like I pick the lint
off my clothes, sporadically
and intentionally.

I pick fights
like I chew gum, in wads
blowing big bubbles until it
gets hard and dry. Then I spit
it outside.

I pick fights
like I pick my nose,
stealthy, leaving
it bleeding and needing
a hanky to go!

in my garden
an ocean in the bathroom
a jungle in my bedroom
a spaceship in my living room
the sky on my ceiling

I was revealing to all
that I was going somewhere
And as they looked at me questionably
I told them I had magic seeds

like a steel needle stuck
in the track of a record on
the old Victrola. But now it's like
cherry cola without the fizz. I've

broken into pieces these words
of his. The reds and the blues I've cut
like tile and let them fall in a pile
on top of my dresser drawer. I can pave

a path to Bangor with the yellows
and the black, and trace my way
back to the day. The grey cockatiel
flying around my head repeats,

repeats. His words bled/out my eyes,
nose and ears. And has not stopped
in all these years. A mosaic
of his face warped in time and space.

like a tall glass of steamed
hot milk. And he spilled it
on the floor. And left it there
to sour. I poured my fervor

like a rain shower
in a grey cloudy sky
till his backyard was flooded
by a full-blooded woman's

sigh. I poured my fervor
on my angel sleeves. And he
lopped it off in one fell
chop like a branch on a tree. I

poured my fervor like cremated
ashes over the ocean. All this
emotion was carried off in a wave,
that became my watery grave.

I’m not hidden behind a mask. And man
is not driven by fear. The day we all
can dance under the same umbrella,
gal and fella, drinking a cup of cheer!

I pray for the day
that signs on lawns and in windows
don’t erupt in violence/that man has
a voice and is not silenced for his
tongue. And no sully scripts are flung.

I pray for the day
to arise soon/that man sheds
his cocoon and spreads his arms
to embrace his fellow man
face to face.

to you
raw and ******
this bohemian woman
with the dark
Black of heart
with scar
and the shards
poking out
asks -
that you
love her
as she
Presents herself

out my hair when I brush it. And I
always brush it too much. I pull on the
sheets, to my husband’s despair,
leaving him bare. I pull on my underwear

before my pants, doing a dance
to fit my fat *** all the way in.  Then I pull my
sweater on over my head, messing my hair up
once again. I pull out my laptop to do my

work. I pull out your picture and boy
does it hurt. Because I know I pulled your
strings. It’s just that I’ve been pushed
around so many times I feel like I’m pulled in

opposite directions. So, I pull out the *****
and make myself a drink because this one last time
I’m pulling all the stops to finally succeed.

out wide
to hide the rage
painted the top
and bottom crimson clay

showed the crooked,
yellowed ivory
both rows
the glow of the suntan
was a moat around
the crescent moon
the mound of wrinkled
fleshy protrusion –

but it’s only an illusion
the black-legged orbs
of green
above the brow
are not a smoke screen

dampened from the pain
I catch the beads
of rain with my tongue
and swallow
choking on the memories –

an overgrown lawn of disease

out more than
I take in. I put up
with a lot of *******. I put
all my eggs in the same

basket. And they cracked
and now are scrambled. I don’t have
a handle on it  - the basket that is! I put myself

in places I shouldn’t. And over and
again I visit them. I put my foot in my
mouth. And I have ***** feet! I’d put you
in place if we’d ever meet.

my plans of travelling. Now
the borders are closed. And I
cannot go.

I put off
my friends for speaking
my mind. Now they don’t
take up my space. Some are so blind!

I put off
my chores. Now the house
is a mess. The laundry
is *****. And I haven’t a dress!

I put off
paying my bills. Now
I’m in debt and my credit
is nil!

I put off
going to the doctors
and taking my shots. The shots
I take are in a glass –
and I drink ‘em down with a lime
real fast!

I put off
visiting my dad -
saying the things
I wish I had. Now he's dead.
And the words can't be said.

I Put On

a smile
like dungarees
to tease men
as I die inside
to hide the scars –
men see stars
lipstick pants
dance

I put on
**** lingerie
beg men
not gay
showing the rabbit hole
down below –
not the gaping ditch
in my soul

I put on stilettos
cuts into my bunion
men peel me
as an onion
but they’ll not cut
to the center
of my splinters

I shouldn’t have
relied on. I trusted

in people
I shouldn’t have
trusted in. I spent

countless time
chasing dreams
that never been.

