Why, oh why oh why,
does everyone
keep asking me?
It’s who I want to be.
Why do they bother me?

Why wear your hear long?
Why exercise, to be strong?
Why do you dress like that?
Afraid of looking fat?

Why do you have to cuss?
Why can’t you be like us?
Go get a real job.
Why are you such a slob?

There is no right or wrong.
There is no weak or strong.
Your way’s not finer.
My way’s not minor.
I choose to express myself
different then everybody else.
It’s not criminal to be an individual.

a drop of water
to start a flood

one gunshot wound
to end someone’s life –
too soon

It takes
one match
to start a forest fire

one laugh
in the wrong place
to stop a heart’s desire

It takes
one decision –
to change
a life preordained

one kind word
to make somebody’s day

one step –
and you’re on your way!

of choices to decide
which is the right one for you. There’s
so much to choose. A lifetime
of trials and wiles of the young. A

lifetime of making mistakes, having
things go awry. And then brushing it
off to the side. It takes a lifetime of hard
work and sacrifice. And still there’s no

guarantee what you do will suffice. It takes
a lifetime of heartache and angst to carry the
past in your head, not to make it form who you
are, but to become someone better instead.

Rumor
to ruin
a reputation

One
Leader
to destroy
a nation

One
Match
to burn a
forest

One
Razor
to slit
your wrist

One
Bullet
to ****
a person

One
Poem
to put
your verse in

One
Idea
To make
a difference

One
Ear
If someone
listens

to crack an egg
break it apart
but remember beaten eggs
make savory omelets

It takes someone
to cut a tree
saw it down
make it fall
but remember fallen wood
makes homes for all

It takes someone
to light a candle
make it shine
brighten a room
that once was dark
like a tomb

It takes someone
to plant a seed
grow a garden
to till the soil
that once was harden

It Takes Strength

It takes strength to be able to face this person
and tell them they broke your heart
finally weep the tears that been buried
and then to have this person laugh
but not in mockery
not in nervous discomfort
but because she said "no" when you asked
to pass the tissues
and for her to be uncertain of the laugh
for her to laugh back and ask
why?

It takes strength to be able to face this person
and hear them tell you that you broke their heart
finally witness the tears that been buried
and then to laugh
but not in mockery
not in nervous discomfort
but because she said "no" when you asked
to pass the tissues
and for you to feel relief that she started the process
to grieve

It took

a man
a woman,
two people
to create you.
But it only takes
one
to break you.
I know
how it feels
to be broken,
to be
the discarded experiment,
to be left.
It feels your half
complete.
You have a head
but haven’t feet.

a sailing ship to a harbor.
But you harbored rancor
toward me. So, I rode out
a stormy sea.

I turned to you
a broken limb to a cast.
But you cast me to the side. So, I didn't
heal. I just backslide.

I turned to you
a stray homeless waif.
But you lead me astray.
I'm not safe.

I turned to you
an orange moth, circling the flame.
Both of us inflamed
with passion, crashing head on
burning in a song.

a whale flopped
over in his pool. And all
the water came splashing out
the sides. The whale, so wide
took up every inch of space.

It was as if
he fell asleep
for a year. Even as
his lashes fluttered as a butterfly
he was in a dream of masks and ties
that was gray. The black
and whites erased. He washed
his face. But did he wake?

It was as if
he did not peel
his eyes off the screen. He lifted
his seat to take a ***. But like slugs
his eyes mugged the green.

It was as if
he was leaning
on his arm and not
his charm to talk. He was flat
as a fly after it was swatted. The square
plastic mesh did not make for a pretty dress.

of two who knew they were not meant to be
that being together was not sensible or responsible

that they had both taken oaths to do otherwise
that they had hidden behind lies and so this foundation

was week and crumbling underneath the two of them
it wasn’t supposed to happen

It happened
I was inside your arms
My hair was touching your face
I could smell your skin
I could hear your heart beating
My arms wrapped around your shoulders
Feeling I belong
Knowing time had stopped
We fit infinity into a moment
Not a moment in infinity
And it wasn’t a dream

to give. It wasn't
his gold sun shining on blades
of grass. It wasn't his bridge

of rope to pass. It wasn't his
star for kings to follow. It wasn't
his today tomorrow. It wasn't his

moonlight jade. It wasn't his
cloud. So, it wasn't his shade.
It wasn’t his bread and butter.

It wasn’t his
***** or putter. She wasn’t his
to hand to another.

this way.
You were going to Paris in April.
You planned on
seeing him, stealing hugs inside his
door, not drinking anymore.

