Mirrors telling lies    makeup
         Painting illusions,
                   Stains
                      On
                     Lips
Making caricatures from my face, a
Character in its place, playing
Narcissist    every    day.
If I love me they will come,
If I love me they will stay.
This part masks insecurity,
If I say I love me, won't they?

Young,as a child
I knew, someday, dreamed, someday,
I'd find a prince.
Grown, almost
I search,always, hope,always,
and find only men.

Sell yourself, everyday.
A little more, everyday.
Numbers, lists, and names
I've lost count
What's one more?
Eventually I'll be gone
all gone, every piece
auctioned, sold to
numbers, lists, and names
of men whose strange faces
I don't know and can't remember.

I hear that men are better
At putting bread on the table and
Making dough.
But I always thought women
Belonged in the kitchen,
So when it comes to baking bread
And kneading dough,
I think, as women,
We would know.

I am not your wife, or daughter.
I am the skeleton in the closet
While you sit together sharing
Sweet smiles and laughs
Over sentiments I will never be part of.
Family man with a happy home,
Why are you unfulfilled?
Lay with her at night, but
Night-time dreams bring me to
Your quiet bed.
You love her still, but
Where a flood of passion
Once brought you to embrace
Has become a slow and steady river,
And visions in your mind wander between
Young thighs.
One last moment of freedom, rebellion and
Youth before all has fled and
Feeble mind and feeble body receive
No coy flattery or passing glance.
You are just a man,
And all men fall to the right woman.

Mt great grandfather was
A Swedish violinist,
Back in Goteborg,
Like in Phantom of the Opera.
I like to think of him
Walking through cobblestone
Alleyways past pastel houses
And little markets selling lingonberries,
Playing his violin.
I heard he loved someone, once.
A woman before my great-grandmother.
I wonder if he played songs for her,
I wonder if she cried when he did.
But they're all dead, now.
His violin hangs on the wall
At my grandmother's house in Jersey,
Dry from all tears,
With splintered strings like torn
Vocal cords, no longer able to
Sing.

Screeching silence whispering
Truths your lips won't form
Letters from shapes to messages
Unsent piled high under the desk
Where secrets are swept, clean
Unseen by judging eyes
Stamped with footprints,
Soles ***** from creeping in beds
Of flowers in gardens your feet
Should never have sought
Sowing seeds you can't water.

Punctuation marks the hesitancy in this conversation and
I can't help but dwell on words resting unspoken between
commas, ellipses and apostrophes;the
Spaces between letters where sounds sleep, vibrations
strike empty chords and fall short of expression.

This pain is festering
Like a deer carcass on the highway
Bloated, belly full of
Maggots and the smell
Of rotting flesh and gasoline
In the hot sun.
Bowels crushed against
Hard pavement coated in tar
Where once our proud stag's feet
Had walked with grace
Is now a grave, and  heavy wheels
Speed over a body once
Full of life and love and blood
And drivers, repulsed,
Can't even spare a passing glance.

Paint a smile on
your lips
like makeup.
Slip it on,
like a pair of shoes
or a handbag.
Hang it in the closet
at night,
with your shirts
and dresses.
You can wear it again
tomorrow.

We would never work. I need stability and security. I need safety. But you, you're inherently unsafe. You seek out chaos and conflict intentionally because you think it's interesting. If you were on the Titanic,you'd be pouring champagne and singing while the ship went down. Everyone would be screaming, getting into  lifeboats, and you'd be standing there on deck, with your glass of champagne, laughing, and you'd still find your way off the **** boat without even trying.

Are you familiar with the story , "The Monkey's Paw?" There's this magic monkey's paw, like a rabbit's foot kind of, and it grants any three wishes you want . The problem is, for every wish that comes true , there is a terrible, huge cost. Being with you would be my wish. You're  everything I want, and everything I'm not, and you would ruin me. You don't consider consequences, and if we were to end, you would move on to the next experience that seems interesting. But I would never recover. Being with you and losing you would devastate me so much that I can't even consider taking that risk.

You're like a high -risk investment. You could make me extremely wealthy, or I'll end up on the street.

I've never known someone with so much anxiety and so little fear.

Face it, the reason you're into feminism isn't because you want to raise up other women-- it's because you want to be held to the same standard as men. You know you're not just better than most women you meet, but that you are smarter, fiercer and more ambitious than most men, too. You want to be recognized as the best PERSON in the room, not just the best woman.


