as the sun up in the sky. It goes on
without you spinning circles, feigning
shy. It tugs upon your apron,
frivolously liking to play. When did

you get older? Wishing for
your younger days? Every bead
of sweat befalls you like
a sticky lollipop. The clouds

are cotton candy and it's
raining lemon drops. Are your
dreams that elusive? Flittering
like a butterfly? Sliding down

a rainbow; landing in caramel apple
pie! Oh, that rascal moon! It's a chunk
of cheese. Are you feeling a bit mousy?
Take a bite of it; do please.

like the sun up in the sky.
That goes on without you
spinning circles, feigning shy.

It tugs upon your apron.
Frivolously likes to play.
When did you get older?
Wishing for your younger days?

Each bead of sweat befalls you
like a sticky lollipop.
The clouds are ginger brandy
and it's raining licorice gumdrops.

Are your dreams that elusive?
Flittering like a dragonfly?
Slide down upon the rainbow;
land in caramel apple pie!

Oh that rascal moon!
It's just a chunk of cheese.
Are you feeling a bit mousy?
Take a bite of it; do please.

when ******* fists twist
as a drill into the belly of
a handicap man
that's ill.

It’s a poison arrow in the heart
when you can’t erase the bloated gorilla’s
face from your head. Your child
be dead if he wasn’t pulled
off. The scoff on top of it makes
your insides split.

It’s a brain hemorrhage
that no alcoholic beverage
can fix. It makes you sick/rots
your core this attack on
your son from a ******. It pulls
all your triggers.

when people want to
stab you in the back because
they’re jealous of what you’ve
have. They’re all miserable unhappy

savages that derive pleasure from
other people’s fallouts.  They spread
just like pathogens infesting the innocent. The
success of others emphasizes the failure in

themselves. They are twisted, mangy
vile creatures that **** the blood
out of you like leeches. It’s oozing out
their mouth. They hate themselves. And I

in turn hate them. Be careful who you call
a friend.

It’s a Silent Killer

because it doesn’t always show.
It hides behind smiles. It’s camouflages itself
in words. It slips in between laughs and jokes, when
no one is looking. It hides behind closed doors when

the show is over and people go their separate
way. It cloaks itself in the trappings of success and the
illusions of love. It feeds on itself like a drug. It has no
mercy. It doesn’t care who you are, where you came from

or where you’re going. It takes your spirit. It strips you
of your soul. And in the aftermath of the wake all the
people who have loved you will be shocked, will feel
profound loss.  There will be questions, to which

there are no answers. There will be answers that don’t
give much relief. There will be guilt and anguish, pain
and unrelenting suffering. Maybe it could have been
prevented. Maybe not. You’ll ask yourself that time and
again. It will be a constant thought.

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline 1-800-273-8255

same as it was yesterday
the same as it will be tomorrow
and every day that follows
she makes it in the morning

so, it will be waiting
as soon as she gets home
anticipating the tartness of
the sour apple
the sea-green in the triangular glass
the cherry fishes that sit on their rounded ***

bobbing up and down
as she takes a swallow
to fill up the hollow of what’s left of her mind
she reclines on the chocolate couch
that has a lever on the side
to stretch her legs out wide

as she drains the glass
her blue turns green at last
she gets giddy and laughs
before she transcends to some other
dimension

though she tells herself to stop
the hurt’s tight as a knot
in her heart
and there’s just one way to loosen it
so she takes another sip

don’t care much
what I get done
not concerned
about what I wear
I just might
go naked
for all I care

Not concerned where
I’m going
what I’m doing
just floating
free falling
drifting

don’t care what I eat
chips and cake
is great for me
not answering the phone
not making the bed
or my mind

just taking my time
jotting a line
playing it cool
and solo today
no endeavors –
whatever

Love is meant to be shared.
Souls are meant to be bared.
It’s beautiful when you open up.
It’s beautiful when we are in love.

I want to be free,
free to love whom I please.
I have so much love.
It’s all I ever speak of.

Love is meant to be shared.
Souls are meant to be bared.
It’s beautiful when you open up.
It’s beautiful when we are in love.

My lust for life
can never dry.
It’s called desire.
As the Nile,
it flows for miles.

The song I sing
cannot be silenced.
It’s called desire.
As ocean waves,
it misbehaves.

