet
daring from the onset
I hope that you too -
can drink from this couplet
I brew

the plains flood
soggy as bogs
thick as fog
I sink into a hole
in the ground
like a bowl I'm round

as I walk
white as chalk
the sun balks at drawing me a light
and like quicksand
I'm swallowed by the night

till I’m nil
all is still
and doesn’t move
no stars or moon

after the rain
the pains flood

I see in the cream of my coffee. It’s the
porcelain that holds the coffee. I drink your face
every morning as the sun is dawning. I see
it the mirror. It couldn’t come in any clearer

than the sunniest day in the country. Your
face is the sun that warms me. Your eyes are
the blueberry bushes in the meadow. I fill my dress
up with little globs of them. They stare at me and

play hide and seek getting lost in the folds,
getting squashed as I roll over to lay on
the grass. As I lay, I see your face pass in the
wind. It blows my long, golden hair across

my chin. It tickles me and I smile. I fall asleep
drunk on blueberry juice. My dream is another excuse
to see your face. It smells like lavender and honey and is
soft as a bushy-tailed bunny that tramples over me

and wakes me from my afternoon reverie. And
there it is again. Your face is in the clouds and laughing
in the thunder. I stretch my arms and wonder what it is
you’re going to do.  I reach my arms up to the sky in hopes  

to catch it as it goes by. But all I catch of it is your tears
as you release them in the rain. And now I see the pain
there on your face. I hang my head and cry with
you. The blueberries weep too and stain my dress blue.

Remember the time before you
grew tired? You gave me Thornton. I keep it
with me to bring up pleasantries before this
got broken.  The dedication inside from

mother said “Be Joyful” I hold it with glee,
a souvenir of that year, sometime in
December.  It brought a shiver of uncertainty,
when clouds covered this memory.  It still holds

together despite its loose binding. I told you
one day you’d walk away. Then made it happen. I can’t
copy it. I would if I could. I tried but it wouldn’t
print out. Lucky for me, I hold the original.

anymore. My *******
aren't perky. They fall down
to the floor. My spirit's flopped over
and bored. My hunny's ******* has failed

inspection from the doctor. Even my chin
sags in disgrace. Why it's grown a twin! And my
tomato plants need to be tied because they droop
like my ***. It makes me asks

does anything stay up -
certainly not I.
I'm in bed before the sun goes down.
Even my smile has turned into

a frown. I can't get up after I've been
sitting to long. My knees don't cooperate. They knock
together like a couple a pair of boxers in the ring. Ah,
it's hell when you get to my age!

new. I reinvent myself
into something else. I never
get bored or discontent. If I
were to get bored I’d

become a city. And if was looked
down with great pity then I
wouldn’t stay stuck being dumb. I’d
turn  myself into a kingdom.

Azure
Flashes of lighting
Cutting crisscross
The veins in your arms
The tops/da boss
I’m not talking blue eyes
I see Robin egg skies
Hatching chicks

You dig this
This ain’t your mom’s
Blueberry pie
It a punch in da eye
It’s electric
You dance/you move
It’s a jazz band
In the Fat City
It’s Calvin Klein
You going for this ditty

hit me hard
hanging me from a rope tied to a tree
as a Piñata of blue, purple, and red
till all the sweet in me
spills and spreads
and the boys and girls run to pick up
the flying candy
I’ll die as a cavity in their teeth

shatter it in smithereens
exploding the pieces as a potato
in a microwave
so, my bits stick to the sides
in a mushy yellowy resin
I’ll die in a potato heaven

If you’re going to break my heart
pin me down as a frog
on a tray
as I lay split me open
pulling out my organs
starting with the heart
and ending with the lungs
serve my legs in a cuisse de grenouille
with a chunk of brie
I’ll die a delicacy

that his Tommy Bahama
thyme linen shirt
is pressed. Every day he’s
dressed in a new color with
a stand-up collar.

He cares
that is ebony satin hair
is coiffured and sprayed,
parted on the left side and laid
flat. No gust of wind can
disturb that!

He cares
that his cobalt convertible
BMW is washed and waxed. He’s not
relaxed till it glitters as gold. If
there's a scratch on the leather
next week it's sold.

He cares
that his wine cellar
is stocked with Dom Perignon
in the first row up top.