Do you really want me to try and stop you? You don't , because no matter what I say, you're going to do it. If anything the best way to discourage you is to encourage you, but you'll still do what you want anyway.And if you choose not to do it, it won't be on moral grounds, but just because you want to deny yourself a passion to prove that you can say no to yourself, that you have control, and that's not much better than doing it anyway, isn't it?
You are the strongest woman I've ever met. You hardly ever know what you want, but when you think you want something, you go out and get it. You never hesitate, you ignore your fear, and you don't care about morality. Sometimes though, you feel ashamed of yourself , and hide in your charms. You do it for so long and try so hard that you forget yourself. Don't forget yourself. You seek out people who have the passion and motivation you think you lack, but you have these things more than anyone. And most of all, you are powerful. I can't explain the power that emanates from you, but it's like a force of nature. You can't hide it and you shouldn't. You need chaos and conflict and madness to keep going, because you ARE chaotic, conflicted and mad.You need to stop feeling guilty and afraid of yourself, and be the person you are, not the person you think you should be.

Eyes on me.
I know they wander   thigh  to   thigh
                    Girls passing by in skirts
      shorter  
                  than
                         ­ mine
Eyes on the prize wave goodbye to
               Pretty girls passing by
Please let me be the
                                    pretty
                     ­          one
                    tonight.

Careful,cautious,
tip-toe and
dance
around the topic.
Slight of hand,
Subtle motions.
Fuzzy words
with clear motives.

Disembodied sequences of
Messages, coming in
Intervals between minutes of hours.
Fragments of information flung
Through tangled webs and into my palm,
Waving with letters through a
Glass screen.
Always in my hand or pocket
But never besides me.

The sun is setting like
An ethereal scarlet orb behind
The naked tree, whose light
Shines behind spindly branches  
In rays that I mistook for
God's fingers when I was young,
Before my innocence had wilted like
Those red leaves that litter the ground
This time of year and release
That earthy smell that we mistake for
Autumn but is actually
Decay.

Pulse;     life     lives    here
Clicking it's heels on  gum-speckled sidewalks    between     sirens and
Cigarette butts spouting carbon, Diamonds   at the right temperature,    
Polluting    for the time being
                    Wasted
In  drunken stupors under
Bright lights and the
                 would-have-been
             dreams of a has-been.

I've always been an unusual girl,
and while other girls and boys made friends,
I fell in love with stories inside my head.
My childhood was never on earth, but
spent in far-off places in castles, where I was
a princess, or a wild viking warrior queen,
and my people loved me, they bowed, they would
clap and sing songs of praise at my benevolence,
my demure and generous character, and beauty.
And back on earth I was alone, but content with
the characters inside my head.
As years passed, their voices faded, and though
I would struggle to keep in contact, postmen won't ship
to figment places, and pen-pals are hard to keep when
they don't exist.
It's hard to realize that conversations with friends in the dark
were only really with yourself.
I became overwhelmed with
Loneliness, determined to find the people from
my stories in reality, and always hoping, always dreaming,
and always searching for the Prince, who I knew already--
who I'd spent countless nights with, laying in fields of flowers
and holding hands under the starlight, and watching the moon
pass through the night sky.
And at night, sometimes, in the real world, I would watch the
moon pass through the sky, and know that somewhere , on some distant shore in a land far, far away, that you did
exist, that maybe, at some point, we were looking at the same
moon at the same time, and for a split second, maybe, we were
inevitably and invariably connected, that our hearts could collide
even across time and space and realities.
I remember when I was a child, that I thought time stops
when you meet the love of your life, like in those stories
your parents always tell to you about how they met.
And when I saw you I knew I had seen and felt those eyes before,
that these were the eyes that had locked with mine across time and
space and reality on lonely nights spent watching the moon
pass through the night sky,
and time really did stop.

Hot oil burning  kernels
                      Jumping in stomachs
                                       Exploding and delicious
        Hot and   steaming    burning
Red like pokers
                Molten from flame
                                Bursting lips spark heated
Words like firecrackers.

Expressions louder than
Paint on a
Clown.
Do not lie to me.
Your body tells truths
When your mouth
Refuses to form them.

Spray paint still stains the driveway
From that gift I sent you
Boxed up in the red white and blue
And 'MERICA, welcome to the USA.
Who could have guessed that the paint
Would be more permanent than you.
You can shove the Budweiser t-shirt and
John Deere trucker hat I sent at the top
Of your closet and forget about them,
But I can't scrub the spot off my driveway.

White crane fishing trackside for
Vestiges of nourishment from
Newark muck and Secaucus slush:
            Be aware;
Three-eyed tadpoles live in these waters,
Breeding alongside rotting corpses--
Mob jobs gone wrong and various
Plastic garbage.

Teeth ground to dust
Dirt, where it lies
6 feet under    wringing    hands
Ringing knell,    bells burned into
Ears popping vessels out to sea
Storms making waves causing wrecks
Biting nails between teeth
Ground to   dust.