This burning fire
can never be extinguished.
It’s called desire.
As the sun rises
it reprises.

on the inside of these walls. Spring never
did call. And summer flew south
for the winter. She’s frostbitten as the meat
in her freezer. It’s been frozen so long it

grew teeth. The floorboards are the only ones
to speak. They hiccup occasionally. But they’ll never
spill her secrets. Dust settles on them, thick as a
woolen blanket. He’s the only warmth she has. Must be

his laughter.  She melts as the words comes
out. Picks them for him as if they were
flowers. She hasn’t much of a garden. But still,
he smiles when she hands him her scant intentions.

His *****
was a dancing pole
that you slid up and down on
with lips and hose.
“Sit on it Sandra”
You did as he commanded.
He never took you to see his family.
You never knew any of his friends.
It’s not what he would talk about
with other people.
It was something he considered shameful.
When they asked who was dating
he would answer “it’s complicated”
But he would sink his uncut nails deep into you
and cry out loud until he was through and then
hurry up and get dressed so he could
take you home to your family.
And when you would get into fights
your husband would come collect you
at night. One time he chased you into the street. He met
your husbands stare when he was pulled over waiting
to rescue you from another nightmare. The windshield
was only thing between the two of them, if you didn’t
count yourself. He drove off mad as hell
Free association with complications -

sitting like a stone
in your stomach. Like a branch
a dunnock perches on. The drone
of a deadbeat song. The lull of

a rainy afternoon when you
open the door, your skin wrinkled
like a prune. Your wet hair matted
to your face like grey cardigan wool

that pills. But you cannot shave off. So,
you toss it in your bedroom drawer,
along with the cards and pictures of him.
Cheers to the years you were green

and slim. This pain was an ice pick
chipping at you, the man’s tool! Now
it’s a rusty piece of metal that lost shine.
Cannot cut an orange rind. But it’s keeping time.

she’s not hurting
when you know for certain that she is

easy to pretend
she’s not self-destructing
wouldn’t want that interrupting
anything you’re doing

easy to pretend
someone will pick up the slack
wouldn’t want her baggage
to set you back

is in my right shoe, and that I got
my coat on backwards so it feels
like a straitjacket. My shirt is turned
inside out. So now when I walk

around the tags sticking
out. One could say that I’m a
total mess. One could say that I
I haven’t gotten anything right

yet. It’s a hard life walking around
with everything in the wrong
places. Feels like my shoelaces
are tied together. So, I trip as soon

as I get up. But I still got that
loving touch. And even if I must crawl
on all fours like an animal it doesn’t stop me
from proceeding to the beginning of the line.

to don
a laugh
a smile
as I'm wan

It’s harder
to wait
for my luck
to turn around
for the strength
to break new ground

It’s harder
to walk
a winding road
in the same shoes
glued to my feet
I'd rip off my sole
blistering
my feet

I’m glued to this chair
It’s become my coffin
Without the sides
I’m upright
But I’m not feeling up
And I’m not feeling right
I think too much
This chair makes me think
It just sits - staller
In front of the screen
As I curse and holler
I need a drink
And it’s only morning
Apropos –
Because I’m mourning you
As I always do
In my usual way
Sitting in this chair
Typing away words to give you
Words to send
But not in person
Where I want to be
Sitting with you
Or you here with me
There is no cheer in loneliness
Just something to plant
My ***
And grouse a bit

cockamamie story of yours
that you weren’t home. But instead at
the gas station. That you had to phone
a woman in the wings waiting. That you

left me in the rain with a smirk upon
your face. That you hadn’t the time
for me. That I was chasing your
company. That you made a promise

that turned out sloppy. That I needed
a proof positive copy. It doesn’t wash. You
mixed the whites with the colors. I can’t tell one
from the other. You didn’t get rid of the spots.

I want to love; I want to share.
But each disclosure sets me back a year.
It’s these feelings I cannot quell.
I’m punished every time I tell.
And it’s hell.

I’ve been cut down; I’ve been expelled.
Don’t know why I feel compelled.
I can’t resist what I have missed.
The strength in me does not exist.
So, I persist.

I want to love; I want to share.
But each disclosure sets me back a year.
It’s these feelings I cannot quell.
I’m punished every time I tell.
And it’s hell.

I try to run; I try to leave.
Living in a land of make-believe.
But when I hold back everything goes black.
I’m on the wrong track.
I can’t help myself.

I want to love; I want to share.
But each disclosure sets me back a year.
It’s these feelings I cannot quell.
I’m punished every time I tell.
And it’s hell.

and I’m stranded like
a beach whale
getting all this propaganda
in my messages
looking like Tony Olanda
without dawn
saying to myself –
the **** is going on
with this world?

