in two
put me
ahead of you
bring us
both down
lie to your face
insist
my way is best
break promises
confine you
to anything less
than you are
hoard you
all to myself
block your light
I will love you
for the rest of my life

how I wept.
His sharp shards of ice-cold stares
made butterfly crystal tears
that froze upon red porcelain skin.

I cracked within like a chic
breaking from her eggshell home
to find herself in the nest alone.
Eyes tightly sewn.

And pieces strewn like broken glass
cutting me at every pass.
I stuck to myself
with beads of sweat.

And bloods run out
like glue that set.
So, I asked the man in the marmalade sky
why all of us are born to die.

of things to write. One stipulation
to that is if I run out of life. If I’m buried
and dead then I leave you all the words
I have said. There is always something

to notice, something to feel. I’ll never run out
of ways to express my pain and my loss. My joy
and happiness don’t exist in a vat. I don’t need to travel
to see new sights. I don’t need to swallow

new food to taste the spice of life. All I need
is to wonder about all of this, and then open
my eyes to all that there is.

again, a blend of strawberry fruit
and champagne cake. I lost it by
the lake, sitting in the sedges. It was
old with yellow edges. It floated

like a paper boat, making
illegible every line I wrote. It took
a couple hairpin turns around
the bend and past the ferns. Then

the wind whipped it
south. And it was swallowed
up by a big bass mouth. I tried
to mimic the recipe. But

it was not my specialty. I tried
searching for one just like
it. But they came out flat and ****,
even dining a la carte.

at a rose again
without scorn
the silky soft petals
grow thorns

I'll not look
at the sun again
I’ve burned
basking in the glow of the light
till sadly spurned

I'll not look
at a crystal snowflake
cascading from the sky
this light fluff
turns to mountains high

I'll not look
at a cherry again
I've choked on the pit
hidden underneath  
a plump red carpet

as dregs of coffee
scratching the bottom of my mug.
Like the sediments of wine
in my crystal jug.

Like the crimson leaves tugging
from the trees in autumn.
As dust dancing on my bamboo ceiling fan.
And as I turn it on it lands on the four posted bed,
dirtying my green and brown striped spread.

Like a pool of sweet caramel sauce
around the flan I baked.
Like the foundation sinking
my brick ranch house.

As my friend when she chose
her driftwood rogue spouse.
Or the lawsuit with my lawyer.
And not my wages with my employer.

I'll not settle,
just to say yes.
I'll take mine.
Not a thing less.

Pallbearers, the ones who put me
in the box to carry me out. There’s
Richard who got worn out. There’s
James who helped himself. There’s
Jeffrey who was too afraid. There’s
Eugene who ran away.

On second thought –
Richard’s hand is shaking violent.
James is lying in a box in Rhode Island
Jeffrey is staying silent.
Eugene would never help a client.

Just pack a bottle of 100 proof –
to preserve this body for future use.
I’m sure some will pay to **** it anyway.
They expect me to **** in my own grave.
They liked to watch my body parts
*******/*******/bleeding/laying farts.

the knife into my heart
expunge these thoughts in the bath
swallow a bottle of sleeping pills
hang myself with goodwill
suffocate these dreams in a plastic bag
fall from a skyscraper in drag
I might splatter/I might bleed
no different than the life I’ve been living
I already went as far as I’ll go
I haven’t got anything to show
maybe death will be my fame
people then recognize my name
And so
I’ll take the plunge
you may read this as my epitaph
most likely they’ll all have a good laugh

to make them smile
shake my hips
undo the buttons of my top
bat my eye lashes
flash my pearly whites
this girly lives to dance and sing
move to the left
swing to the right
it's hard to be uptight
dancing for my life
take up all the space
don't stand in place
like a mannequin
pluck the strings on the mandolin
music brings us together
you can strum a note
sitting from your chair
you can hum a line
that can part his hair
bare your heart
wear out your soles
do this
and you won't grow old

as a baby loon
but only until
I find my swimming feet
and then I’ll swim behind
in line with the rest of your babies –
though this one drives you crazy
and when the others scatter in all directions
I’ll swim with affection by your side
until the heavens serve the golden goose
with the pickled juice from its eggs
but you’ll never find me swimming
ahead

