I cannot scratch
like this spot
in the middle of my back
a dancing dot
below my rolling shoulders
red hot
where my sunburn smolders
A tight knot
tied around my belly
I can't swat
my hands are jelly
I'm fraught
I cannot reach
the peeling clot
with biting teeth
I plot
to shake it loose
So, I squat
where none can see
my taut
back rubbing against the tree

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

to me. He listens to them
spill their problems. Falls asleep
with pills he stores in his bedroom
drawer. Flirts with the ladies

in Rome. A husband and
a father. Has two homes, one up
north and one down south.  Drones
over dinner.  He's grown thinner

with age. But easy to engage. He likes
*** loud, but his woman soft as a fleece
bathrobe. Travels the globe. He's a
cartoon character wearing baseball

caps, flapping his gums in-between
afternoon naps. I read his lines,
and he mine. And that is that. One thing
I'll say - we never fall flat.

that can switch his eyes,
nose. mouth, and hands. He turns
hats faster than an alley cat. Filling
the holes in red blue and gold. Yesterday

stood a boxer asking for a rematch.
Today he’s a pirate donning
his eyepatch. I can’t tell the mask he’ll
wear. His parts are strewn

everywhere. His smile as a clown
turns into a mustache-colored
brown. He puts on boots, sneakers
leather shoes, and suits. He's a villain.

He's a hero, a reptilian, a Robert
De Niro. If I could only bake
fry, mash, or stuff him! Throw him
in my oven. But I'm not a glutton.

lying on the ground in a junkyard
full of metal, broken pieces of
glass and barbed wire shards
smelling like trash and

smoked cigars. Tetani spores at
the tip. Do not trip over him. His kiss,
lockjaw. His touch saws you in
two. He stuck inside my shoe. Poked

a hole right through,
till I bled blue raspberry. My head
spun like I drank the sherry. A tin can
without a label. A dented car door

and a scratched-up two-legged
table. He nailed me, this smiling debris
over crumpets and tea. My only rue,
the day I merged with a rusty scourge.

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.

melting in the sun. His life had begun
on a cold December day, with a round
pointed nose. And two twigs for arms. I’ll often
remember him with a cherry licorice grin

curled upon his face and his top hat
out of place sliding on his bald pate. This heart
began to thaw. But as the days marched on,
so little of him I saw.  He couldn't stand

the heat. And every day we meet, I'd have less
of him to hold. As spring danced into blooming
gardens and dandelions he sprung a leak. By April
he was just a puddle at my feet. He dried up at noon

leaving only his hat and scarf in the silver
shadows of the moon. Was he made up in this head
from all the books I read? Or was he a rolling
stone that couldn’t find a home?

infesting my floors
and walls. Eating through
the cherry wood till there's a
hole where my house once

stood. He's a pathogen
invading my body with his,
injecting the poison in a shot
of release like a pent up

sneeze. He's smog, polluting
the air I breathe, blocking
my lungs till I wheeze. He's
a bacterial infection spreading

into my tissue. Knocking down
cells, making my brain swell. He's a
malignant tumor growing every day,
till I putrefy in a pool of his lies.

shaking the ground, pitching
his sound just like a tenor. He's making
me wheeze. My lungs are whistling
like a kettle. And of yet, they have

not settled. He's a disease. My liver,
foie gras, black as char, a smoking
cigar. A blocked artery. A growing
malignant tumor spreading around like

a high school rumor. An all-over body rash
with mountainous boils, popping
and making a splash. He’s head lice,
clawing my long golden hair. *******

the blood up there. Here's a fourth
degree burn peeling my skin back
at every turn. He's an anaphylactic shock -
like the hands of a broken clock. I stop.

without the branches
to extend.
No perch for a rest.
No bough for baby’s nest.

His limbs are gnarly spokes.
that poke out like a witch’s crippled
finger pointing to the south.
He’s ashen and he’s barren as

an old lady’s womb. He’s excavated
and sunken as an ancient mummy’s
tomb. He’s better off taken
down and used for firewood.

in a cockle shell
after finding him rolled up
and peeling in the drawer. I swore
to preserve his memory in glass

and not coffee stains. I cut it neatly
to sit in the frame. In life he didn't fit
so trim. But in death he wore a large
*** grin. He sat with his grandson

on his knee. They looked like cherries
jubilee. Before his cancer and
grandson's near death/before his wife's
last breath. Before the ambulance came

to the house, and wheeled his wife
and grandson out. Before his break-down
and residence in the asylum is this picture
of him smiling.

not as old
as the mountains
or the trees
in the redwood forest

He’s moving slower
not as slow
as the Galapagos tortoise
he moves with purpose

His body’s softer
not as soft
as goose down
but soft enough
to wrap my arms around
and feel protected

He's lighter colored
not as light
as an albino
or a ball of floured
pizza dough
the darker hairs
have turned gray
the blush of crimson
on his face
has melted into butter
but I could love no other

next month with a box
of masks and a bottle of
liquor. He has to
to do his labs.

