after three years
of nillsvilve. He asks
about my ****. He is
stalking me without my authority.

He texts
incognito looking for facts
without my finding out. But
I did.

He texts
after locking himself up
in a little trailer home
hitched to his wife. It's this
virus that shuts people inside.

He texts
Now and not Then –
when I needed him. I block
him.

he's a silver fox.
But he lives
in a ******* jack box,
sugar coated walls

with a little toy trinket
that he bangs as meat.
How can he think it
so sweet?

Holding his prize.
Wearing a ******'s hat
Swimming in molasses lies.
He’s twitching

in a buttery mess.
In a plate of
bra and *******
hose and saffron dress.

she'd stand planted there
to plunge into
as his striped upholstered chair

to kick his feet up
like he does on the ottoman
and turn to gelatin
as collagen

clear as the fuzzy slippers
next to him on the hardwood floor
lying in the darkness
as the magazine in his bedroom drawer

the printed colored cover
pulled from her perch
slender and thin-skinned
like that of a birch

He thought
tomorrow roll in
like a cool ocean breeze
not leave him holding his head
falling to his knees

meetings.
I told him no. He thought
I should go. What I needed was
backyards and slides,

sandboxes with grass
growing inside. I just needed
ropes with logs
that you could climb. I only

needed a warm face
looking through
the glass
happily, surprised.

like confetti at New Years’ Eve
sprinkling on me
as rainbow-colored showers
blooming as a garden of flowers
that he didn’t water
he did not bother

He threw them at me
like rice at a wedding couple
ever so supple
and I fried them up in matzo *****
but they knocked me down as rolling pins
he's only practicing

He threw them at me
like a bucket of rain
yellow and stained
soaked me
until my clothes stuck to my skin
heavy and dripping
I held the empty bucket  
of his promises
full of drain holes
making puddles around my toes

the ground that I
was walking, turning over,
breaking up everything
in my path. Knocking over

the flowers with his
wrath. Pulling on the roots,
the baby green leaf
shoots. His rollerblades

smashing me as a pin-
ball arcade against my walls,
through the screams and
squalls. I gave birth to his

broken earth. As the sun
set the crimson sky wept this
broken ground wet. Thank you
Mr. Miller, the machine-man tiller.

he would never get worn down
by need.  So, when I called him all
crying and shaking he never returned
my call. That’s when I turned to alcohol.

He told me
he would be there in times
of trouble. So, when I told him I was
drunk he let me leave, as if the words hadn’t
sunk in. And I almost got in an accident.

He told me
some things. Other things he
kept. And when I wept, he never
held me like he used to do, He passed me
the box of tissue.

as a dime
when she’s a silver dollar.
She’s often home.
But he hasn’t time
to call her.

He treats her
as a chicken egg
when she is caviar.
She often begs.
He smokes her
as a fat cigar.

He treats her
as brass
when she's solid gold.
Her arms spread out to him.
But his, like a pretzel fold.

He treats her
as lint,
often brushing her off.
She took the hint.
And broke it all off.

by having me pop in
when the pepper-mill was full,
and one more crinkly black round
wouldn’t have the top fitting sound. He tried

by sitting on the bottom,
when all the other pieces would
fall on top of him, and he’d be that much
closer to the grinder. He tried

by flaking off, snowing dark
and hot, emptying out and mixing
with my salt. But all I saw were bits and
pieces I abhorred.

by sticking his hand
between his legs
or putting it behind
his head
it’s slowly degenerative
or sticking it
inside his pocket
the doctors are testing
or holding it
with the
the other one
or crossing his legs
so, one sits higher
to hide it behind
the pertinent tower
so, maybe she won’t see
or pay much heed
but she always does
it hits hard –
when it’s love

On
as a radio
playing soft
and sweet
I danced to the notes
hanging on the door
until the song
stopped

He turned
Off
as a light switch
in the dark
not even a shadow
for a friend
blackness engulfing him

He turned
On
with a blast
as electric beater
scattering the batter
up the sides
and over
sticking to the cabinets
and counters

He turned
Off
the side of the road
dropped to the ground
and rolled

He turned
On
as merry-go-round
I, rode the horse
holding tightly the pole
sliding up
and down
without letting go

a wrinkled blouse inside out
seams and tags sticking out
you can see the fabric and the size
the cycle for washing
labeled on the collar
and the price-tag hangs how many dollars
the colors faded yellow
the buttons on the cuffs are hidden
as the holes and the stitching
looks like she was thrown in a laundry basket
she asked if she could remove port wine stains
sweat and hair and dirt ingrained?