He cares
about women -
every one of them,
long as they're beautiful,
young and thin.

a gun
will you pull the trigger?

If I hand you
my bottle
will you take my last jigger?

If I hand you
a sentence
will you commit the crime?

If I hand you
my heart
would you make me some time?

If I hand you
a story
would you put it in print?

If I hand you
a clue –
Can you take a hint?

You pulled me in your dry cracked skin
with callouses so big they needed a glove-
compartment. Filled the cup with cherry wine. It was
my PICC line. And I laid there with nothing

to do. I barely could move because I was
attached to it. It was inserted in my veins. You thought
this was required, for my benefit. I was sent home
still attached to it. But it made me sick. It left

me cold. I needed a person to hold,
not a line. A line was words that I wrote. It was
a sheet of music for me to share. It
wasn’t meant for sole distribution You took on that,

with your circus flare and body works, even when
I wasn’t there. You did it through the line. And when
I ripped if off the blood shot out. I was drained and ghastly. Look
at how much it cost me. The bruise is still there

reupholstered as a chair. But I’m not. The umbilical cord
is tossed. I’m still writing lines, yet not attached to one. I said
I was done with it. I’m free. I’ve movement. I still miss
being hooked-up. But I’m better off

walking around in an adult's body pained
from men and women that were put on
this earth to protect me, at the least respect
me. Black and blues fade. Scabs grow over

cuts with new skin. But the scars hid inside are
as stars in the night sky. None can see the monstrosity
of their size with only naked eyes. The growth that is
measured at school in feet and test scores ignores

the pygmies of a rose in a ****** glove. None count
the teardrops or sleepless nights, holding onto goose
feathers stuffed in a pillow. Head hung down as a weeping
willow. They'll fit you for a bra. But not fit you in their

hearts. They'll make plans for you. But you can't
plan on them. They look at you as a music box that shuts off
off when they close the lid. Then the little ballerina stops
dancing on her pole.

you turned to frost
looking like white moss
I knew I had lost you forever.
I could floss my teeth on your

spiny shards you planted as
body guards to protect you
from invasion. No gentle persuasion
could pull you out

of this. I knew no more of bliss,
only this - deepest sorrow.
I pray to you I miss those endless days
of sunshine when you grew apples

in your backyard. Was before
the frost hit them hard. And the apples fell
off the boughs. Down came baby, cradle
and all. Head first, hitting the earth.

like the sun
coming up
in the morning.
I’m a boat,
and he’s my mooring.

I just need to hear him
like the birds
in the forest.
I’m a song,
and he’s my chorus.

I just need to see him
like a rainbow
in the sky.
He’s the reflection
that colors my eyes.

in the air.
A cloud of smoke
sitting as a bloke
in a wingback chair.

Hear me
in a breeze.
Waving branches
large as ranches
whipping through the trees.

Touch me
in the rain.
Bubbling drops
of brewing hops
dripping through the pain.

Taste me
in the snow.
Powdered sugar
in a pressure cooker
puff as pastry dough.

Smell me
in the sun.
A rose garden
if you pardon
refreshes everyone.

I feel like a bulging drip
on the ceiling tiles, as it grows heavy. It must shed
from its own weight. It collects in a bucket
of overused smiles. Gets thrown out once it’s filled up,

along with the mildew and other rot of broken
promises and lost thoughts. The tinny sound of each plunk
leaves me in a funk. So, I naturally crawl
back inside the spaces overhead where the furring

strips have lost their grip. At some point the whole thing
will collapse like a house of cards unevenly
stacked. But until it happens, I’ll go kerplop. Make bluesy music
with each resounding drop until I reached the top,
and get emptied out again like a longshoreman.

There is no middle ground
The middle ground bottomed out
The compromise was selling short

No concealer to hide
tired, puffy eyes.
No paint-on lips
with rouge lip-stick.
No mascara that extend
eye-lashes to no end.
No swept-on blush
that give an added touch
to make one look flush.
All you can see
The natural me.

the time has come
not later
not tomorrow
not when you feel like it
not when you think it’s right
not when you’re ready
you’ll never be ready
no more excuses
no more hedging your bets
the moment is upon us
say
Yes

about the other
side. I don’t even understand
this side. I’m not sure some days
which side I’m on. Besides my side
I’m not sure I want to enter something
I’m not sure of, unless someone gives me
all the answers, and they all come
with written guarantees. The older I get
the more this bothers me.

for lines anymore. Once I
clung to them, walking the tight
rope. Man was I a dope! Spooling
piece of thread.  Till I strangled myself
as it wrapped around my head.

