You can only take one of this,
one of that. The toddler outside in the short-shirt sleeve
shirt, with no adult watching his back, you told him
get inside before he gets frozen. Black folks holding

overstuffing bags of whatever they can get
just to tide them over till next month. It’s your very first
time. You shamelessly recognize the woman from the poetry
group in the library. They give you a number. You’re

83. So, you sit patiently, knowing it’s one less thing
you’ll have to steal. This is what it is, when you’ve nothing
left and they’re willing to give at the church
in your neighborhood. But you’re so willing to go

on this day. So, you pack in overstuffed bags
some cans and of this and of that. And you’re thankful,
even glad, that your refrigerator won’t be
so empty. But still when you get home you turn

to the bottle, like a baby whose mother’s on crack,
just to drink out of an empty ******. Can’t believe you sunk
as low as this. Someone smells just like ****. Probably
haven’t seen soap since they’ve shut off his water.

I have not faced
your cold stare.
You can’t be traced.
Please come here.
These words get laced,
entangle and snare.
So, this I based
my deepest fear.
I acted in haste.
So, I bear
a life that’s chaste.
It’s not fair.

blue ***** dig caves
under sandy rocks
and the smell of salt
boats tied to docks

the gulls swoop low
to catch a bite
and plovers wade
as horseflies bite

footprints make a trail
boys and girls building castles
with shovel and pail
green foamy seas

lined with cockleshells
and balmy breeze
driftwood and seaweed
tangled around my toes

and knees
tanning woman lying
on colored towels
as sunburned baby

in sagging diaper howls
coconut oil
permeates the air
as old folks sit

on navy beach chairs
bags of chips and kegs of beer
and hairy chested men
that often stare

a bunch of teens punch
a volleyball over
a long-stretched net
my nape breaks out

in a sweat
riding surfs on boogie boards
dripping ice-cream cones
sandpipers call this their home

as they lie on nests in the dunes
while radios blare 80's tunes
life's troubles out of reach
a typical day at the beach

I can’t plant them in the sand. My toes
can’t giggle from the rocks
and pebbles. The stubby rebels like
to dance!  And how can they splash
taking out the trash? What shall they leave
me as they drain of my blood?
Footprints in the mud!

The problem is my legs.
They’re stuck as pegs in
a board. And both play off –
chord. I can’t swim in the ocean. I sit –
no motion. What shall they leave
me, the twin evils?
Tons of pins and needles!

each time you say
my name. The daffodils
are springing up in flutes of
pink champagne. The clouds are

making letters in the sky. They’re
composing a poem before my
very eyes. The cattails are barking
in the marsh. They’re so ***** I suspect

someone fed them cornstarch. The leaves
are falling up instead of down. My square
house is completely round. There are no edges,
even the roof does not have eaves. And

no matter how high up I look I can’t find
the tops of the trees. I don’t know where I am
or where I’m going. But whatever it is I feel
like a non-stop glowstick stuck on a pinwheel.

I don’t want to look back on it
with rue. So, I’ve got to do everything I can
while I am here. Go to the places

I want to visit. Love the people I want
to love. Chase the underside of the
rainbow. Hitch a ride on a unicorn. Live my life

with full intention. Pick carefully what I leave
to chance. Come up with an invention. Write the
song. Dance the dance. Fill my heart with

a love bouquet. Laugh out loud. Play all
day. Fill my head with pleasantries –
absolutely No negativity!

Kindness for everyone. Be happy for others
and what they have done. Bid them
well. Be genuine. We only have a limited

time. I don’t want to be wishing in the intermission
that I had done something different. I want to know
when they close the curtain that I’ve lived
a life that’s certain.

brought to life
marched to earth when they saw
the light. They were short two,
mother and father. Still they marched on

farther and farther.  They marched
through rants and raves, storms and
graves. They marched with discipline. At every
corner met with sin. They marched on

through a very dry summer
in the year 2007. They marched so much
they became exhausted, until their legs fell off
and they needed horses. High on their horses.