As my downy feathers shed
I’ll take flight –
but never you worry
because even if that pickled juice
leaves the sky blurry
you will see me through the cut
I carved out
and when the leaves bleed –
as they do come the fall
collect the dew drops on your napkin
that’s all I’m asking

of time –
hell, we all do

I’ll run out
of wine
in a day or two

I’ll run out
of money
hell, I don’t make that much
and the bills pile up

I’ll run out
of patience
I’m short-tempered
and easily distracted

I’ll run out
on you
because I’ve the wanderlust

But I’ll never run out
of lines
I can’t say enough

into black and white
like day breaks off
into night
it’ll be stark
but not obscure
it’ll be harsh
but not a bore
we can play with parts
go from light
to dark
and back again
I might throw in
a red
when you're blue
have you purple
and slurp you
like a frappe
You might get mad
And tell me
Cut the Crap

as the hickory
blowing in an autumn sneeze
swirling yellow leaves
flying in a dancing tease
carried off in a sliver
floating down the river

I’ll shed this
as a python
with the lights on
rid this cast of blood-red
so, I don’t take it with me
to bed

I'll shed this
as a woolen coat
as the sun pokes its nostrils out
and melts me like a burning candle
I have my hands on the handle

I don’ ******* care. Send me
to jail. You ***** I've beaten up
******* in my past. Full protruding pregnant
belly hollering swears next

to me. She's all ******* –
the beach's parking lot is full. She
didn’t land the spot she eyed. I’m lying
next to them soaking up the rays on this

ninety-degree day. I'm here first. And
the place is packed –
a sea of umbrellas, yellow, red, blue
and green. The smell of chips and suntan

lotion, sweat and spit and back talk. A life is
only worth a parking spot. No masks,
and none to mask the pain. Put a sock
in her mouth, from a foot or fist. That'll do the trick.

They speak so bad of the dreamers.
Artists are criticized for their art.
They tell me to act my age.
I never did; so why start?

I don’t need a ladder.
I’ll swing to the stars from my rope.
I don’t need anyone’s approval.
I got me a bottle of hope.

What is wrong in being happy?
Now a days it’s such a crime.
They cut off the rungs of my ladder.
They hate it when they see me climb.

I don’t need a ladder.
I’ll swing to the stars from my rope.
I don’t need anyone’s approval.
I got me a bottle of hope.

I don’t conform to people’s standards.
As a result, I lost many a friend.
I’m looking out for my own happiness.
I’m so tired of having to pretend.

turn him into a king

I’ll take a pebble
and make it a diamond

I’ll turn a horse
into a unicorn

How is this possible?
By treating it as
it's already so

my bones,
old and worn
wrapped up in
a wrinkled

skin. And my organs,
which will rest
for eternity
in my chest. But the

difference between me
and you
is I will bring
with me the truth. You

were buried with
your lies.
Not all have surfaced –
No surprise

But when I hear
the restless wind
I’ll think about
our awkward sin.

in my backyard
even if its ******* the neighbor’s eyes
even if they talk about me,
spread lies
I’m at the age where I don’t care
I’ll strut myself like a peacock
bare as the green earth
under my feet
flap the jelly rolls hugging my arms,
white as a sheet
sing to my hearts content
strong as the breeze
and dance and wiggle myself
cause I’m such a tease
besides I’m at the point in my life
where I do as I please

in a quilted cornflower blanket
and set it on fire. I'll puncture
a hole in the thick of it, till it
flattens like a tire. I'll package

it and ship it off to sunny
Mexico, taking with it all the ice
and the heavy snow. I'll rip pages
off the calendar till May,  

taking November through April
minus two days. Leaving Thanksgiving
and Christmas there to stay. Or else
I'll hibernate like a bear and sleep

the months away, rolled up like
cigarettes in the mountains of Tibet
till the frosty air makes my breath dance
pirouettes on the stratosphere.

a squirrel chasing a
squirrel up the tree
to climb the bark and have my home in the bough
to bury my nuts as a treasure in the ground
to swish my long bushy tail
and frolic with the autumn wind
a life of simple pleasuring

and saw
the grass
turned to straw
the sunshine sky
to acid rain
all the branches
pointed to me
with their stubby arms
and nubby twigs of tweed
every robin flown
the crimson leaves
have blown
the air
cold as a refrigerator
bit me hard
as an alligator
I put my foot
down in a puddle
stuck as a marshmallow
on a stick
the mud deep
and twice as thick
my heart dropped
as a hailstone
shattered
as a splintered bone
my head scrambled
as an egg
and I beg this pain
to leave
I look in
to see a soldier made of tin

as the bees to the flower
but your nectar turned sour
as the birds to the sky
but you clipped my wings
so, I couldn’t fly