Get me on a plane outta here
where they don’t
talk politics
just drink beer
where I can go skinny dipping
have fun
no martial law
and men don’t carry guns

women like me
that have neon signs
from their head to their knees
flashing letter “L” in megawatt caps

that men like to tap
it’s water-colored eyes
blinking dewdrops
running down men’s lies

it’s a cherry prison
a heaving chest so risen
it's the droning of the wind
her confidence so thinned

it’s the butterflies tied
the crushed wings
that once danced
and flied

years digging out of holes
just like burrowing moles
it's tramping through the sludge
that's a daily drudge

so, I’m another year older. That’s
what the calendar says. Not much has

changed in the last few years. I’ve gained
some weight and many more grey

hairs. I’m still not selling my books, except if you
count that one a day or so ago – that made me all

of twelve dollars! Don’t have many
followers. I’m less a friend and more depressed

than usual. It’s just an ordinary
day. There’ll be no celebration. I’ll write all

morning for the other two books I’m working
on, drink all afternoon.  Visit my sick son, who isn’t

even aware that it’s my birthday. Cry into my pillow
at night breathing into the tub of vapor rub to clear

my sinuses. Get up several times to ***, toss and turn.
At some point, fall back to sleep.

I’ll live it as I see fit
It’s my decisions
I’ll stand firm on
Not yours
Never was

I will bend
as the young trees
But never break
I will lead a life that’s real
Never fake
Will I make mistakes –
Sure
But they won’t own me
Anymore!

I’m not a book.
I’m a chapter.
I’m not a look.
I am laughter.

I’m not a song.
I’m a verse.
I’m not that long.
It could be worse.

I’m not a puppet.
I’m a string.
I do love it.
It’s my thing.

where is he? No answer on
his cell. Hell, I’m not standing
for this. It was just this afternoon I was
on his couch engaged in a kiss, and groping

session. Now it’s New Year’s Eve and almost
eleven and he’s not answering his phone. I’m
going to take my sorry bones down to his home
and find out myself just what he’s doing and who

he’s doing it with. Maybe this might be a
death wish. It’s a ten-minute drive-in agony
because I’m fantasizing of what awaits me. When I
get there the house is dark. I knock on the door. No

answer. I keep pounding away until something comes
out of the dark haze, groggy and confused. “What
time is it” he asks not amused. It’s 11:30, I tell him as I
walk right past the entrance. Where is she? Where is

Who? The girl you're hiding. There is no girl. Was I
delusional? I’ll find her myself. I walk up the stairs
to his bedroom. Nothing but a barren bed with the covers
drawn back. If there’s no one else then I’ll be the

one. So, I took off my clothes and climb
into it. And he said “Good God, there’s a naked PATIENT
in my bed” So he jumped in with me. And that’s how
we celebrated New Year’s Eve 2014!

you can put out
by water
it just turns hotter

It’s not a thing
you can turn off
by switch
it’s an itch

It’s not a thing
you can smother
by blanket
just crank it

going against people’s beliefs
it’s like pushing up against the wind
defying everyone takes courage
standing your own ground
is not easy
especially when that same ground
keeps getting smaller and smaller
until you feel like you’re standing on the head
of a pin with one foot up in the air
but you don’t care
because standing in this way
is making a statement to all
and a commitment
to yourself

but the way he carries himself –
the aura of his personal space
the light emitted from his eyes
the smile that circles his face
the sway of his hips as he walks
the nod of his head as he listens
his lashes that flirt as he talks
his brows that magically glisten
the hair that lies flat on the sides of his head
his toes that point outward toward me
his cheeks all glossy and red
the dimples that twinkle as stars
the arms that swing as if they’re dancing
these few things about him are
to me entirely entrancing

that I'm told to postpone
my vacation after fourteen years.
And this not the first.
I swear the **** I'm cursed!

It’s not kosher
that my son can’t
visit home for dinner.
Is this the price
that I'm a sinner?

It’s not kosher
that I don’t have
the same space
and pay people do.
I work 7 days a week
for people to speak trash
at me.

It’s not kosher
for an old friend
that turned their back on me
to pick up
the friendship
after ghosting me

It’s not kosher
for people to insult me –
Ever

of amour. It's self-
preservation. I've grown poor
in spirit. I can't grin and
bear it for another day

It's not lack
of ardor. None have tried
harder than me. But I can't live
a life of make-believe.

It's not lack
of rhythm. With him
for sixteen years, dancing to the beat
of the snap of his fingers. They're now
my triggers.