they flew through the city,
with resentment, deception and pity. The Paul
Revere’s of modern day drove with lanterns
lit. Warning an army of soldiers was

surely coming. And to evacuate. Some hid;
some stayed. One by one the gunshots
fired. Blood was shed. Bodies piled. And then
there were none. Except for two, mother and father.

downvoted
bullied
suspended
masked
distanced
cut-down
like a tree
I fall
heavy

of lies, stuck just as a fly. I broke
my wings on silken strings that felt
velvet to the touch. I fell for him as autumn
leaves fall off the tree, leaving the branches

bare as a broken kitchen chair. Beware
of the rays so blinding. They light up
the sky as lightening. And strike! It rained
splinters, sharp and cold as icicles in winter

the night I uncovered his lies. I cracked
the hive. And all the sugary amber spilled
to the floor. It oozed out of all his pores
into a big mess. I cannot look at him without

seeing his lie. How can I look at the sky
without seeing the clouds puff out
their chests? Without swallowing the grey
sunken in my breast? I'm hot as a summer

sidewalk. You can fry an egg on
my back. I'm taking his lie and planting it
as seeds in the spring when the earth
is soft. The morning dew bathes the blades

from yesterday. I gave his lie
a grave. And out from it blooms macaroons.

for sixteen years or so. But therapy
has been doing me no good as  
far as I know. I’ve taken many a shrink
to the board. And many have bored me. I’ve regressed

no less, down to the size of a baby. I’m just as
neurotic and psychotic as I ever was. I’ve turned to
the bottle because it’s predictable, unlike the professionals
that I see. One I had *** with, the other was a coward who sang

Sinatra for me on his piano out of key. One had such arrogance
he ended the two-year treatment in a dear john email because
I told him that he needed help. His fragile ego
couldn’t take the advice from someone like myself.

Your over there
The distance is an empty chair
Can you read between the lines?
Well enough to catch this vibe?
I wouldn’t want to hurt you.
So, I leave this space alone to imply
You can take it as a fragment of a drunken
woman’s empty mind
Or roll it as a snowball uphill
getting larger and heavier to push on the climb
You’ll do the former
Predictable as
This Vibe

hung over her. And every rain
she weathered the pain. A
bobblehead, nodding yes,
a saggy mess, hung as

a wet, wrinkled dress on
the wire. The pigeons drop
their bombs on her. She ***** as
a loose shutter outside his

window in the breeze. He hid
the sun under his pillow, catching
the rays from the skylight
in his bedroom. Shining as a flashlight

inside her womb.  The two married
in June. She, the outsider pressed
as cider from the apples
in his eyes.  She cries in amber because

he shakes her as a tambourine.

I drink from this pairing couplet
daring from the onset
I hope that you too -
can drink from this couplet
I brew

Every morning I drain the bathtub
of all my sins and remember the time in 2009
when I drained the life out of this relationship. I drain myself
like a gasoline pump squeezing the last once out

as the numbers slowly tick the count
until they stop. And I know I’ll run out of fuel  
before twelve o’clock as I always do. When I get home,
I’ll drain the bottle to fill the emptiness of living a life

that goes out, but never holds anything in. And at that time,
I’ll drain my mind because remembering is
a blood-******* leech that feeds on my thoughts. And so,
this train makes its final stop at seven o’clock. It was nice

to know you. I left you a note. It’s under
the pillow. When you lift my heavy head, before you make
this loveless bed, (which is my throne) it will be printed on
monogrammed stationary with a title of its own. Maybe you’ll send it

out, or keep it for yourself. If you send it out, make sure
you let them know there’ll never be another….

walking around in an adult's body pained
from men and women that were put on
this earth to protect me, at the least respect
me. Black and blues fade. Scabs grow over

cuts with new skin. But the scars hid inside are
as stars in the night sky. None can see the monstrosity
of their size with only naked eyes. The growth that is
measured at school in feet and test scores ignores

the pygmies of a rose in a ****** glove. None count
the teardrops or sleepless nights, holding onto goose
feathers stuffed in a pillow. Head hung down as a weeping
willow. They'll fit you for a bra. But not fit you in their

hearts. They'll make plans for you. But you can't
plan on them. They look at you as a music box that shuts off
off when they close the lid. Then the little ballerina stops
dancing on her pole.