It wasn’t supposed to be
a life sentence.
He was only four
when you found him on his bed
with his eyes rolled back in
his head. And the doctors at Children’s
said he’ll never be the same again.

It wasn’t supposed to be
an affair.
You were his patient.
But your love wasn’t patient enough to wait
the full two years without seeing one another.
And he wasn’t supposed to die from heart failure
at sixty-two. He was in better shape than
anyone you knew.

strung clothes on the line
young ***** wind whipping blind
pigeons dropping bombs again
shooting balloons of estrogen

waiting in the frozen rain
splintered from a winter’s sun
skin peeling off like an onion
dropped into a stir-fry
wilting violet butterfly

It was the last time
choking on the words
trampled as herds of buffalo
crushed into red peppered flakes
rigging the sauce
stepping on the brakes

stuck as a splinter
in my hand. I remember December
as the coldest month, the first
Christmas you were not here. And people

said “wait til next year.” Next year
is a stillborn birth. And all I can do
is weep at the girth of deaths. Underneath
the wreath on the door is a sign –

don’t stand around here without
the shot. I’ll take mine in the mouth. I’ve
shot myself in the foot. I’d walk out
on myself. Irreconcilable differences I’d claim.

when I fell over him. We both
packed a ton of luggage from
shorts to dresses to spouses
and stresses. But we didn’t

iron out the baggage we
carried, nor did he tell me that
he was still married! He tripped on
his words as he ate chicken aspic. After

every entrée he’d pull out his
plastic, sign the paper. And hand it over
to the waiter.  Outside temperatures
rise and so did his temper. After

the bill we went on ****** of anisette
and drunken fast ***. We threw it
all out for this, for the life we
thought we had missed.

Freedom of Speech
shouldn’t be tainted
with hate. But it will never
stop. As the sky will

never stop the clouds from
rolling in, covering the day in
a white blanket of shade. As a skunk
will never stop spraying his

unpleasantries. Hate soaks in
under your skin. You can’t get it off
with detergent in a bath. It lasts. And
it becomes a part of you, a part of

your fear and insecurity, a part of
your defenses, knocking you
senseless. Because you seek approval.
We all do.

What do you say
when he says it’s over?
They’ll come a day
you stop thinking of him.
You’ll find a way
to start over.
It won’t be today.
Maybe tomorrow.

What do you do
when he dumps you?
You’re so blue
Your heart is reeling.
Yesterday you couldn’t
peel yourself off the ceiling.

What do you say
when he says it’s over?
They’ll come a day
you stop thinking of him.
You’ll find a way
to start over.
It won’t be today.
Maybe tomorrow.

like a ball of yarn
the cat pounced on and
swatted at. Every strike of
his paw I grew small

till I was not at all. I unwind
like a spool of fishing line cast
by a silhouette drinking *****,
smoking cigarettes. He spun

a web of lies like a spider
trapping the fly. I was unstrung
like a harp. He couldn't pluck me
with his fingers. The music

died. The wooden frame
all now in splinters. A rope will fray
when cut. I hung on till my edges
grew threadbare. Now I'm dust in the air.

drunk on your love.
Now I’m just plain drunk.

I used to be
falling for you.
Now I’m just fallen.

I used to be
Naïve.
But this experience
has made me change.

Next time
I’ll be sober in love
as well in life.
But you know what they say
about the first time –
it cuts like a knife.

the days
until I’d see you again
Now I count the ways I can get along
without you

I used to count
the sacrifices
that weren't pleasant
Now I count what I can do
without being acquiescent

I used to count
sheep
when I was up at night crying
Now I count how much sleep I get
without trying

I used to count
on you
for everything
Now I count on me
And I’m happy

through a straw. The puddles,
big as poodles. I slurped them up
as noodles. But now I drown
face down from past reverie, in
shadows of a memory.

I used to eat my Rage
sprinkled with thyme and
sage. But now it simmers on
the stove mingled with oranges
and clove.

I used to hang my poetry
on the line to catch the
sunshine. But it has fallen
off and choked up in my cough.

ambition
back when I was a teen
Now my life's mission
is staring at a screen

I used to have
friends
people knocking on my door
this house was a castle
now all it has are creaky floors

I used to have
a waist
my shirts tucked in my pants
now the rolls of fat
are as large as France

I used to have
money in the bank
now I'm broke as hell
with only myself to thank

I Used to Think

the stars were wishing pods
filled with peppermint. But when
one descent and I opened it
it was nothing more than a resistant
spore.