And still –
the funny thing is
I’m doing it again.

as the golden sun sets in
a fiery red sky relies on
the pale moon to rise. But you
covered me in shade as you
galloped off in a harried scoff
as a headless horseman.

I relied on you
as the grass does the rain
to grow, and the rose bud to
blossom. But you pelted shards
in my backyard flooding me
with flotsam till I drowned.

I relied on you
as the tide rolls into
the shore, with all the treasures
of the sea galore. But you spit out
debris, leaving me with broken
bottles that cut my feet as I walked
on the beach.

I relied on you
as the apple tree does
to bear fruit. But you were filled
with holes.

My mother called me a *****
when I was still a ******
for having ****** feelings.
Now others are doing that too,
because I’m confident in my skin.
I’ve been beaten up with words
and fists, and the voices
inside a schizophrenic father’s head.
How did I survive?
I remain a child.

our separations felt –
like someone took a vacuum
and ****** the air out
no different than it is now

I remember how
it was when the magic was lost –
like a little girl at Disney World
who can’t find her mother in the crowd
no different than it is now

I remember how
I couldn’t sleep –
that if I did, I’d awake
and it be a dream
the only difference now is –
it is

with him on a warm, sunny afternoon
in April. This was before Jim, his wife’s
breast cancer and my alcoholism. This was
before masks and distancing. It

was a model day back then. Boys playing
baseball in the field. A fly ball landed by
his heels. He picked it up and threw it back. I chewed
on a blade of grass. I don’t have days like that

now, not with him. Not with anyone. The
sun still shines a honey blossom. But I play dead
as a possum.  The grass is overgrown, as are
the memories. The boys in the field are now

men. And the only thing I lay on is my sofa. All I chew
is my lip. I’ll not let slip the cast on this broken scene -
was it real or a hibiscus? Whatever it is I'm its mistress.

for turning my skin crimson
then vanishing behind a cloud
burning my eyes and limbs in
a hole through the sky that is bowed

drooling in deep purple haze
asleep before the end of the day
bubbling me over in rays
turning my grass into hay

palling around in a shadow
watching the moon disrobe
to it what do I explicitly owe
an inflated star of a fiery globe?

of cards and letters. Burned
them like the golden leaves in my backyard,
till they were grey, flat and charred. But
the smoke still billows in the air

like a pile of dung from a mare. I washed
the scent off my body like salt and
sand after a day at the beach. But the grit
is stuck between my teeth. I blocked

numbers and addresses. Threw out
all the summer dresses, the creamy lacy
halter tops, the sandals and flip-flops that I
wore. But his picture is in my bedroom drawer.

with her painted gaze
of striped marmalade
sips champagne. Tulips with
their swollen heads bite red

licorice skies into shreds. Lilies
trumpet their repose on a thorny
crusted crimson rose. A dancing
breeze blows by, taking whiffs

of momma's apple pie. It’ sitting
on the windowsill catching morning's
autumn chill. A painting of the
afternoon is strewn with golden

leaves and bushy tails of grey. They
ricochet from tree to tree playing
a game of hide and seek. The buzzing
honeybee is flirting with

my drink. And in a wink the scene
has turned to wood burned fires
and cold powdery nights. Just right
for a glass of wine and candlelight.

but I thought I could fly
because you believed in me
and then my arms became wings
and I spread them out far and wide
and I realized that I was riding solo
and you were looking up at me
then  you became weary
so, I let you climb on me
and you rode my back
into the sunset

My heart’s beats out of order
My head hurts more than sorta
The energy is drained; I’m in pain
I’m fighting demons/hurling dragons
Scattered reasons/shattered seasons
Neck stiff/eyes drift
There’s a sailor’s knot in my stomach
Should have seen this comin
I emptied every 750
This felt like bliss
Anything does -
Compared to this

everything, like my cat. I'm looking
for someone to scratch my back. I want to
leave my impression  on  them. But it is
the shape of a hand, and the color red -

like a slap on the face. Well, better their
face then mine. But even that brutality wears
off over time. I'm just going to molt. And they can
save my casing to pack what I had into it -

as a sausage link. And tie a knot
at the end. They get so repulsed. It's like
I'm leaving my ***** on the leg of the
couch. So, they open the window -

to air the rancid smell out. I've cough up
enough fur hairballs in my time that if I glued
them together they'd make  a sabretooth
tiger. There's a lot of interesting pieces entangled

between the ***** and spit. Even with the shards
poking out like ****** looking for something to
insert themselves into -
I see them wise and beautiful!