in the rain. His kiss was a stain –
the stain of adultery.
But I let it hale. And so, grew the tale
of lover’s woe. I’d love to

kiss him in the snow. When the flakes
were thicker than us and all this
broken trust. We’d traipse through heavy slush
using as sleds our tongues. I’d love to

kiss in the sun, when the heat of the day
was young. We would bake our bodies
as bread and got drunk on love till we both
grinned from our foolish sin. I’d love to

kiss him in the wind, when my hair
was pinned against his cheeks and caught
between my teeth. We held each other tighter
when we knew our love was fleeting. I’d love

to kiss him every season.

Girls were -
Men were -
Oh, you’re a holiday, such a holiday
Millions of eyes can see
Yet why am I so blind
Didn’t need no welfare state
Everybody pulled his weight
When the someone else is me
It’s unkind; it’s unkind
Fifty dollars paid the rent
Freaks were in a circus tent
If the puppet makes you smile
If not then you’re throwing stones
Guys like us we had it made
Those were the days

for money.
That’s a joke.
I’m always broke.

I’m not in it
for love.
I’ve no such luck.
And I’m always stuck.

I’m not in it
for fame.
No one knows my name –
And that’s a losing game.

I’m in it
for me.
The only way to succeed –
is to do it for yourself

So, don’t tell me this or that
doesn’t rhyme. I’m not Dr. Seuss. And this
is not the Cat in the Hat or some nursery
rhyme. I don’t care about meter. The only feet I have

is my left and my right.  I write with purpose. I write
of my experiences, my thoughts and my idiosyncrasies,
my dreams and interpretations, my pain and my
struggles, and everything in-between like my *******

and my *** and my cutthroat way of thinking. Some it
will resonate with. Others it won’t. Some it will
move. Others it will offend. I hope it will only help
some poor soul in the end.

any more than the leaves
in autumn. As they turn gold
crimson and orange they break off
from the tree and fall.

I can’t hold on
any more than the emerging
butterfly from the safety of
the chrysalis. My budding wings
have spurred me to fly. If I hold on
I'll only die.

I can't hold on
any more than a snake shedding
his old skin. No longer can it stretch
to fit this body. It's thin and worn. And I
can't grow under a cloak with holes. It’d rot
the fibers of my soul.

laughing in the snow
dancing in the rain
swirling in the wind
as a weathervane

Blue eyes
walking in the meadow
lying in a bed of purple flowers
caught in a reverie
wiling away the hours

Blue eyes
no one sees her pain
weeping in her hands
bluer than sapphires
deeper than the deep blue sea
standing in the fires of the evening

Blue eyes
no one hears her cries
as the church bells ring
out steps a wedding bride
smiling in the rain
every raindrop is a teardrop
running down her face
laughing at the crowd
she turns her back again

You were round as the sun.
But you were the moon.
I thought you were deep as the ocean.
But you only fit in a teaspoon.

You were so full of color,
crimson, and gold.
But as the autumn trees, you shed your leaves
till you were bare to the bone,
like a carcass, the lions feasted on.

In you, I saw a Tiger Swallowtail butterfly.
But as we danced in the flames
you burned alive.
You turned into a moth that drowned
in the broth.
I swallowed you whole and cried.

it is my line to walk. You can
chalk it up to rebelliousness. I'm not
the next Eliot Ness. It'll strike a chord
in you for branding my own new. I've tried

to go straight; but it's overrated. In fact,
it left me constipated. I have more room
off to the sides. I'm like a rubber plant. I bounced
up to the light/not a tin soldier with arms

and chest sewn on tight. Like an adventitious root
I spread and sprawl. But as a creeper I find myself
climbing up the walls. Some say I'm a mess of
tangledness. I'm just a **** growing in the cracks/ a train
jumping the tracks.

Its opulence
lies in its poverty.
Its beauty
lies in its deformity.
Its strength
lies in its meekness.
Its immortality
lies in its death.