A honey field of cornflowers
into a rolling grey sky of showers
all the planted seeds
into a land of overgrown weeds

He turns
back the hands on the clock
I'm a child that cannot talk
the dots on my i's and bars on my t's
are all in a state of deep freeze

He turns
a bright smile upside down
into a brown cracking pale frown
drains all the color from my eyes
I'm a ghost who mournfully cries

He turns
yesterday into a twisted tumor
doing so with cackling humor
today is painted in matted black
has me ******* like a gunny sack

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.

“I’m thinking of you” for
everyone. It’s something
that’s there for him to rely on when
he’s confused. Whether it’s true

or not doesn’t matter. It’s one-
size fits all. It’s like a scarf. He can
wrap those words around any person
and for certain they’ll feel cared

for. It used to work on me. Not
anymore. Thy roll off his tongue and
fall to the floor. I brush them away with
the side of my foot as if they were

soot. I’m an original girl. Don’t feed me
warmed over leftovers. I deserve some-
thing freshly baked. Anything less
I simply won’t take.

as the star,
and I the red-carpet. He received
glowing reviews walking with
buckled shoes.

He walked over me
as autumn leaves
swirling around on the ground
crunching the sound of pieces flaking
under his leather soul, breaking into
the wind and the cold.

He walked over me
as the mat lying under
his door, wiping his feet, the dirt
and the grease on. I, the stain hung on.

He walked over me
a memory that he folded and tucked
in his bureau drawer, under his yellowed
hanky and stacks of papers and books,
in the nook. And he didn't gander
a second look, no sir.

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.

as the cornflower sheets
on my cherry four posted bed,
till I fitted him. Then he hugged me
tight around the edge.

He was flat
as a piece of carbon paper
that laid tacit on
my roll-top desk,
till I rolled him and
smoked him
like a cigarette.

He was flat
as the crepes
on my plate. So, I
stuffed him with strawberries
and coated him in cream
till he was sweet as cupcake.
Then I swallowed him down
with a chocolate milkshake.

He was flat
as my father's jokes,
unexpected and not invited,
but delighted me just the same.
So, I snapped him;
hung in a wooden frame.

telling me to live
the questions. Because
he was afraid of the answers.  He bed
lawyers and dancers. He was

my psychologist and
my lover. He used to cover
his ***** after ***.  Then we’d hit
the bars. He’d ask for the

check. And I would rush off
to pick up my son, a little numb
from the ***** martinis –
they weren’t as ***** as his

secrets. Nobody knew of his
neediness, only myself and the two
psychologists that I introduced him
to. He died with the lie, was buried

in his shame. But lived as a hero,
untarnished his name. I wrote a book
about it. I don’t keep secrets. When
they bury me I’ll be tarnished

but free.

but did he ever
made it look like it’s her fault
man, he was clever

He wasn’t supposed to
but that didn’t stop him
He climbed on top
her jungle gym
and swung non-stop
her every limb

He wasn’t supposed to
but he defined it
called it love
and came inside it

to help me
not help me to himself.
Doctor is written
in calligraphy after his name

hung in his office on the wall
in a wooden frame. All men
and women said this man's
well-read. He takes Plato and Keats

with him to bed. But he took me
to bed with him too. Only thing -
none of them knew!
Please read my true heartbreaking story -