I don't fall
for bodies anymore. Buffed
six-packs and lean. They're not
real. They're all machines! No flab
or cellulite. And all their clothes fit
tight. I've parted with men looking like
they walked off the red carpet. Their egos
fill the room like smoky fumes.

I don't fall
for degrees anymore. Hanging on the wall
with emblems in gold. If I must carry
a dictionary as we speak bury me
in a week!

I don't fall
for money anymore. Sports cars
driving at dizzying speeds. Custom-made
suits made of silky tweed. Houses so large
I must carry a map, or I'm lost as I
proceed.

I don't fall
for chemistry, buckling knees,
or floating butterflies in my
stomach. They only make me
plummet. Walking around like a zombie
I can't see straight ahead of me.

I rise
now I see with both my eyes!

as I pushed out
into this hard world
a cold wet baby girl
through screams and men’s
hands wrapped around
the tiny infant

I was alone
as I sat for lunch
shoulders hunched over
my lunch
in the school cafeteria
blending in with the exterior

I was alone
an only child
in my room
as girls went to dances
and parties
proms and semi-formals
I was not normal

I was alone
in his company
standing as a door frame
that he walked through
hanging over him as the blue sky
a cherry silhouette
on standby

he holds up for me
just like orange, red and
gold leaves. They're looking full of
color till they turn squalor. Then breaking

from the trees drift in a breeze. He's wiped
me off as a sneeze. The built-up he couldn't
resist, a tickle that had to persist. The poem

with a twist. The mask didn't fit. He wore
it snug, a burden for him to lug. Years of  
billowing dust turned the diamonds to rust.

I got into my car and drove
to his place. It was a dark and cold October night
when I crashed into a woman’s car that was
out of my sight. I didn’t stop and pull over. So, she

followed me down Main Street to his home. The
lights in his office where on. He was seeing
a patient. I’m surprised when he didn’t hear the sirens
blaring right outside his window. The woman I hit

called the police. I was so drunk;
I thought I was done. Not a scratch on my Red
Rio. The policeman walked around the vehicle a few times,
surprised. He asked me to roll down my window. I thought

for sure he was going to take me in. He only gave me
a warning “don’t leave the scene of an accident”
And then they all left, the woman whose car I totaled
and the policeman. I got out of the car in a

drunken daze. I couldn’t remember his front
gate. I must have walked around the place several
times before I found the latch to let me in at last. It must
have been a guardian angel that night that saved my life.

hanging in a dimming sky
an outline of a face
flat with just a trace
of a trimming sigh

eating up the night
drinking the starlight
swinging side to side
like a vampire bride

clinging to her past
walking the same path
on broken glass
she cuts her heels and cries

fading under the moon
lying in a spoon
the sun painting her lies
in Strawberry-Rhubarb pie

She asserted her wiles gaily.
A precocious child,
you covered in love daily.
You called her wild.
She played inside your baily.

Threw her clothes on the floor,
she got naked.
Came onto you like a *****,
hoping to make it.
You couldn’t take it anymore.

When angry she gets very mean,
flails and screams.
She’s impossible for one to wean.
So it seems
you’re stuck with a capricious queen.

has not a trace of
love. It hangs on
the neck like a pair of boxing
gloves. Brows are thin

and spread uneven. The eyes
have no shine. They're clouded
thick like meat in brine. The nose
rose like a mountain in the air. I see

through the nostrils all the grey
hair. Cheeks are pale. There's more
color in my glass of ale. The mouth
is stuck in a pout. Cannot catch a

smile. I'd have more luck fishing
for trout. The head oscillates like
a fan. You look the same. But
you're not the same man.

cut-up, bloodied hearts
you can string them
or fling them
for fun

you can be old
or you can be young

cubed and arranged in angles
go on, make them dangle

neatness is for geeks
Ok! Ok!
I admit -
I’m a freak