I see in the cream of my coffee. It’s the
porcelain that holds the coffee. I drink your face
every morning as the sun is dawning. I see
it the mirror. It couldn’t come in any clearer

than the sunniest day in the country. Your
face is the sun that warms me. Your eyes are
the blueberry bushes in the meadow. I fill my dress
up with little globs of them. They stare at me and

play hide and seek getting lost in the folds,
getting squashed as I roll over to lay on
the grass. As I lay, I see your face pass in the
wind. It blows my long, golden hair across

my chin. It tickles me and I smile. I fall asleep
drunk on blueberry juice. My dream is another excuse
to see your face. It smells like lavender and honey and is
soft as a bushy-tailed bunny that tramples over me

and wakes me from my afternoon reverie. And
there it is again. Your face is in the clouds and laughing
in the thunder. I stretch my arms and wonder what it is
you’re going to do.  I reach my arms up to the sky in hopes  

to catch it as it goes by. But all I catch of it is your tears
as you release them in the rain. And now I see the pain
there on your face. I hang my head and cry with
you. The blueberries weep too and stain my dress blue.

but when it's mine
it's pungent as turpentine.
I grow restless for more.
But more is less yesterday and

bigger tomorrow when dreams
are all you have to follow. And dreams
are like the weather. They change
once they come together.

at another man’s mercy. Made
broken and little. Whittled as a piece
of wood. Splintered, as
my childhood.

I won’t be
condescended from some
man, that’s upended. No crotch
can ever cut me down
a notch.

I won't be
a glittering trophy displayed as
a float in a parade. A silky gold
toupee to cover a man's fat head. I'd
be better off dead!

I won't be
blind again, by the lies
of colorful men. Actors on a stage
till their next rampage.

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.

in a suitcase
sent it out to sea
so, it wouldn’t agitate me
thought the balmy air
and palm trees make it cool
but it didn’t fool it at all

I packed my rage
in an icebox
closed it airtight
so, it set on ice
thought it chill
but still, it’s fiery hot

I packed my rage
in the attic
sealed it in a box
told it “Get lost"
but it fought to break out
and I’m faced with
the same rout

I packed my rage
in the recycling bin
along with the tin cans
and plastic bottles
to salvage
but it landed as regret
now I carry it as a debt

of the morning
coffee percolating in the Corning
pendulum swinging back and forth
hands traveling south and north

the eggs and bacon are now plating
this full bladder is done waiting
doltishly climbing out of bed
legs of rubber/feet of lead

clouded eyes cannot focus
breakfast table hocus-pocus
punching keys of grey
for two crumbs of pay

flickering of light through the glass
dew drops clinging blades of grass
robin chirping/squirrels scamper
***** clothes pile in the hamper

hit me hard
hanging me from a rope tied to a tree
as a Piñata of blue, purple, and red
till all the sweet in me
spills and spreads
and the boys and girls run to pick up
the flying candy
I’ll die as a cavity in their teeth

shatter it in smithereens
exploding the pieces as a potato
in a microwave
so, my bits stick to the sides
in a mushy yellowy resin
I’ll die in a potato heaven

If you’re going to break my heart
pin me down as a frog
on a tray
as I lay split me open
pulling out my organs
starting with the heart
and ending with the lungs
serve my legs in a cuisse de grenouille
with a chunk of brie
I’ll die a delicacy

he holds up for me
just like orange, red and
gold leaves. They're looking full of
color till they turn squalor. Then breaking

from the trees drift in a breeze. He's wiped
me off as a sneeze. The built-up he couldn't
resist, a tickle that had to persist. The poem

with a twist. The mask didn't fit. He wore
it snug, a burden for him to lug. Years of  
billowing dust turned the diamonds to rust.

he couldn’t give you it
threw you out the door
without a second thought
said you were too much

he was afraid
afraid that you would misbehave
you asked for
one last chance
but you knew before you asked
the answer wouldn’t be yes