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and I earth. He blinded
me with the sun and took from me
my berth. He hiccupped clouds
the size of trains, and poured on

fields of honey plains. He blew
his hot breath like a whistle making
the tall grass scrape my knees like
a bristle. He threw thunderbolts

sharp as pins encircling me
like shark fins. In the cold inky
blackness I skated on his frozen
madness. He dribbled hail of

basketballs breaking the door
of my sugar walls. And cut the moon
like cheese into wedges, driving
his hammer through my hedges.

not help himself to me. It’s tough
when you’re pretty. They only see you
in one context. They forget that you have
a mind inside that body. It’s alarming

and disturbing. But I’m learning. What I
thought felt right was wrong. They have a way
of convincing you that it’s you all along. They’re
very good at mind games. Look at the PHD displayed

there on the wall, to let you know who’s in
authority, really? They’re more ****** up
than anybody and will only take you down. I’ve been
down that road. And I’m here to tell you

it’s one-way ticket to hell. The degree on
the wall does not determine the degree
of kindness that you get. In fact, the higher
is sometimes the less.

on my golden ring sun.
The run on my no-intend pun.
He was the pin in the powdered keg.
My twin, my left leg.

He was my broken wing.
The woken man in a G-string.
A six-pack without the head.
An eight-track that's long dead.

He was the crack in the mirror.
The smack, so I couldn't see clearer.
He was a song without the chorus,
a **** that hit my *******.

I was a puppy in his hand.
He was the guppy
that landed in sand.

he made me
his little seed
and as such
it was then I became
unto his name
giving rise
I melted
overlapped
I pelted moonbeams
and gamma rays
fragments of
ice crystals
under his
fingernails
he tried to
shake off
as a dog does
when he’s
water-logged
and the beads
spread
until they’re
evaporated
he destroyed me
his little seed
before I grew
into a spore
and bore
my own

on wafer-thin ice.
He slipt and fell,
not once, but twice.
And the sun shone on

that pine forest pond.
The sun wore spandex
and was strawberry blonde.
And as he held her, a stick of butter,

the ice cracked
as his legs did flutter.
His arms flail
like the sail on a schooner.

And no sooner
had I said so,
he froze full frantic.
And sunk just like the great Titanic.

if it slid into him full throttle
as a baseball player sliding into
home-plate, kicking up the dirt into
his face. A mound of smoke rising

from the ground, the cheer of the
crowd. He wouldn't know love if it slapped
him silly. If it knocked out his two front teeth
nilly-*****. If he bled from the mouth

with a swollen lip. All he knows is
that he couldn't kiss. He wouldn't know
if it ran him over like a land Rover, leaving
tracks on his chest, scars up and down

from his hip to his breast. Cutting off
his legs and mangling his arms. He wouldn't
know love if it dropped him out of a plane, and
he hit the ocean like a freight-train!

He was a brick wall. I was a rubber ball
bouncing off him. He was the stone. I was
alone sitting next to him. He didn't read

a line/didn't hear a word I
said. My words, winged as birds
flew over his head. I swear

I was fog. I'd no visibility. I hung
like mist. But he'd no agility. I was
the blood-filled cyst he drained. He cut off

the tip and let run the pain. My screams
were bottled he didn’t uncork. I was
just a model he repeatedly forked.

Hey! Mr. Politian

do a dance for me.
Make your visions, oh so sweet.
Give us something to believe.
Make this world a better place
to raise our children.
Show us love and tolerance.
We don’t want guns or violence.
Give us peaceful sit-ins,
a world where everybody listens.
Tear down the walls and let
the people go to where they’re going.
Let woman have a choice,
the minorities a voice.
Give us better health care,
wages that are fair,
so we don’t have to live in poverty,
because no one should go to bed cold or hungry.
Let people decide who they want to be,
man, woman or beast. We’re all God’s children.
Let us acknowledge our vets
who left the safety of their homes
and went out into the great unknown
so that we may keep our freedom.
It’s the way things ought to be.
A man can love a man or a woman.
Families are divergent.
And finally, won’t you please let people
die in dignity, instead of painful, slow release.
Get rid of the propaganda.
How about some honesty?
Is it too much, all of this I’m asking?
So that when I go to sleep I wake up to a better tomorrow.