It's not lack
of fit. I just can't sit with this. I'll miss
him. But the ride is over. I'm not
a leftover.

that separate us.
Miles aren’t hurdles
for hearts incircles.
Distance is a measure

of the times
we get together.
It’s what keeps you safe –
the space

you put between us.

It’s growing bigger
by the day.
You hope it will
fade –

Maybe become
a memory.
Those are easier
to reach.

You think
and they are there.
Like this silence -
it’s everywhere

I make-up my eyes
but how they make you feel
each time you steal a glance
in my direction.

It’s not the way
I dress myself
but how I address you.
and when I do
do I give you my attention?

It’s not the way
I complete my thoughts
but what my thoughts
completely say.
Am I conveying what I mean?
And meaning what I convey?

Some People
are in a deep sleep
saying this
is fake. It’s not up to me
to wake them.

Some people
won't face the road ahead. They
can't pace themselves. They
stand still. It’s not up to me
to move them.

Some people
can not see from their
past. You can't reach
them. It’s not up to me
to teach them.

say
it’s how you say it

It’s not what you
do
it’s that you’re doing it

It’s not what you
plan
it’s that you’re thinking of something

It’s not what you
intended
it’s that you kept trying even though
it didn’t turn out perfect

It’s not what you
are
it’s who you’re striving to be
and that never comes easily

It’s where we are. It gives us
something to compare to now. And
in that comparison there is some
disappointment.

It’s not where we are.
It’s where we’re going. If we’re unhappy
we can change the situation to something
like what we were, or something
different.

It’s not where we’re going.
It’s how we’re going to get there,
the stumbling blocks, the mistakes
the wrong turns along the way and what we
choose to do with them.

It’s not how we’re going to get there –
It’s that we’re in this together.
That’s made all the difference.

If you give me "no"
I’ll only turn it around.
Arrange it backwards.  
Put it upside down.
Turn it on its head.
And then it won't be "no",
it'll be "on"
instead!

It's Only a Feeling

that has my blood-pressure climbing
or just bad-timing.
The librarian's asking the guinea pig
if it slept well last night.
Like I care if it did!
My computer is having internet trouble.
I can't work on the poetry course I'm taking
Added to the fact that I can't drink -
is making me frustrated and angry.
There! Two feelings
I'm so glad that they're fleeting.
Maybe they'll leave by tomorrow evening.
At least I can have them now without a crisis.
After all this isn't Isis -  though I'm not sure
what the librarian put behind the guinea pig's door!

of something in my past
something that didn’t last
but something that has a hold
something that’s now old

It's only a memory
that eludes my sleep
making me weep
filling my head
burning bright red

It's only a memory
wafting through the air
like grandma’s apple pie
on the windowsill
attracting flies

It's only a memory
no longer real
but still turning like a wheel
a windmill spinning round
of flashing light, and  
whipping sound

like a dream,
but chases me around
like a speeding car down
the boulevard.  It dropped

like a burnt souffle'. But
I wake to it every day, smoky
and grey. It's finished like
a line somebody crossed. I was

tossed in the air like
a coin. Landed on heads.  Cut like
threads after stitching. It was
bewitching! It stopped

like a broken clock. Only kept
time twice a day. But in the rhyme,
it sliced my lines.  Expired
like curdled milk from sitting

too long on the shelf. It closed like
a slamming door in my face. I banged
on the wood till my knuckles turned
red. But I haven't in years put it to bed.

But I'm not over it. I'm on
top of it. It took sixteen years
to reach the summit from climbing

on my tears with threadbare
shoes. I was born to lose. The air
up here is thin, wrinkling all my

skin. I don't have a flag, marking I
was here. All I have is a head full
of yesterday. And I've become

the prey. I spy an eagle flying. Jump to
hitch a ride. I glide like I have wings. But I
can't even fly, even as I cut the strings.

from the sky. But I’m no longer
third eye blind. Buzzing
down as hornets from their paper
tree nests. Flocking toward me

like the gulls at sea,
tenebrous grey unrest. This
red pin cushioned porcupine
cannot roll with sharp, long

spines. I jab the sidewalk. Dab
in side talk. Once the sky snowed
luminous butterflies. Pirouetting like
ballerinas. But now I'm handing men

subpoenas! Maybe this cornflower
prison that I’ve been living will pour me
some buttered *** from the flask
of the golden sun.