I looked up to you
as a rainbow
after the shower
but you're just a crow
dropping bombs
on my ivory tower

I looked up to you
as an owl to the moon
but you're just a dish
that ran away with the spoon

This morning I noticed a ball
of brownish gray, soft and furry clump rolled
up like a hamster in my comb. And I wondered
if I should feed it or leave it alone. I couldn’t put

it back on head. I had to lay the thing
to rest. I noticed the numbers on my phone
haven’t been ringing, like the church bells tolling
the hour as they used to do. That old familiar twang

was comforting too. It sounds no more. The
incidentals drive me out of my mind, like my
keys when I need to leave in a hurry, or
the butter that’s melting somewhere

in this landscaped home of topiary. You’d think
it’d be easy to find; it’s brighter than
a yellow canary. If it grew wings it could
fly. Most of the people I know have died. That goes

with aging. You lose things more
easily. There are more funerals to attend. And
more broken hearts to mend. And many nights
awake when sleep itself escapes.

my keys
locked them
in the car
with no drive
couldn't go far

I lost
my head
it rolled
on the floor

I lost
my footing
and fell
outside your door

I lost
years
of a life
that was green
till I took my brush
and painted the sky
with all your lies

I lost
count
of the painful
things you said
but like sheep
I put them to bed

my hair. It fell
in clumps all over my
chair. I lost my sleep. I spent
last night counting sheep. I lost

the little money I had. I spent
it on every fad. I lost my looks,
lost track of time. Once I said
this world is mine. I lost my voice

from years of screaming/losing my head
from years of dreaming. I lost my nerve -
but didn't let up. Lost my friends that didn't
deserve me. Men move on. Time doesn't

stall. Even the trees lose their leaves
in fall. I lost my youth walking the hills of
old Duluth.  But I found still some room
to break new ground!

If only I lost my arms
the ape-like pendulums
I'd hold my head high
look him square in the eye
not hold out my hand
and beg for more
of the same thing

If only I lost my legs
two sticks with spider veins
I'd see things in a new way
not run back to him
over and again

But I lost my face
and without a modicum of dignity
I lost everything
I lost me

in you. You held all my broken
pieces. You smashed the glass
screen, shattered the woman
and dream. Stripped the veneer,
blew in my holes/laid me bare
down to my soles.

I lost myself
in reverie, shadow of
a memory. Tossing and sweating
as cut-up vegetables
in a wok, covered in the sauce.

I lost myself
on printed paper. Now
that it’s out there. There is no
eraser. For years I’ve spilled the ink
as perfume on the dresser/ born to
feel lesser.

I lost myself
in drink. My head in pain/ on the
brink of disaster. For me there is no
ever after.

I just can’t explain
there’s excitement in
cheating, drinking and stealing
oh, the infamous fame
I love the thrill of the hunt
I love stripping
and showing off my ****

I commit all these lewd acts
then write about it –
without any tact
don’t try to reform me –
lecture me with your spirituality
or tell me of hell
the devil wears Prada
and I do as well!

not because I learned from them. I’m still
just as confused as I ever was. I loved them
because they were so much fun. Some of the
biggest thrills in my life, the moments I felt

truly alive is when I was doing something
utterly wrong, something totally disgraceful,
and where I shouldn’t have gone. But even though
I got hurt, and so did many others I couldn’t say

for one moment that I wasn’t truly
in my element, that I didn’t experience passion
through the fire, that I didn’t feel the ecstasy through
each cut and bleed and ***** deed that had me

spinning as a top on the edge of the table
ready to fall off at the next turn. Not knowing where
I was going but having a ******* fantastic ride
going there with my eyes closed and my hair whipping

in the wind, feeling immortal and being young
again, that kind of young when you think you’re
invincible. You can escape it all, like a James Bond
movie. I was the leading lady,  certifiably crazy!

you were just an idea -
a thing I planned
to do down the road before I
grew too old.

I loved you when
we were trying. And every month
crying when all the tests came back
negative. And my stomach lay flat
as a door mat.

I loved you when
you were only a seed
floating in midstream. And I
couldn’t wait for the due date. As
I saw two pink lines I screamed
no more drinking wine!

I loved you when
you played kickball
in my stomach. And as I grew
so fat I couldn’t see my feet
or tie my shoes. And then the doctor
said paint the room blue!