on sentences,
while others
their legs. I run
on dregs,
while others,
their lots.  I run
on plots, while others,
from rooms. I run
on fumes, while others
in shoes. I run
on news,
while others
their fears. I run
for years, while others
for miles. I run
in piles,
while others,
in style. I run in
verse, while others
disperse.

on the vine
plump and ripe
between the twine
hands came
and plucked me
tore my skin
and crushed me
till I broke
and bled
a river of red
bottled up
and labeled
made to sell
as old Clark Gable

I sat heavy
in his stomach
as indigestion
burning holes
with my questions
he couldn’t walk
so, he rolled
as a joint
and smoked me cold

I sat heavy
as dust on the furniture
of an abandoned house
you can draw letters
on my table
with a finger
write a note
it'll linger
for a fortnight
then disappear
out of sight

I sat heavy
as a ‘56 Chevy
painted blue
with a hardtop
and high mileage
but none volunteered
to be my pilot

gold
when it was
glitter dust
I was sold on the love
when it was only
heavy lust

I saw
a hero
riding a steed
but it was a coward
not taking the lead

I saw
castles
but they were made
out of sand

I saw
a friend
lending a hand
but as I was broken
off he ran

not a writer
if a day she does not write.

Is a mother not a mother
if she doesn’t kiss her child goodnight?

Is a lover not a lover
that does not have *** every night?

Is a God not a God
if he isn’t in plain sight ?

Is a wrong not a wrong
if you  set it right?

stout moths. Like
lint they’re flat and fall
off. The fuzzies float in
the air. Man can’t hear them. They’re
dust on the chair.

I weep in silence
black satin rain that pools
in the cracks of my face, leaving
a stain of questions to wear. Man
can’t see them. They’re fog in the square.

I break in silence
pieces of plaster, that chip from
the ceiling creating a bust of alabaster
frozen in expression, that over the years
has not freshen. Man can't touch
the stone. It's dyed to blind their eyes
and cut through bone.

so many times
I stopped keeping count
if you get to my age
you’re going to make mistakes
I never was a logical person
I ride my emotions
like a seesaw
up
and
down
there were times
when I could have
redeemed myself
but I said
nah

what’s bad for me
I like my liquor
and I like my sweets
I like cheap cigars
and young girl’s teats
and I like my men
I like to lay in the sun
and bake till I’m red
I like rebels
guys that fight
for just about anything
if the cause is right
beer for breakfast
a morning of writing
a **** and a shower
a yell and a holla
out the door
driving
a hundred miles
and hour

every time I come to the library
to write my poetry. There’s the librarian
with the tight jeans that hugs every curve
of his tight ***. He had brown wavy hair

and wears glasses. I suspect he’s about
forty. He never says hello, and walks
swiftly past me. There’s a group of young
oriental kids that get dropped off here

after school. They like to make a racket
playing video games on the computer
while I’m trying to compose. They crunch
their popcorn so loud I feel like breaking

their nose. And there’s a middle age man
that looks like a professor with wavy
hair that sits up high on his head the color of
the sand, except for few gray strands. He’s

here every day like me, staring at his computer
screen wearing round spectacles like
Benjamin Franklin. I always see him walking
Here. He must not have a car because I know

He walks real far. He always has earbuds
In his ear. Don’t know why I am telling you
This. You probably don’t care. Then there’s
The old lady in black who wears cat woman’s

glasses and eats a snack. That’s just to name
a few. I see them all the time but never
say hello. They don’t say hi to me either. Doesn’t
make it right. But people keep to themselves

these days. I shouldn’t complain. I’m the same
way. I come here for one thing only. But as
a writer I can’t help but notice what’s around
me from time to time. So, I thought I’d write

a poem about them. But I didn’t know it
would be this long. I feel like I’m just rambling
on, because I took this one to the next page,
without ever saying “hello” or knowing their name.

the veneer. Slipping
pieces are chipping and
falling to the floor. I’ll sweep them up,
placing them in a paper cup
drinking a toast to “no more.”