He’s going back
to a reduced
student body. There’ll have
no dating or parties.

He’s going back
without a job. They made
cuts in the payroll.

He’s going back
The stakes
are high.

Here’s going back
even if he’ll lose all
his money if the college closes early.

Here’s going back
He’ll pack his things and wave goodbye.

The lawn's grown high over
the thick padded soil that covers
the hole like the skin over a boil.
The space on the grey stone is

carved under his
mother's. The last year
on his father's have not filled
in. But he's alive and thrives

in my suffering. I've seen it
in photos, not in person.
His clothes that he wore
don't fit him. His mountainous

biceps flopped. The taut stomach
dropped. And I wonder if
he lost that wide-tooth grin. Now he
can rest/hands crossed under

his bearded chin/over his breast
without all the stress that placed him
there. Gone his worries. He's in
no hurry. At last, he's home.

He will stay put. He will not roam.
Death, the only thing tied
him down. Death itself wings,
to higher ground.

a tortoiseshell.
But not a living thing
does dwell.

He’s harder than
a tall brick wall.
But not a crack
for an ant to crawl.

He's harder than
a steel locked cage,
throwing woman into
his blind rage.

He’s harder than
a concrete slab.
His heart’s manufactured
in a lab.

yellow as the sun.
But as a lemon,
bitter was his taste
lying on my tongue.

He shined
red as my satin lipstick.
But as I pressed him to my lips,
like a virus
I fell sick.

He shined
as a silver dollar.
But as he pulled me close,
I choked
like wearing a tight dog collar.

He shined
as a gold mine.
But as our bodies danced,
he pickled me like brine.

as a chocolate bunny
wrapped in golden foil
don't spend your money
you can poke a hole

through him
slide your finger in
and he'd break a part
pieces dry and thin
not a work of art

biting into emptiness
he looked like more
but had much less
not even a core

he won't fill you up
he's like piping hot coffee
in a small disposable paper cup
a sip is all you get
the paper's mush when wet

inside my head. He's a child I cannot
put to bed. He'll not sleep. He's up
all night, asking for a glass of water,
starting a fight. He wakes me up at

three o'clock. He knocks on
my bedroom door. He stomps his feet
on my floorboards. I rise to the sound
of him. He's blended in my morning

coffee. Sticks to me like butter
toffee. Even the crimson leaves let
go before the December snow. Why do I
still remember? It's been years since that

September. January floats my breath in
billowing clouds that don't lose their steam.
A paper princess cannot scream. He's just
an imitation of my imagination.

mirror, growing smaller
than a beetle and so
clearer. When he was larger
than life he was fuzzy as

a high-winded kite. I,
tethered to his string,
held onto the whole tangled,
twisted thing. Pulling

it with me as it cut
into my hand. Bleeding
a bright strawberry jam,
attracting hornets, and

dancing in
the buzz. Does it
make me slow down?
Does it not turn me around?

in the attic of this head,
taking up the space between
my ears. There's no room
for song or rhyme. There's no time

for rest or sleep. I'm a sheep
without a flock. I'm a holey puppet
sock. I'm a pool of wax. I just can
not relax. I toss like ***** laundry

in the washing machine. But never
get clean. I'm a foggy mirror,
the bearer of yesterday. I cannot
wipe away these thoughts with

a damp cloth. I cannot drown them
in the lime and gin. They’re embedded
in my skin. They stick like tar and feather,
matted to the brain. If they were ***** bath

water I'd pull the plug and drain
the mess out.  But my arms are not
wings. They're chains that cannot reach  
shore. My head's anchored to the ocean floor.