So, you plucked off your smile
threw it in his wastebasket
and stomped all your dreams
on his back doormat

took
one last glance
at his deck
with the chairs neatly arranged
as his thoughts
while you, the scatterbrain
walked to your car

one last time
stopped
to look at the number 50
that hung on his house
before you drove off

the plains flood
soggy as bogs
thick as fog
I sink into a hole
in the ground
like a bowl I'm round

as I walk
white as chalk
the sun balks at drawing me a light
and like quicksand
I'm swallowed by the night

till I’m nil
all is still
and doesn’t move
no stars or moon

after the rain
the pains flood

on the sun
little dots like ***** shots
blotting the sky
with a tapestry of poetry
and a side wedge of lime

Freckles
like ladybugs
on a redhead passing by
rising up to the top
like mom's homemade apple-pie

Shekels
jingling in her pant pocket
bits of silver castanets
like hand and feet
come in sets
making music to the beat
of a silhouette

Heckles
from the crowd
jeering jabs of barbed wire
can't fence in
this spitfire

Deckles
framing paper pulp into sheets
to pen the lines
of valentines that couldn't
take the heat

were autumn leaves. From a snap
of cold turned golden yellow
to mud brown, twisting off
falling to the ground.

Her colors
bled out in a wink
from the wash, the crimson red
to salmon pink. From bright to
dull, the sort you didn’t cull.

Her colors
peeled like an orange rind
as she was sectioned. Men
chewed her up and spit out
the seeds.

Her colors
chipped standing
in the sun. She's brittle. Flaking
she'd whittle into dust. Flying
off in a flurry.

Her colors
cracked. Someone
took an axe and hacked
her walls.

anymore. My *******
aren't perky. They fall down
to the floor. My spirit's flopped over
and bored. My hunny's ******* has failed

inspection from the doctor. Even my chin
sags in disgrace. Why it's grown a twin! And my
tomato plants need to be tied because they droop
like my ***. It makes me asks

does anything stay up -
certainly not I.
I'm in bed before the sun goes down.
Even my smile has turned into

a frown. I can't get up after I've been
sitting to long. My knees don't cooperate. They knock
together like a couple a pair of boxers in the ring. Ah,
it's hell when you get to my age!

that his Tommy Bahama
thyme linen shirt
is pressed. Every day he’s
dressed in a new color with
a stand-up collar.

He cares
that is ebony satin hair
is coiffured and sprayed,
parted on the left side and laid
flat. No gust of wind can
disturb that!

He cares
that his cobalt convertible
BMW is washed and waxed. He’s not
relaxed till it glitters as gold. If
there's a scratch on the leather
next week it's sold.

He cares
that his wine cellar
is stocked with Dom Perignon
in the first row up top.

He cares
about women -
every one of them,
long as they're beautiful,
young and thin.

is null and void
the papers read a scumbag
white cop wiped his head up
like a mop

George Floyd
is drawing crowds
on the street protesting
justice for the black –
none covered his back

George Floyd
unarmed
just a 46-year-old black man
lost his job
with a sister
and a brother
and a woman
Courteney Ross
the world
is at loss

George Floyd
pleading for his life
with his head pinned
by the cop’s knee
handcuffed
gasping “I can’t breathe”
“mama”
“don’t **** me”
all eyes saw
him draw his last breath
under the cop’s knee
flat out on the street

There is no middle ground
The middle ground bottomed out
The compromise was selling short

in the morning stops
my groggy yawning. Has me bright-eyed
and bushy tail, ‘stead of sluggishly as a snail.

Coffee in the afternoon has me floating
higher than a balloon. Gets my **** off the seat. Gets me
jumping to the beat.

Coffee in the evening increases
my breathing, prevents me from sleeping. So, I drink
water instead before I go to bed.