Each night I observe the constellations
and connect to something larger than we are.
It's Gods beauty for all of these creations.
Faith is pulling me up even higher than a star!

The moon is smiling bright in its elation.
It doesn't seem for me that very far!
I'm trying hard to follow its notation.
The notes are climbing steady on the bar.

I know I'm going to last the duration.
I'm catching all the moonbeams in a jar.
I'm never going to reach the saturation.
You see I'm speeding faster than a racing car!

There is for me this time no cessation!
The dark sky is sticking like I'm a feather in its tar.
I never before believed in reincarnation.
But how can you explain something this bizarre?

was made with grains
of sand. Molded with buttered
hands. The walls collapsed
in a wave. Too late for I to save.

His castle
was made in the clouds
with a grey shroud of mist
and a cyst full of doubt,
punching with his fist holes in
a fire sky. I was baked just like
the rye.

His castle
was made of milky paper,
sweet as a honey wafer. Pulled
from a cardboard book, smoked
and heavily shook. His grey ashes
landed on my eyelashes. So, I blinked.
He vanished in a wink.

was like his woman,
fast and loose. You couldn’t
put your fingers through
his hair because he wore too much

mousse.  When it was over, he’d
ask you to leave. You couldn’t help
but feeling cheap. He’s cut you down
like the growth on his face. You knew

you could be easily replaced. Are men
jerks because they’re handsome and
they know woman will act obsequious
just to get their attention?

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.

off some sea-beaten shore,
riding crestfallen waves
propelling a long wooden
oar. His back is slumped right

here in his rollerblade chair. But
his body is limp as his stringy
grey hair. And when I talk it's
like talking to air. His cheeks,

sunken valleys, pale as the noon
day moon. His face wrinkled and
dried like a prune. His lips hard, and
closed tight as a clam. His belly

is soft as strawberry jam. And
to think I was his doxy back in
the day, when I was young and had
moxie, and his legs were a sleigh.

running through my honey hair, leaving
my scalp bleeding. His scummy stare Medusa,
turning me to stone. His arms cleavers,
shattering my bones. His mouth

a volcano. Instead of saliva,
what swam through his gums was
molten hot lava. I couldn’t move. I fell
into the fiery pit. It wasn't hard to do, with his

dark looks and quick wit. If we
hadn't met I'd fly like a steel eagle into that orange
sunset, out over the horizon. And walk
among the burly bison.

was tighter than an anaconda. He road me
like he did his Honda. I was sugar in
his frying pan. He stoked me till I was

flan. Wiggly on his plate. I couldn't walk
with this wobbly gait. If I didn't break
free I'd break in two. So, I took a shot and wings

I grew. I didn't go far at first. It took months
to widen my berth. But once I hit the air, once
the weight of his stare was history

I saw him clear. With the rose cataracts removed
from my eyes I flew a thousand miles high.

behind his back
to his feet
to tarter black
to his teeth

His hands are tied
into a pretzel
knotted and twisted
like hammers
not quills
he stammers
pounds
and drills

His hands are tied
like a lullaby
he falls asleep  
he cannot say why
he only weeps

He couldn’t say because he took
an oath of secrecy. So, he had to sit there
and act dumb, like he knew nothing. That’s
what happens when you put yourself in the middle
of a no-win situation with two patients –
and one of them, the psychologist forbids you
from telling. This was a ******-up situation from
the start. But she asked you to get involved. And
you couldn’t tell her no. Neither could he –
that’s how she landed up in his bed. That’s how
this relationship started. They both come to his session –
because your seeing him alone too. He’s more ******* up
than you. Because at least you didn’t **** her –
though she tried with all her might you never gave in,
not even one time. He sits on the couch with her, fidgeting
with his pen looking chagrin. She’s trying to get at the truth –
tells him he’s trapped. They both deny it out flat. What
do you do with that? Come back for more of the same torture.

spread like the virus. Plagued
by a curious iris. He can’t cover
his tracks. Infecting me with

with his inconsistencies. Yet he
feels the one under attack by my
questions. I make suggestions how

he could improve.  But he’s not
in the mood. Things gets intensive
the more he gets defensive. Truth

is an absolute must
if we’re going to establish
any trust.

in rows like cornfields.
Every direction I go
there's more to follow.
I cannot swallow
them whole.