I loved you when
you pushed that big head
out into this world! And as I saw
those red chubby cheeks, so breathless
I couldn’t speak.

I loved you when
you were up all night. And couldn’t
sleep without the lights on. And in the early
morn, I looked like a creature from
Dawn of the Dead.

I loved you when
you wobbled like a weeble
and drooled like a rabid fox. And
pulled off both socks only to
stuff them in that tiny mouth. And I
pulled them out.

I loved you when
you called me mama. And my
tired legs couldn’t chase you
as you ran sprinting
like a cheetah/turning faster than
an ameba.

I loved you when
you shot past my shoulders. And as
you grew older I loved you even
more. And I’d miss you and worry
when you were at school or out with friends
and as you lay sick in bed
with a high temperature. And that
hasn't stopped/the love and worrying.
It's part of this thing called mothering.

But I create chaos
I love to make
But I make trouble
I love to sing
But I sing loud
and wake people up in the house
I love to write
But what I write isn’t always right
to some people
the ones who try to censure me
But I say give me death
If I haven’t liberty

It brings life into
this emptiness
Puts me
in a different place
I can be anyone
go anywhere
I feel in a song
share that feeling
with the world
step outside myself
lost in time
I can fast-forward
or rewind
Music connects people
words alone just can’t
It puts me in
Happy Mode
makes me want to dance

For - Austin

I love you in the morning
with the sleep still in your eyes
and your thumb in your mouth
with all the dreams of last night

I love you at breakfast
when your mouth opens wide,
eagerly awaiting the first bite
of sweet plums from the jar.

I love you at bath time
when you splash the water
out of the tub. Your body covered in
suds and your chubby little arms
reach out for love.

I love you in the afternoon
when the sun reflects chestnut high-
lights in your hair, almost like a flick
of flame dancing in the recesses in there.

I love you in the evening
when I’m reading you a story
and your blue eyes twinkle like the
stars outside. Your long eye-lashes
tickle me as you fall asleep in my arms.

Sometimes I just look at you in wonder
as you lay there still. And I can’t
wait for tomorrow’s coming, so I can
love you in the morning.

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!

a soapy crystal bubble
growing cramped under
his calloused foot. He flattens
me, as I stay

put. Walking around
with a grimace he limits
my breathing space
placing a gauze pad over

my face. Leaking like a water
balloon soaking his shoes
from room to room. Flapping
my hanging skin like a

hummingbird's wings. For years
I held it all in like a rain cloud. But I
rounded sitting heavy. Wind and eddy
shed my pearl drops slow and steady.

with yellow teeth. I hang
the pieces on my door
gathered in a wreath. If you
touch me, my jagged edges

will cut your hand. Some
days I strand fragments of the
glass when I've time to pass. I wear
the reflection around my neck

in quartered sections like
Aztecs. A jeweled medallion
tattooed on my breast, burning me
in the sunlight, in flames upon

my nest. The whole me distorted
in the fractured glass. I'm manufactured,
not built to last. A young girl becomes
a prisoner of her past.

he filled with water and
flowers, carnations and roses,
tulips and daisies. He went crazy
with the blooms. But I didn't have

the room for the water, let alone
the flowers. I leaked out the holes
in showers. The weight of this made
me crack. You can't stack more into

something that can't hold itself
up. You can't pour tea into a cup split
in two. You can't walk in shoes that don't
have a sole. My pieces rolled off the table

like a marble. He cut himself on the shards
scattered all over the floor. Too many pieces
for him to piece back together. The only thing
to rise is his blood pressure.

I flitter and flutter from
flower to flower taking in the sweet
nectar. All things turn sour. I’m a colorful
parade of black and marmalade. But you

won’t see me land or catch me
in closed hands. I’m a breeze dancing
through the trees. I like the sun. Too many
rainy days. My wings stick together

in humid weather. I landed once
in a pool of shade, I drowned
in. And like a mother bird laying on
her nest of eggs after they hatch

they only fly off into the sunset,
over the horizon into velvet days. You
won’t see me weeping. I broke out of
my cocoon.  The only thing I'm wrapped up

in is my dreams. I live between the spaces
of now and lighted places. If my wings
grow bare, I won’t stop flying –
that's how I’ll get there.

called a thin slit
fastened over
a shiny round golden
metal. And there

I sit stitched in line
by cotton thread
colored red, so I
don't fray. Hidden

away from everyone,
but holding it all together
to make it fit. The buttery
disc is taking center

stage when we're
engaged. But when
the sun becomes undone
we lay across from

one another,
brothers of the same
cloth. He's the meat and
I the broth.