every day. His hands
drive him, steering him straight
and back, over sidewalk
cracks.  Turning him left

and right into the night. Taking him
up hills and down streets,
into the grocery store without
leaving his seat. In the rain and

the snow, as the March winds
blow. On a hot day in June, the scorching
sunny afternoons.  Looking at women
from his chair. The walking world

so unaware of the car
that hit his bike. And left him
in a coma overnight. But his sneakers
don't *****. He’s worn the same pair
since the ripe age of thirty!

with chestnut doe eyes
warm as my apple pie. Just a set
strawberry cheeks
sitting next to a nose high

as meringue peaks. He’s just
a mouth of cherry lips that slip open
to rows of pearl onion teeth with
a rounded peachy chin fitting him

underneath. Two ears sticking out
like turkey wings. But those ears don’t
hear a thing I say. They’re just two
organs on display, below the thinning

wisps of grey. I stared at his face
with my own when we're alone. I stared
on screens and papers, during long silences
and many capers.  I’ve seen the shiny melon

head every night in my dreams
as I lie in bed. He’s just face
that’s stuck like a cork in the bottle
of Cold Duck.

than you. He doesn’t care
for money or station. He can spend
hours smiling at the sun, picking a
flower/beading a string. He

doesn’t care a thing about labels
or how he looks. I often find him
head deep in a book. He’s
happy just to see me. We go for

a walk, with none of that
highbrow talk. He’s happy
for all he has. But many wouldn’t
say he has much. He has touched

my life like none ever can. And
he’s more a man than you. He fell
into a coma and came through losing
his memory. And was labeled

handicapped. In a snap, his life
turned from running rivers to shards of
splinters. He was beaten and tormented
for this. And he's more a man than you. He rises
with the sun and smiles with the moon.

like gravy on mashed
potatoes. Coated in the sauce
swimming on and around
I was lost. Drowning out

my light, covered in
a blanket of white laying over
me. I turned ash from green, hitting
a deep freeze. Like brown leaves
in autumn choking my velvet

bottom. At first, he was cool
and sweet like whipped cream
on a sundae. I dived into
his dish like an Olympic gold

medalist. But seasons change, and
with it, purple rain. A clouded sky of pink
elephants marching by. Now I’m a wispy
willow smothered in a drink and pillow.

I run the rapids
on his back. A rocky ride,
an avalanche of spray
and chance. Twists and

turns. Old returns
of smiles have me belted
in the moving whirlwind. I’ve
fallen off once or twice. But the water’s

cold as ice. And I can’t swim. He
has a knack for pulling me
back. Mountains and trees, swirling
leaves of memories steady me, amongst

the spider sun. I spun and spun
as a **** on a vane. Now the falls
are fast here as a cockroach
in the kitchen cabinet. I’ve no regret.

even if he wears pants
and walks upright
upstairs in his head
there is no light

He's not a man
even if he has ****** hair
and shaves his hedge
or grows a beard
he lives on razor's edge

He's not a man
even with hanging *****
notches on his bed
he doesn't care
he's in the red

He's not a man
even though he pays taxes
golfs on Sunday
holds a college degree
look at Ted Bundy

He's the dew on the
morning lawn. He builds
nests inside her head. She
can't rest with a hummingbird

hovering in her ears. He's the coffee
and the bacon. No mistaken he's
the itch in the middle of her back
she can't scratch. He's the speck

floating in her iris. He's the shot
and the virus. He's the air she breathes,
the pollen, and the sneeze. He's the sun
over the horizon. He's the moon that

lies in the sea. He's you and
he's me. He's the trees standing
tall, the crimson leaves in the fall. He's icicles
dangling off the eaves. He's not gone.
He doesn't leave.

in the pockets of my head. And just as
a tenant that won’t pay the rent
I’ve no room left. My emotions
all spent. He’s lasted past the date

I’ve ousted him out. Standing still
like a big toe with gout. Painful to move,
swollen and red, I'm a mechanical pencil
without the lead. I've drowned him in a hundred

proof. But he didn't leave as my head
hit the roof. If only I didn't let him in. If only
I listened to the voice in my ears that
grew or cut the wings of the butterflies that flew

in circles in my stomach,  I wouldn't have
plummeted into the abyss. If only I knew his kiss
is my death wish.