His lies lie
uneven like my lawn
from dusk till dawn.
I’m not drawn to them.

His lies lie
down like a gambler’s
money on the table.
I'm not able to pick up.

His lies lie
on his head
like a cap -
flat.
He spat them out
of his mouth
like a downspout
running into the gutter.
I don't listen to him mutter.

wrinkled
as a slept-in bed
disheveled from heavy ***
sprinkled with prickly sweat
on a worn-out mattress
no less

His lies lie
hidden
in his overstuffed closet
dancing with the skeletons
a colorful composite

His lies lie
still
as a still-born baby
but they grow as the trees
and cannot be buried

His lies lie
south
as sunny Miami
after she found out
he turned clammy

turned to lies
when you were
no longer special
in his eyes

in the beginning
he promised you
the sun
and the moon

but when a shadow
was cast
his promises
didn’t last

they went from
vroom vroom
to a flat
they went from

a helium balloon
to a deflated
piece of trojan
thrown

in the trash
after the explosion
you are feeling
used

like someone
ran over you
with their words
it hurts

after you spread
your petals
to be plucked
as the dinner goose

and stuffed
with time
plenty of time
to feel used
as a lemon rind

is so hot
it fries eggs
on the sidewalk

His lips
so sweet
he curls them up
and shows his pearly teeth

His tongue
is a red carpet
rolling out as
as a chocolate barbet

There's a line
running up
from his lips
to his eyes
like a live wire
the sparks fly

He has me
in that smile
I guess I’ll stay
a while

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.

sharper than a straight razor
one slip and she's slit
like the joker's smile
bleeding on the bathroom tile

His teeth coated in sugar poison
A box to keep his toys in
in the throes of passion
love you cannot ration

His lips dip south
hair caught in his mouth
death in a wet wine kiss
guess he was remiss

bell choirs
ringing in my ears
never expires
stinging within my tears

His words
echoes
bouncing off the walls
sticking spotted geckoes
barking red fox calls

His words
black smoke
everywhere
making me choke
taking all my air

His words
darts
colored feathered purple
aimed at my heart
thrown into the center circle
a bleeding cherry ****

is like holding the string
of a kite in a gale. The tail is
swept up and tangles in the
trees. You can't pull it free. It'll

wither in the sun. So,
you have a string not attached
to a thing, like an unloaded gun. Holding
onto you is like gripping a sharpened

knife. It cuts my hand, like bread I am
sliced.  Holding onto you is like
placing my palm over the flame of
a candle. It burns. The skin is not

made to handle the heat. It turns to ash
as it retreats. It's like holding onto the edge
of a cliff with just my fingertips. I slip into the abyss
and fall to my death with only a kiss.

I am splintered. I've lived through
many cold, dark winters. I’m shattered
into bits. Some of my chips
have turned to dust/swept up

in a storm. Thrown out to sea
in a kaleidoscope of blue and
green. I'm a broken mirror. I can't see
clearer through the cracks. I've stopped
counting all the hacks. Hold your hands

into a cup. Build my shattered pieces
up. They'll shine into a swirling mosaic, like
a painting Da Vinci created. Blood red and orange
makes the sonance. I'm a million misshaped

parts that can turn into a work
of art in gifted hands that sees every piece
as a pearl. And strands a golden chain
through the holes. But does not claim it as his own.

lack of tact. People hide behind
lies. But they also hide behind
the truth with an excuse veiled
in a honest clause. They can take a pause,

not hurry to speak. I’m not a nail. So, don’t
hammer me. I’m a woman first. So, don’t
inject venom. I’ve silk for skin –
not denim.

is made
by bees.
They collect it
through
the flower.
We all have
the power
to collect
honey
if we see
people
as flowers
we can
draw
honey