I see-through
the bravado I said
once a hero. The swashbuckling
buccaneer turned to road-killed deer!

I see-through
all the holes. I’ve crawled
between the cracks I once called
love. I can’t have myself back –
the self-made glue of all I misconstrued.

I see-through
the glossy bubble. I'd trouble
for many years. But as it popped
so went my tears and all the heaviness
of airs.

through the glass. As I
pass a bead of water trickles
like the tears of an orphaned

daughter. The pain on the pane
is palpable as the morning
rain. It left a stain on this heart

that spread as the glaze on
a fruit ****. I passed again and
the acid in my gullet leaped

out of my mouth like a jumping
mullet. I quietly left. But my breath hung
as a billowing cloud cloaked in death.

on a silver platter
with a sprig of time
and a wedge of lime. Some

have soured. Some have
burned. Coating cloaks
the cracks in a sheen of

spinach green. But underneath
it crumbles. He bumbled
the whole thing from cutting

the strings of the braciole. Like Holly
to the cat. I lay flat on my back.
Growing lean from eating his

words. I've cleaned up
serving hors d'oeuvres.

hair
in rollers
for curls
that bounce

I set my
table
for food
in large amounts

I set my
clock
for eastern
standard time

I set my
oven
for three hundred
and fifty degrees

I set my
mind
to do
what I please

my finger
in their face
my *****
in the air
my head
in disbelief
like a leaf
a stick
it up
it off

as trees lose their leaves
to regrow. Some things
in life you have to let
go of, as dust in the wind

so too, it blows. Clinging is
for vines. But not for
men. You can't make
a new beginning

til you make
a beginning's end.
Every green
turns yellow

or red. Every bough
breaks. And the baby
falls, cutting the cord
accordingly. Still wearing

the sap as the maple
tree. I'm losing my stinger
as the honeybee. That part dies
as it's left behind.

like autumn trees
blowing off the crimson
golden leaves,
till the limbs hang tumescent
and bare/burnt them
in the smoky air.

I shook him
like the ***** mat outside
my door that won't
lie flat.
Flakes of pebbles and dust
swirling around me
in every gust. 

I shook him
like a bottle of champagne.
Popped his cork
like a bullet to the brain.
Spilled him out
all over my floor.
Relinquished my pain
on every pour.

I shook him
like clothes in the dryer
sizzling hot
like coated veggies
in the fryer
All the cornflower blues
mixing with the green
and purple hues.

down to a child the age
of four. I brought in a blue afghan for
“the session” and told him to get on the
floor. In my hand was a baby tiger. I knew

he wasn’t the “teddy bear” sort. I asked him
about the beatings. He told me his father made
him strip naked and lay across the bed. His innocent
boy face buried deep in the pillow choking back tears and

praying to God he’d live through such dread. A very hard
wooden rod supplied the lashings, until welts were raised
like a soufflé’ does in the oven. I asked if he ever had
anything soft to hold. When he told me no I made him

hold the tiger. His face dipped low, like when the sun
goes down beyond the horizon. I was in the role of
the therapist, albeit I the patient. And as long as I live
I’ll never forget this session.

******* waving in the breeze
I dance in my underpants
amongst the ferns and trees

I skip as a stone flying above the water
I’m not a thing to clone
I’m cool; and so I’m hotter

I do as I do
not for nods or applause
I do as I do because
I’m not you

my rolls of fat that are
hung over my belt? Or am I
just hung over from those drinks
I felt?

Is it
time that keeps flying
by? Or am I always doing things
on the fly?

Is it
the way I make-up? Or what
makes up me? It seems there are
endless possibilities!

for quiet streets,
where the only sound is
the wind blowing and
the leaves crunching underneath

my feet? Where I can hear
the robin's song and the doves
splashing in the bird bath
all day long. Or the scraping of

the squirrel's nails climbing
up the old oak tree chasing his
tail? I say the solution is
ridding this earth of people

pollution. I like the little cottontail
wiggling his nose and flapping his ears
back and forth as I peer at him, grazing on
my sweet green grass, that needs

a trim! This is how I'd like time to pass,
in quiet reverie, swinging in my hammock
under a canopy of leaves, as a butterfly
winks at me in a billowing cornflower sky.