I’d like to chip off a piece
to see what’s underneath. I think
beyond the gloss he’s white
as a sheet. They stripped him down,

spackled up his cracks, and filled
in his holes. They papered him in red tin soldiers
and vaulting poles. And when the paper yellowed
they rolled on purple paint. Coated it

in arms of an Italian saint. It went with the décor
of hanging wild horses on the wall and cherry
furniture. But spilled ink and perfume raised
the temperature. In darkness things are black.  Don't look

back. The cobwebs hang. I see gray sky,
and think it'll rain.

as a full moon
at night
dandelions growing in
my garden upright
the clouds sprinkling showers
a day with twenty-four hours

He's part of me
as wings on a butterfly
the golden sun filling the sky
apples swimming in ma's apple-pie
the tea leaves, camellia and mint
the steaming water in the kettle
a tint of amber pouring from the metal

He's part of me
this crusty scab covering my wound
the wound itself
settling dust on my bookshelf
the thorns on a rose
this juxtapose

like a ripe banana
smothered in strawberry and
vanilla ice cream. Swimming in
chocolate sauce. Buried headfirst
in the whipped cream. I was the cherry
he tossed.

He split
like a rip in my tight dungarees
into two halves.
In and out
like a breeze. Squeezing
my calves and bending my knees.

He split
me like a piece of firewood
with his axe. He was splintered
from his childhood.  I was too.

He split
like a fat lip
that's been punched
by a clenching fist.
Bleeding and swollen,
twisted as my colon.

He split
like a ballerina
in a swan song.
Like a crack in my ****
that a thong cannot cover.
He's a hotel lover.

you cut it down
and it grows back
as a clinging vine
that acts as twine
cutting off the view
an oily sap
wet as morning dew
***** out crap with glee
the ***** sticks around
like this virus
shakes his ***
as Miley Cyrus
his is hairy
how dare he
try again

as raspberry jam
with the seeds sticking
to my feet. So, I cannot walk
off without them
caught in the grooves of my shoes.

He spread himself
as spilled perfume that
stains my dress. It left an
odor thicker than an engine
motor. And I was trapped
under his hood.

He spread himself
as honey. And it was runny,
clinging as it ran –
an amber steady strand.

like a loaf of bread
sitting in the pan
baking in the oven
to a golden tan

rising to the top
as the timer stops
a thick, hard crust
a lifted window

a honey gust
breezing through
like a pinto
and soft in the middle

as a pancake on the griddle
coated in a cactus syrup
as the buttered sun
melts into the trees

and the robin chirrups
and the dandelions sneeze
in parachute seeds
as dawn gives birth/another day

that I drink down
in my morning coffee
mixed with billowing clouds
sweetened as toffee

of rock. His arms are a
chisel. As he swivels
he chips off a piece. But not
square and neat. The jagged edge

scratches his head. The more he
sheds of the stone the smaller
it stands, until the rock fits
in his hands. It could have been

Washington or Lincoln. He's thinking
in color that went from red to yell
her. He just skips it now. But it doesn’t
bounce. Not part of the water, it sinks

down to the bottom. Living in a black
cave, a watery stave, life dances around
it. But home is the desert.

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.

like Velcro
two strips of plastic sheets
with loops and hooks for teeth
hanging on the wall

He's stuck
as a gold ring
on a swollen finger
the fat wraps around the metal
like spackle in the cracks
so hard I'd need an ax

He's stuck
like a needle
on a phonograph
running over the same track

He's stuck
like Pooh's head
in the honey ***
drowning in that sweet spot

into the ozone
in his perennially youthful bubble
looking the double of a young man
that ran from home

at age four
with only the clothes
on his back
to the building with the banners

housing those that can not tell
they just bowed their heads and wept
as you thinly slept
it’s like that now –

you’ve seen
the pernicious
of all this can do
to someone unprotected

waiting for kindergarten
and Peter Sam  
none understand
and you don’t want them too

dank and dark. You are stellar,
the light the spark. He's
a dirt basement, no floors
or walls. Just an encasement,

a hole to crawl. He's a vault,
a crypt. A musty cave equipped
with rickety stairs. And hairy spiders
that tarry. A spot for rats that carry

disease. A tight squeeze. Cobwebs
fill the corners, a home for waifs
and foreigners. You're the villa,
the courtyard and grape vines. He's

the pit, the shaft, the mine. You see,
he’s the bottom, below the earth. Slimy
mold of girth. You're the roof, the top.
From you to him is a long drop.

He's the sauce.
Covers all his lumps in gloss.
He's the tinsel gold and red,
patching all the holes with thread.

He's the floral wrapping
tied with a satin bow.
But his packaging
is all for show.