Prayers answered by
Echoes of themselves imparting
No advice, 
Repetitions of the question
Asked over again
Whispering softer
Each time it is refracted.
No thunderous voice from clouds agape
To shed light through stormy skies
Or seas parted to pave the path.
Spread the blood of the martyrs and
The Lamb across my door,
God does not live here, anymore.

Pause        hairs on neck standing
Who, what is that impending, lurking
Shaking hands at intersections with
Pedestrians    blissful   on their way

At night alone walking,  strange
Steps    echo                 disembodied
Following       knowing    stalking and

In the haze of city street lamps
A figure fogged in passing glance
Laughing in alleyways while
I run to live one more day.

When I was young once my pastor taught
The tale Genesis, how God with care
Unto hard clay breathed conscious thought.
As the wind would blow I’d say a prayer
And feel His breath, the hot gust of air
The trees that swayed were His great chest
The leaves that fell were kissed and blessed.
I spread my arms towards the sky
And knew He could make me fly.
I closed my eyes, and on tip-toe
Soared high to heavens, earth below.
Far above the pale green pastures
And winding roads, filled with rapture
I saw where the path would end,
What the course of life would lend.
Unchained and free, I knew at last
What shores we'd reach, when we are passed.
Our clumsy bodies tie us down,
But souls are free, and never bound.
And as the day faded to night
I had to end my sacred flight
Fall back to earth, where reason rules
Where those who soar
Are simple fools.

I burnt the tip of my cigarette into my
Tumbler to **** two habits with one stone.
Though the **** coughed its last sigh and polluted a decently-priced
Rye, I don't trust that the addiction died.

Tipped my finger to the 'tender to fill a new glass,
Struck the flint to the tinder, a tobacco mask.
They poison slow, but the effects are fast.

You, like these habits, are in the past,
Waiting for me at the bottom of a flask, swearing always
"It'll be the last."

Funny to think how
fork to lips and food to mouth
spurs digestions
Fueling
body parts which could not move
or function without fork to lips
and food to mouth.
And if we actually stopped eating
for once in our lives we would  starve
and our organs would cease to function
because forks not raised to lips
bring no fuel to body parts
So that they cannot move
Or function.
Funny to think how fork to lips
And food to mouth is
An act so simple but
If we didn't do we'd die without.

Ticonderoga, bite-marks to the lead
Bare-bone, grammar school and phonics
Sentence structures, finger paint
Yarn through cardboard looms
Shel Silverstein and crab-apples
One day I will change the world.

Another reality is ours but for the time being
We're chronic victims of our own poor judgement  
And anxiety
Spurred by loops of psychoanalyses, like VHS
Tapes rewound and repeated until the film tears

Eight-hundred miles underfoot and
Three-hundred and twenty-one dollars spent
On a Delta flight out of Newark
To spend two nights with a man I met
Once for one night, fifty-six hundred miles
And two continents away
Three months ago,
Returning only with
Two halves of one
Broken heart.

My sweet boy:
Kind like soft candies that melt in the
Warmth of your palm,
Velvet to the touch and delightful to the
Tongue.
I was wrong--
That your sweet would quell my sour and
Recoil the pucker that these poison kisses
Slathered on your lips.

I am a ghost.
All I need is my spirit.
I ride on a gust of wind,
chasing whims and shadows.
I am lost, wandering,
hiding in dark places.
Like a flower plucked half-bloomed,
Promising potential,
never reaching actualization.

Ready your red canvas,
Fasten the straps of your boots
The silver spurs can't weigh
You down more than fear has already.
Remember, you are not alone.

We in the stands are watching
While you dance in circles with the beast
Teasing him with your canvas,
Waving it like an enemy banner before his
Crazed eyes, his pierced nose garnished
By a gold ring, whose furious nostrils spout
Blood in every snarl.

We in the stands,watching
are not here to see a beast subdued by
Calm words or a stroked ear.
We came to see  a man gored,
Pierced through his stomach
Tossed limp against the ground
Blood that feeds the grass and our
Eyes.

But you did not enter into this ring to die.
You came to conquer the beast,
To pounce upon his massive shoulders,
Grasp him by his mighty horns
To ride his bucking back, amidst
The brays and snarls, the jeering crowd
Until your blade has met his neck and
His tongue lolls from his mighty maw,
You came to fight; you came for victory.

Remember my voice on sunny days
When laughter carries on the breeze
Kissing your lips, tickling your hair
Like my fingers would when they were yours, or
Butterflies that fled our mouths when
We found courage to speak.

