On the white screen dance the stringed dots
Mind spilled codes of hieroglyphic thoughts
Slowly they emerge handholding lines
Not always yielding intended designs.
Something was brewing inside the head
Coaxing to weave and take it ahead
The drunken horses so wildly gallop
There is no leash to make them stop.
Nerves are taut and they won't relax
Till all is vented they reach the ******
It was thus fated the moment it was sown
What's to be grown could never be known.
As the fever wanes arrives the new child
It may be adored or it may be defiled
The canvas is washed clean as in the rain
Something is brewing to be vented again.

Life in plastic folds,
Dreams wrapped tight in fleeting hope,
Trash cradles the soul.

It is in the smudge of mascara,
the red lip bleeding into the cracks
of a bitten mouth.
A quiet rebellion lives there.

Middle fingers do not shout;
they whisper—
a language only the tired
and the brave understand.

Running is not escape,
but a declaration.
A line of white powder,
a streak of neon—
these are maps
to the edge of something
sharp enough to cut.

They told us
fairy tales are for children.
But we grew up and learned
that happy marriages
are the most dangerous lies.

We sit behind screens,
armed with fake smiles,
perfect angles,
warriors of a war we don’t
believe in anymore.

The raves are loud,
but it’s the silence
of disappointment,
of insecure mornings,
of mirrors we cannot meet,
that tells the truth.

This is the war.
This is the smudge,
the smear,
the running.
And still,
we rise from the wreckage
like sparks in the dark,
too tired to shout,
too alive to stop.

What a day!
Cats and dogs at a gray soggy play!
And I,
wet like a rat in a bucket emptied spray,
afloat in some other soggy boggy day
when love sloshed in a dismal pool of gray,
floundering in a fiendish feline fray,
stuck and struck in her seismic, sonic sway…

Oh, that catty countenance with fanged sustenance,
turbid turbulence and lurid malevolence,
that midnight ambulance in horrid remembrance!

Hunting stare hunched in her browbeating brow.
Puny purring powwow met with caterwaul and yawl.
Sweet savannah meow gone in  hellish growl.

Alarming anger on an angular arch.
Claws bared in a mad menacing march.
Crisscrossed with a seeping scratch and such!

What a row!
Rage, a full bent feline bow,
ready to lash a claw; or ready just to throw
fire flicking arrows through two slits narrow,
hissing, spitting, screeching and scratching
over my poetry popping pillow!

           Ripping, rooting, pawing and clawing
           my chuffy, puffy, poofy and goofy
           poetry popping pillow!

Insults stood on end at verbal animosity.
No reciprocity to my purring grandiosity.
No curiosity to quell her feral ferocity.

Such feline a fever...
I’m aligned to see cats never.

My cattish brunette, now a silhouette,
bitter a vignette from seismic a duet,
smoldering a briquette on blank a palette.