The light I cast
makes me dwindle.
I melt, running off
myself. As I shrink

my flame expands.
I burn the hands of
the men that touch me.
When I’m a stub shall

they love me? Still,
a little flicker of truncated
love, waiting for a match
in a hollow glass, with

opaque walls. Blackness
calls. If you leave me
I'll burn the house
Down.

that’s overstuffed
with junk. And over the years
I tear. I’ve slit by skates. Torn by
broken promises. My lining's

scraped by insults, belts, straps
whips and quips. I’ve bulged
with ***** laundry. Life's a quandary of
mismatched socks. Men can’t shut

me up. My hide's thin. The mold inside
me dried. The dolls lost their
heads. I’m squashed
underneath the bed. Dust bunnies are

my friends. They can move around
in the billowing wind from my
bedroom window. I cannot. If
you try to lift me up I’ll only

bottom out. All my junk spills -
without a container to hold the swill
it spews as a venomous snake.
I can stand a new crate.

blurring his vision
clouding his lens
an overcast, a veil
a smudge on his screen
a smear on the glass

I was a gleam
until the glint turned to rust
the sun streaks black oil
the stars covered in tar
the moon drizzled dust

the light blinds us
till we’re two silhouettes
hanging on a string
tangled on the line
those shooting stars
are porcupines

falling with a splash
in a round clay ashtray. I lay
flat on my back as smoke
billowing black, dances

a waltz up on the table
stage. Thick as clouds on a
rainy day. Tossed like a salad
and swept like

hay. Riding the wind
like a stallion. Cut up and thin
like a scallion topping the
soup. Flaky and loose like

snow on a spruce. Soft as the sand
in the dune. Dried up like a ma’s
jar of prunes. Shadows bite me in
late afternoon.

of beads side by side on the same
rope. And even though I’m a different
shape and color there’s nowhere
to go. So, I keep looping around. I find

myself in different places. But I’m still
bound. Still next to the same ones. So, nothing
has changed. I want to cut myself free and
fall. But by breaking away I’ll take

them all down. We’re alike by the fact
that we have holes in our middles. That’s
where the string goes. It’s our spine. It keeps
us in a perfect line. Yet, I’d rather it

not. I’d rather break loose than to be
in the line of conformity. It feels like a noose
even when there is harmony.

all by myself
I’ll shout  
and do
whatever
I want to
speak my truth
without holding signs
or standing behind lines
the only thing I’ll picket
is my nose
the only thing that’ll run
is my pantyhose

don’t want the in-crowd
I’m not popular
don’t want the out-crowd
I’m not that disturbed
I’m my own crowd
my own fan
on a hot day
my own ticket
you don’t have to like it
that’s the key to it all
there’s nothing
to unlock

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.

on the ceiling
waiting to let go
as I grow heavy
I fall into the bucket
of my tears

soft as petals
through the cold years
now overflowing
spilling as perfume
staining the whole room

if you scratch a patch
you’ll catch a whiff
of burnt cigarettes
from a woman that didn’t
put them out

the old plastic bucket
became her mouth

painted candy apple red
with hinges and doors
and all the décor a jeweler
can make. Strung with pearls;

a smooth oval, standing on
painted golden legs. Not to  
touch. I easily break.
Not to be held. It'll dull

my shine. In a glass house
next to a crystal decanter of
cherry wine. Sitting on a shelf,
the one the furthest from

the sunshine.With the tip
of a finger you can flip my
top. Underneath is a diamond,
a treasure trove, a work of art!

an ectoparasite
doesn’t have
the might to live off
her wooly home. I’d like

to roam. But I’m so
small. And the world’s
so big. I move in it faster
and can relax as

I’m sheltered by
a canine with big teeth
and bushy hind, with a built-in
swatter. And I don’t drink water.

where you share
the same space and a hug. Where
you look a man or woman in the face
without a mask. Imagine

no lines outside the
supermarket. The playground
filled again with children playing with
another, not clinging to their mother. Imagine

that doors weren't locked. People
walking into their jobs, not sitting at
home. And  together, not over
the phone. Imagine

the world not in pain. Not counting the
death toll. And fighting at the polls.