I used to think
the sun was buttered popcorn
salted. Until I found out it was a giant
fireball that halted my existence
by burning me from a distance.

I used to think
love was music I could dance
to. But I didn’t get the chance because
it cut me off at the knees and blew me
away with a sneeze.

I used to think
life was a play and we were actors
holding our script. Until something stripped
me of my lines strangling me
in its twisting vines.

I used to think
but now I ferment
in my own excrement

growling in my stomach
larger than a lion
that ties in everything I do

brighter than a flame burning
turning light onto the shadows
flinging pens as if they're arrows

on the marks of men
that left footprints on my hide
the stain has spread and dried

a song I’ll sing till I die
and none can silence me
I’m a worker bee

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.

in this dark, cold basement with my
poetry in my bra and ******* for so long. I can’t
remember when. I sing a song of loneliness
every morning after the coffee has kicked in. And

write about life outside this prison. And then I post
it all over the internet. My mood depends upon
how many likes I get. It’s a sad journey
this one that chose me. It’s left me isolated

and in poverty. I wallow in the wine each afternoon
when I see the lack of sales on the Amazon
Kindle. And every evening after I’ve been sufficiently
sozzled I tell myself ah, heck there’s always tomorrow.

held upside-down by my feet
from the doctor/white as a
sheet and swung
like a pendulum/as a teen with a speculum
as I widened my knees.

I’ve been smacked
together as two erasers hanging out
the window blowing billowing
clouds of smoke floating in the white
dust till I choked.

I’ve been smacked
in the head by the hands
of my mother. Pulled by the hair,
pushed like the button of a buzzer
till I splintered as the timbered door frame.

I’ve been smacked
as the ice in winter. Some man stuck
a pick in me till I screamed.

I’ve been smacked
in the face of reality
as I lost all my dreams. I wore a
gray mentality/unraveled at the seams. Till I
sewed the hole back together. And mailed it out
like a letter.

So you want me to quit?
Say I'm too old.
Throw in the towel.
Let my cards fold.
I've been told that before by another -
she went by the name -darling mother
So you want me to give up just like that?
a wrinkled old woman, ugly and fat.
I've been told that before by another-
he lived with me, was just like a brother.
So you want me stop doing what I love
want me to shut up
put out my light
or all the above
I've been told that before by another -
oh ya, let me think....it was my grandmother
So you want to pretend I don't exist-
wipe me off the face of the earth
make me regret my birth
I've been told that before by a friend.
Will you finally be happy when I reach
my end?

as my refrigerator, except for maybe
my son’s Gatorade that I’ve saved, in hopes
to fill their vacuous heads with something
other than promises. I’ve fed them meat right off

the bone. I gave them wine borne from this
blood alone. I stripped the shelves of milk
and bread. I handed them olive branches. Nothing
could saturate their fathomless pits, not even

the figgy pudding at Christmas. So, I stopped
filling the box. And let it sit until the frost covered
the inside, an empty landscape of leftover onion
wrappings, that look as the autumn leaves

after they’ve fallen from the backyard
trees. This stark Levine is spreading as
a cancer. I've nothing extra. And the only one
to answer is Alexa.

into empty nothingness. I’m not
anything but vast plains of
dried grain. I’m a desert. I used
to be a fruit bowl. But now I’m a
dust bowl. There is no life here
at all. I drink myself into
dehydration. It’s just a matter
of time before incarceration. I wish
I could say I’m made of what I do –
yesterday it was real calf-fur boots
New Balance sneakers, and a couple
bottles of *****.

It’s only a thought
An idea
It’s only a dream
A fantasy
It’s only a notion
Written on paper
It’s only a plan I devised
And it’s improvised
It’s only the beginning
A start
Nothing has happened
It’s only the first attempt
That failed
It’s only the second one, third and so on
Surprised?
It’s only a thought
Revised

quandary
of looking outside
myself for the answers. No one knows me
better than me. Who else has stayed

with me all this time? Who has delved
in the conflicts of one very cluttered
mind? Who else knows the dreams and the
terrors? Who else knows all my defenses, what I wrestle

with and my projections?
My past is another dimension that I myself
have questioned. The people I meet don’t know
the secrets I keep. Only I hold the key
to the locked doors.

of my jeans since I’ve given
birth to my children. I’ve grown out of
my cowboy boots. Now they’re
faded and loose.

I’ve grown out
of friends. We went our separate
ways. We used to have things
in common, but no longer.

I’ve grown out
of ideas. I haven’t any
plans. I’m taking life one day
at a time and see what happens.