tonight, in the backyard. They're
falling hard from the sky, like bowling
***** squashing apple pie. They snort
and grunt from a mile, landing on top

of each other in a pig pile. Ma says
I'm mistaken. I say prepare ye, for
some bacon. I took out the frying pan
and turned on the overhead fan. Smoke

will fill this tiled kitchen. But it'll be
finger-lickin’. Men and women will
stop by for a whiff of pig fry. Morning
sun chased the wheel cheese

moon. Bellies swell like hot
air balloons. When life hands you pigs
mountains in size for lunch we will
serve ham sandwiches and fries!

inside a glass
bulb. Passing her days
trying to move when it's up
to her waist. A tiny silt

turned mountain in
size. When did the world
tilt /climb up to her thighs? When
did it fall through so

fast? When did a sandbox
of toys turn a vast prison? And
the floor risen up to the neck? All in
a sliver, a glowing red speck. Grit

stuck in her teeth spilling
into her nose. Filling
her nostrils and inside her
clothes. Growing hives on

her arms like wasps spawn
on the branch of a tree. She'll not  
breathe. It'll swallow her whole
as it buckles her knees.

how others are liked
they’re read in the thousands
but no one reads me
I’m sad and lonely
no one cares
no kind remarks
no encouraging words
next time
I’ll leave
the page
stark

the rumors
like trash on
the beach. I don’t know
what to believe.

It’s spreading
the Louisiana mosquitoes
from the swamps
on the livestock. I don’t know
when the rain will stop.

It’s spreading
the virus
in my son’s college
campus. I don’t know
who will be next.

It’s spreading
the hate
in this polarized
country. I don’t know
who will be standing
when the bell tolls.

It isn’t the hush of thunderous thoughts or
billowing misdeeds, or the lull of the
waves, the calm of the sea. Or knowing that it

will be there every evening when the day has drawn
its last breath, and you roll your stockings off
to give yourself to it.  It’s not the swallow or how you

make it up, or that it puts you to sleep, or the placing
your demons in the deep freeze. If just for that moment
when you no longer think, when the dark turns light
and the devil wears white –

in that instance when you’re back as a seed
before it all began –
a figment in your father’s imagination
it’s then

you can't take your eyes off of -
the one that runs
the red light

the guy
you have to ask
to wear the mask

the man that can
slit your throat
like the blades
of a fast jet boat
in protest
over a sign

the **** that stands
too close in line

the college kid
that brings home
the Covid

It’s the Other Guy
that hangs on your girl
tells her he'll hand her the world
acts like he cares
then disappears

that makes us grab that chip, the glass
of wine, the cigarette. Do you want it? Do
you need it? Does it really matter? It’s
reflex that makes you do it, no matter. It’s

become a habit. The brain doesn’t
think. The hand takes over. It works well
with some things, like my writing. Not so
much with others. I’m no Stepford wife. Yet

I feel like a puppet, entangled in my own
strings. I blame it on the reflex. It makes me
do certain things. Call it impulse. I can’t
retract. I stole that black Ugg from the store. I

can’t go put it back! It was the slip of my wrist
that took it. My fifth, but whose keeping
track?

as the keys
on my laptop
the smudge
on my glasses
everything passes

It sticks
as a chocolate bar
on a kid’s fingers
as old mascara
pray to Tara

It sticks
as a price tag
on the picture frame
the man stuttering
calling my name
all they do
is fan the flame

It sticks
as a *** of gum
under the desk
the things he’s done –
this world’s a mess

It sticks
as a crusty scab
covering the wound
in in time
it’ll heal soon

to go into on the phone. It’s
a thousand knives cutting you
in a padded room that’s sound
proof. No windows or doors. My

God! There’s no floors. They’re
dangling you on a string tied to the
ceiling fan. Then they put it on
the highest speed so that your blood

splatters. And the whole shabam
is a spin and paint like a tie-dye
t-shirt, except it ain’t.

These feeling new!
Not quite from me -
They take on you!
I felt it just the -
Other day -
When solemnly -
You looked my way.
The sky hanging low -
Like an old man -
Turned grey.
Ominous clouds -
Filled up our room.
I felt us inside -
A deep, dark tomb!
And I swore I've seen-
The wreckage of war!
The glare in your eyes -
When I dropped -
Those bombs you abhor!
Standing behind -
Enemy lines -
Erecting the walls!
And walking on mines!
Yet lately I'm taking on -
Something????
More profound!
That you are emitting -
So soft and so low -
With barely a sound!
And it's running -
Right through me!
Like a river so deep.
But it's something -
We don't talk about it.
It's a secret we keep!