He's the shiny skating rink.
But as you dance it cracks.
You sink!

that has you cut out
the seeds of his watermelon
dust the dirt off the ground
hold the umbrella over his head
so, not a drop can get him wet
every perfect hair in place
the gel completely set
a manicure is next
his calendar is full
you’ll have to take a number
as you do at the deli
his six-pack glistens in the sun
he doesn’t have a belly

the type that doesn't
get a crumb in his moustache
not a crease in his clothes
has his shoes shined every day
on his lapel a pinned rose
drives a Lamborghini
has a yacht in Sicily
jet skis
hovercrafts
rose petals inn his bath

the type that doesn’t laugh

that moves me along
When my legs are pinned
his wings are strong
He howls through
the trees
I drip as the dew
by a scant breeze
when morning comes new

He’s the earth
that catches my drip
He can give birth
from one little sip
what springs up is a blade
that grows in the sun
to provide earth its shade

blowing the rooftops
off houses. Turning over
trees. Spreading his vermin like
seeds in big gusts. Shedding

the husks from women
like corn. All that was still
is airborne. He’s a black funnel
of smoke. He’ll crawl into her

tunnel and choke the life
out of her/making her eat
her words/and dressing them up
as dessert. And all the while he flirts!

to his calendar. Every day
is filled as the layers in
a cake. No more room on
his plate.

He’s tied
to his thoughts. Just as
the blocks in a Jenga game
they stack on top in a square
frame.

He’s tied
to his cell.  It's swelled his head and
wired to his hands. He stares at it
night and day. It’s turned him
to stone/his Medusa phone.

He’s tied
to his laptop. The only fruit
you see is the apple on his screen. He touches
letters and numbers, dancing with
his fingers, lingering over pronouns,
stuck as jabbing splinters.

He’s tied
down with lies/*******
in his work. Jerking women
around. Cut the ties –
stop acting the clown!

of people inside his space
of going outside, himself
of sitting on the grass
six feet apart wearing a mask

The world is relaxing the rules
while he's pertinacious as the mules
“It’s not safe”
is his opinion

I still visit him
behind the glass
without a mask
Still go to the park –
just don’t swing or sit
Still go to the store
but out to dinner’s a chore
Still sporting a burn at the pond
Up at dawn

I’m happy to see my son as ever
for months I’ve tied to a tether
no visits with him
meet-ups slim

Some things just don’t change
Love is one

like a hornet
black tie yellow jacket
singing like a sonnet
letters tied in a packet

bright red and burning
welts dancing in pain
tossing and turning
he Tarzan, I his Jane

I didn't see him land
off in a trance of gin
cannot say life is bland
he's underneath my skin

I pen it in blood ink
with ice to cool the swelling
and as I slowly sink
epoxy for the telling

with you. You were
in the same school, in
an underworld of sharks. I reached out
in the dark for your hand. You didn’t

understand. But you replied
in a suit and a tie. I threw out a line
to you. I baited you. And you
bit hard with an old postcard. I look

at the shaggy, black hair and
beard and quiver. Four years
he fell to the angels. Five,
since the last goodbye. You can call

me a fish. Not sober
since October, 2009. I put it in
pen. A couple men seen the plunge
but are biting their tongue.

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

on paper like a painter
with his brush. He crushed out
the lines till they were fine chestnut
powder that he sprinkled on me
like chocolate shavings on whipped cream.

He talked
on air like a dewdrop
on a blade of grass. It just rolled
off his lips in drips that pooled
in puddle on the floor. And he slipped
on it heading out the door.

He talked
over me like a breeze blowing
a **** on a weathervane. I swirled
in colored circles on the plane. And he
dipped like a chip in the salsa, as I floated
on it like a piece of balsa.

He talked
on and on like a recorder
as I flung like a fugitive over
the border to a quiet land to hear
the butterflies. And I skipped in fields
of dandelions.

like a Rat Tail comb running through
my hair, with his bone. Back and forth
with rows of teeth. Encircling my head
like the red and golden ***** in a Christmas

wreath. Hovering like a hummingbird,
******* my nectar with his whetted
needle. Singing a song from Taylor to
wheedle. Like a child pulling a prank. Bending

my torso over his lap to spank. I grew
blue in color, like a fish tangled in
the net of a trawler. And as bantering
boys on the school playground

he was quick with a sally. Every fling
that he flung he knew I kept tally. But I too,
batted my lashes. And we kicked up dust
as we burned down in ashes.