Is It Him

you miss or having someone to talk to? It could be
the concept of someone there every day, someone who
recognizes you as a person and reaches out to you with
their own needs unfulfilled. Is it him

or something novel and exciting that moves through you
as a chill on a bitter cold day, stirring the leaves into dancing
in a cyclone with  the each breeze that passes its way. Picked up off the ground and swirled into a lover’s waltz. Is it him

or your own loneliness that keeps you stuck, has you
crestfallen? Have you built him up in your mind, though you
should have known better? As a child with a stack of blocks, one more added, and they all topple off.

and type this
windows show the rocks and the leaves, bare trees
I hope you approve of what I put out

as I am in this formal living room of biographies
and mysteries, romance and poetry, tables and chairs, people
reading the newspaper

on laptops put down on the table tops and the greasy
haired boy, whose chubbiness isn't as cute as his youth shelves
the things that've been used and need

to be put back in order, and
where is my place in all of this? Giving you something to do
this rainy afternoon

because it doesn’t fall
as the rain
because it doesn’t move
as a weather-vane
because it sits still –
as a cardinal on my windowsill
because I can’t reach it
as I can’t the stars
because it isn’t near to me
it’s very far
because it isn’t naked
as an infant in birth
because it means more to me
than anything of monetary worth
because what it does with its tongue
is sing out sweet words
because it’s never seen my bed
yet stayed with me
over again
a faithful companion

Black as the cat
Scratching
Ripe as the egg
Hatching
Fierce as the waves
Crashing
Bent as the switch
Lashing
Is my love

How long have I lived liked this?
Something always goes amiss.
I keep saying “wait till next year”
But next year is practically here.

In this land of the strange
Isn't it time for a change?
I’m like a clock that lost its chime.
I have the numbers but don’t tell the time.
My hands are spread eagle wings apart.
I don’t function: I’m a piece of art.
Soft on the eyes, but ******* the heart.

I haven’t done all the things that I said.
Some days it’s impossible to get out of bed.
I’m growing older/days are colder.
I’m losing insight on those long nights.

In this land of the strange
Isn't it time for a change?
I’m like a clock that lost its chime.
I have the numbers but don’t tell the time.
My hands are spread eagle wings apart.
I don’t function: I’m a piece of art.
Pretty on the eyes, but ******* the heart.

How long can I go on the same way?
Putting it off until tomorrow, today.
It’s no use; stop pretending.
It’s a merry-go-round ride, never ending

in my coffee cup
every morning
filling it up
as the sun’s dawning

I sob
in the shower
my tears blend
with the soap and water
but I can’t wash away the pain

I sob
in the rain
til my mascara runs
a black stream
over a mountain of nose
and cheeks
into a dead dream
that doesn’t speak
the same language as me

I sob
in my soup
swirling between the carrots
and noodles
hair matted to my eyes
as a miniature poodle

I sob
in my pillow
muffling the sound
of the white noise
from the broken ceiling fan
spinning around

I sob
gobs of electric blue
til I shock myself
over you

robins splashing
in the white porcelain
bath as I laugh at
two tangled squirrels

tugging at the same
nut. Rolling ***** of fluffy
grey like a ball of yarn they
make their way to a bare

patch of grass with a little
hook and sass. I spy a cornflower
sky with a julep smile as a sunflower
shakes her golden head in a raised

garden bed. A cottontail
nibbles on clover as I roll
over in my knitted hammock among
the trees, living life at ease.

in the wind. My arms
helicopter blades that
cut through the air as
a pinball in a penny arcade.

I Stand
in the snow. My legs
polo sticks whacking the ice
as I go. Making it fly through
the trees. I’m a dog shaking off
her fleas.

I stand
in the bog. My feet
springs, jumping as a frog
over the muck. This so I’ll not
get stuck!

as a snowflake in July
I melt before I hit the sidewalk
disappear in thin air

as a rhinoceros tramping down main street
people move aside
the ones that don’t get trampled on
I don’t have a nose; I have a horn
and you wouldn’t want to find it up against your back

I don’t fit in; I fit out
As a result, I am shunned by the world
So, must shout to be heard