You pulled me in your dry cracked skin
with callouses so big they needed a glove-
compartment. Filled the cup with cherry wine. It was
my PICC line. And I laid there with nothing

to do. I barely could move because I was
attached to it. It was inserted in my veins. You thought
this was required, for my benefit. I was sent home
still attached to it. But it made me sick. It left

me cold. I needed a person to hold,
not a line. A line was words that I wrote. It was
a sheet of music for me to share. It
wasn’t meant for sole distribution You took on that,

with your circus flare and body works, even when
I wasn’t there. You did it through the line. And when
I ripped if off the blood shot out. I was drained and ghastly. Look
at how much it cost me. The bruise is still there

reupholstered as a chair. But I’m not. The umbilical cord
is tossed. I’m still writing lines, yet not attached to one. I said
I was done with it. I’m free. I’ve movement. I still miss
being hooked-up. But I’m better off

Remember the time before you
grew tired? You gave me Thornton. I keep it
with me to bring up pleasantries before this
got broken.  The dedication inside from

mother said “Be Joyful” I hold it with glee,
a souvenir of that year, sometime in
December.  It brought a shiver of uncertainty,
when clouds covered this memory.  It still holds

together despite its loose binding. I told you
one day you’d walk away. Then made it happen. I can’t
copy it. I would if I could. I tried but it wouldn’t
print out. Lucky for me, I hold the original.

new. I reinvent myself
into something else. I never
get bored or discontent. If I
were to get bored I’d

become a city. And if was looked
down with great pity then I
wouldn’t stay stuck being dumb. I’d
turn  myself into a kingdom.

a gun
will you pull the trigger?

If I hand you
my bottle
will you take my last jigger?

If I hand you
a sentence
will you commit the crime?

If I hand you
my heart
would you make me some time?

If I hand you
a story
would you put it in print?

If I hand you
a clue –
Can you take a hint?

in the air.
A cloud of smoke
sitting as a bloke
in a wingback chair.

Hear me
in a breeze.
Waving branches
large as ranches
whipping through the trees.

Touch me
in the rain.
Bubbling drops
of brewing hops
dripping through the pain.

Taste me
in the snow.
Powdered sugar
in a pressure cooker
puff as pastry dough.

Smell me
in the sun.
A rose garden
if you pardon
refreshes everyone.

hanging in a dimming sky
an outline of a face
flat with just a trace
of a trimming sigh

eating up the night
drinking the starlight
swinging side to side
like a vampire bride

clinging to her past
walking the same path
on broken glass
she cuts her heels and cries

fading under the moon
lying in a spoon
the sun painting her lies
in Strawberry-Rhubarb pie

has not a trace of
love. It hangs on
the neck like a pair of boxing
gloves. Brows are thin

and spread uneven. The eyes
have no shine. They're clouded
thick like meat in brine. The nose
rose like a mountain in the air. I see

through the nostrils all the grey
hair. Cheeks are pale. There's more
color in my glass of ale. The mouth
is stuck in a pout. Cannot catch a

smile. I'd have more luck fishing
for trout. The head oscillates like
a fan. You look the same. But
you're not the same man.

for lines anymore. Once I
clung to them, walking the tight
rope. Man was I a dope! Spooling
piece of thread.  Till I strangled myself
as it wrapped around my head.

I don't fall
for bodies anymore. Buffed
six-packs and lean. They're not
real. They're all machines! No flab
or cellulite. And all their clothes fit
tight. I've parted with men looking like
they walked off the red carpet. Their egos
fill the room like smoky fumes.

I don't fall
for degrees anymore. Hanging on the wall
with emblems in gold. If I must carry
a dictionary as we speak bury me
in a week!

I don't fall
for money anymore. Sports cars
driving at dizzying speeds. Custom-made
suits made of silky tweed. Houses so large
I must carry a map, or I'm lost as I
proceed.

I don't fall
for chemistry, buckling knees,
or floating butterflies in my
stomach. They only make me
plummet. Walking around like a zombie
I can't see straight ahead of me.

I rise
now I see with both my eyes!

Azure
Flashes of lighting
Cutting crisscross
The veins in your arms
The tops/da boss
I’m not talking blue eyes
I see Robin egg skies
Hatching chicks

You dig this
This ain’t your mom’s
Blueberry pie
It a punch in da eye
It’s electric
You dance/you move
It’s a jazz band
In the Fat City
It’s Calvin Klein
You going for this ditty