Bus stops and
Bug-eyed sunglasses to block the
Fog-hazed sun.

The water falls by the bridge and
Atlas holds the globe in stone
The fog shrouds him, too.

Professor wears the sunglasses
And asks
What do you need to know?

Cobblestones and two-by-four
Planks buckling underfoot.

Natural light on brick,
Cement flower vase impressions mark the spot of
What I need to know.

Failure and success
Are subjective and
Relative but either way
They're my fault.

Great man,
powerful man,
moral
special
intelligent man.
Even you
can be corrupted.

All my boys, their eyes, upon me
Like peeping Gods from the heights of my
Mind. Their eyes--those lights--
Reflecting different spectrums of color
Hazel-speckled, deep black-brown
Gazing down upon me, from those bastions of
Memory, wandering somewhere above--
Dark shadows, eluding presence but always present
Always lingering behind the step of my feet
Trailing slowly, slowly.
Carried by the slack of my clicking heels.
Dragged into bed with me at night, with new boys
My new boys, their eyes, those lights
The spectrum of colors--

Another year and
While we're sharing toasts and cheers
I wonder what you're drinking and
Where you are.
Here's a toast to you
And the love we wanted to share
But circumstances and contexts
Couldn't allow.
I wonder if you're cheering and toasting and
Thinking about what I'm drinking
And where I am and who and what
I'm doing now and
I wonder if you're wondering
If I'm wondering about you, too.

Summers at grandma's used to be fun,
Before we realized our grandparents would eventually die
and transcend to planes invisible to our eyes.
And we would sneak into the house, soggy bathing suits and all
Dripping pools on the floor while we snuck slices of American cheese from
the fridge, and butter crackers.
And, in fear, thrill, and delight, we would wolf down our sacred snacks
In the dim kitchen light, before Mama could see or grandma would
get home from work,
And dart, crashing into the swimming pool and enduring stomach-aches to keep
Our secret delight silent.
The delights I endure now are different. More painful, even.
The shrieks of laughter when you would lick my face. The moans when
we slept together and enjoyed those more-adult sorts of pleasures.
Your fingers, when they gracefully plucked a tune from the banjo,
and the notes stabbed me in the heart, and I soared with love and joy and love--
A thrill--like those simple times, sneaking snacks at grandma's from the kitchen
on summer days, when we were swimmin'.

They say
All roads lead to Rome but
In the Tristate the tracks
Bring you to New York.
This cement platform smells
Like **** but the anticipation
In the air while the crowd peers down
The track for the 6:16  p.m. Eastbound
Train to Penn you'd think
NJ transit was delivering us to
Heaven.

Screws jammed the lock
In my throat, twisting
Clockwise, choking
Tighter which each revolution.
Throbbing steady like
Hands in a clock crying
On the hour for time
Spiraling from its
Golden hands towards
Dimensions unperceived and
Already retrospect.

I forgot
That the geese fly south
For the winter when the
Chills begin and the air crisps
And black ice freezes death traps
On back-way roads.
"V "formation is natural
To militant
Mutual survival and
I wonder if their leader was
Born or
Made.

Black and white morals but
I live life in color and
When you put the rainbow in a blender
It all looks grey.

We keep an empty chair
Between us so our consciences stay
Clean, but your legs are crossed,
Your shoe points in my direction.
Our feet like to lead us
Where our hearts have already wandered.
I like to think about you
Getting dressed in the morning,
pulling on your shoes.
I wonder if it crossed your mind
That later your shoe and my boot
Would touch under that empty chair.

I had a soul, once, like a live animal.
It is dead now,  hunted and gunned down
by enthusiastic hunters and self-infliction and wine that drowned
and bled it to death, skinned and hung,
with bulging eyes glazed like glass,
leaving only sun-bleached bones and foul odor.
I had a soul, once, that flew like a bird,
and spread its wings at your voice
and the call of God, who has grown silent,
whose conversations once held in trust in dark places fall on ears deaf to thoughts and prayer and hope.
It was beautiful, once,
beautiful enough to be part of this beautiful world.
It has withered, now, like a plucked flower or an old man,
back bent, senile, ignorant, and
too broken to be a semblance or remembrance of its once former glory,
dead.

Flash   your face in subway station
Corners of the eyes in
Strange passers by     evasive
Run awry    racing   shadows
Between thoughts of mine
Jump  how  by surprise
Flash your face in their corners of the eyes.

We won't wrap our lips around
Or string together    words   through
Proper
            Mechanics   of
Grammar   to
Birth what's inside,  alive
And better off dead.

My moral compass is cracked.
It's been tossed against the wall
And thrown in the junk drawer
Too many times .
It's hard not to be lost
When you have no direction.