rolling down his cheeks. He wipes
me off with the back of his hand. But I
stand in peaks like whipped cream
inside of his glands. I'm the spicey taco

he wolfed down. And I'll hang around burning
him late at night when my sauce still lingers
but is out of sight. And just like the snot
flying out of his sneeze I'll dance pirouettes

in the tang of a breeze. I’m the needles
and pins when he cannot feel his toes. I’m
the itch that he scratches inside of his
clothes. And he thinks that he’ll pass me

out the other end like gas that escapes him
in the wind. But I'm the scab that covers him
when he's skinned his knees. Stuck to him like a
dog with fleas. There’s no getting rid of me – no release!

with a shark's story. Swims
around all day in glass. It's here
she'll stay en masse with the
silver dollar and angelfish,

in a four-sided home with just one
wish - to break out of this
rectangular box and run with
the stallions and hunt with

the fox. For the wind to
dance pirouettes in her honey
golden hair. Pick daisies in the fields
and blow bubbles in

the lavender air. To spread her lines
like climbing vines of plump
plum grapes. And drink sweet wines
of what she creates.

like sweet cherry wine. Strings things
on a swinging vine. Dresses them
in lace and satin. Then rolls them
out like cotton batten. She pours them

like cream in her morning coffee,
stretching them like yards of
toffee. They stick to her gums and
teeth. Hangs them like a Christmas

wreath. She pours her words like
laundry detergent in the washer. And
watches them spin like a flying saucer
out into atmosphere where they

disappear. Pours them like golden cake
batter into a bundt pan, hoping they'll rise
like the stars in the skies. But like the
moon they cast shadows in

the afternoon. She pours them like
gasoline on a raging fire. Wires them
to a movie screen. Just like James
Dean. Hoping they blow up like

the European super cup. But they only
burn, leaving powdery specks of ashes. So,
she flashes them to men on her safari. But
they shoot her down like Mata Hari.

licorice sticks and candy
canes. Brandy rivers running in
my morning coffee. Bleeding all
the colors out, fermented as
the sauerkraut.

I'm sobbing
stilettos and razor blades,
shaving years off my face. I'm
thick stubble, falling bits
of stone rubble.

I'm sobbing
ropes and chain. My
lashes are made of thick
black leather, whipping me
as they fall together.

I'm sobbing
shards, splintered
wood in my backyard. Treading
my face like a tire. Burning
my eyes in the smoky fire.

I'm sobbing
rocks. The salty drops
have hardened to
stone. They circle around
like a flying drone.

the white petals from a growing
daisy. And eats them for lunch. They
say he is crazy. He lassoes the sun
with a yo-yo string. Locks it in his

dungeon in the left wing. He paints
the cornflower sky tar black. It
matched his mood and his thick
woolen slacks. He rips the

stripes off the candy canes. Builds
his house out of razors and
chains. Cuts all the trees in his
backyard. His face is brown leather

and his tummy, mustard and
lard. Some folks say he wasn't
born. He was raised from a shallow
grave in a delta wave.

of falling rain, a crystal
sphere sitting on his windowpane,
looking in from the outside
through a glass forty inches wide.

I'm a drop
a tiny tear, part of a
pair that runs like the Nun
river. Through every crevice
I shake and shiver.

I'm a drop
a dew on a blade
of tall grass waving in the
shade. In a quiet spot
of reverie, sunbeams
burn a hole in my dream.

I'm a drop
in the bucket, buried
at the bottom under layers
of paper, a dense cloud
of smoke and vapor.

I'm a drop
from a leaky faucet. I've
worn out washers and loose
rings. Plink, Plink I splash,
in the sink.

fields of trumpet playing daffodils
skipping in a cornflower sky,
fireworks like the fourth of
July. Each diamond drop of April rain

tasted like strawberry champagne. I
had Christmas every day under
the evergreens and frolicked
and made angels in the snow. So,

tell me now where did you
go? You ripped the stripes off my
candy cane. You've shown me cherry
blossoms of bubble gum blowing

trees, then you fell away
like the autumn leaves. How does
a flora and fauna forest turn into
a blinding dust storm in the

desert? Where are the fawns
and the sweet songs of the brown
thrasher? I did not spot your matte
black hues. Now my greens are milky blues.