My love for you has grown out
like the branches on a tree,
still attached and stronger than could
ever be.

pushed under the rug
buried in the earth I dug
crushed under man’s foot
thrown in a fire/turned to soot

I’ve had pieces
with hairline cracks
ones that melted down to wax
with jagged edges and faded top
the ones that bend and flop

I've had pieces
glued back together
but didn't hold in inclement weather
ones that scattered as mice
shaken and rolled like dice

I've had pieces
thin as floss
one’s old cloaked in moss
some are here
but most are lost
the ones here are covered in frost

far too long. What was isn’t
what is anymore. I haven’t accepted
that it will never be. I keep believing
that something will change, something

will make it go back to the same. But
I’ve waited years and years. I’ve held onto
this hope. But it only leads to despair. I’ve
got to let go. Yet the memory holds on. What

provided me warmth is now doing me
harm. I try to rationalize what happened. But
no logical reason can make up for all the
lost time spent in anguish over what was mine. Or

maybe it wasn’t, and I thought it was. Maybe
I’ve held tight to an illusion, glorified by
the distance and filled in by the emptiness of
my desperation.

People like to play with fire
but don’t want to get burned

People like to talk
but don’t want to listen

People usually say
the opposite of what they mean

People like to leave their opinion
but don’t want yours

People are a strange sort

in this life. I must put back
more life in my years. Living
in strife. My rage is sheer as my silk

stockings. Shuffling through the day
like an actor in a play. The only thing
dropping by are the pigeons firing

bombs. Banging my head like a tom-tom,
waiting for something to hatch. But the only thing
I catch is a cold. I roll through

this afternoon as a ball of green and blue
yarn the cat's unraveled. A tangled string
that hasn't traveled past her backyard.
A joker in a deck of cards.

like the grass loses moisture
after a drought. It’s no longer
green. It has the texture

of hay. It no longer grows
up in tall blades. It’s dried
out and prickly as a thistle. And lays

matted on the grown. The clouds won't
weep upon it with pity. It’s just a plot
of lost forget-me-nots in a cold
and barren city.

so, his cousin took off
her shirt and bared her voluminous
******* just for him. He told you this during
the session? He likes to talk about himself –
how he used to be in a band and play the
keys, and how he would have all the girls
down on their knees. That was back in the day
when he had hair and a svelte figure. When I told
him he gave up his dream he kicked me out
of the therapy. I’ve been kicked of therapy
so much I’m used to it now. Though I’m down
on my luck. I bring out the best in them. I bring out
the worst. They can’t deal with the latter,
of course.

and it’s not out there
or after the body decomposes
in some fiery pit
and exposes all sins
or a man in a red suit with horns
and a pointed chin
it’s here in my house
it’s a black-pitch tar of venom
with red opaque eyes
it climbs inside my bathtub
it becomes the water
that stranglers me surreptitiously
with arms and teeth
it’s on the faces of my husband and son
it’s my cat that attacks me
in delirium
it’s stealth seeps through my bedroom window
when I’m asleep
I tell it no; I’ve got control
but I don’t
so, I get up in the middle of the night
and empty every bottle out
that there is in sight
then climb back into my head
but still can’t get any rest
because I know hell is in my home
it’s a mobile dark creature that
spreads itself out as blacktop with legs
and makes me beg it to stop
I know what I got to do
to take it out of this living room

yesterday up
like dust on the floor. And
stored the gritty sand
in my bedroom drawer.

I swept
his lies
underneath the rug, till the
pile grew into a mountain. I
wasn't counting on tripping
over the smoky stack with only
a woolen weave to hold it in
the shack.

I swept
my dress
along the aisle
like a bride's train. And wept
my whole bouquet, as petals
shed like rain. And the stain
painted on my back became a bullseye
for men to aim all their flak.

for him
to change
like a cold hard winter
waits for the spring
like a swelled red splinter
waits for the body
to push it out
like the brittle dried grass
waits for the rain
after a drought

I waited
for him
like a caterpillar
in a chrysalis
like the papery husk
covering up
the shiny amber physalis
like the green plants
in photosynthesis

I waited
for him
to turn golden
like the leaves in autumn
but all I found
were dregs
as I got to the bottom

I waited
for him
with tears
and in pain
like a fat ugly stain
that sits and ferments
like I'm the **** of his cigarette
a stump lying in ashes
after he smoked me

as nightfall stung
in a blood-red October sky
as dewdrops rolled off blades of grass
and the air passed through my silky dress
caressing each mound of breast
till I heaved in distress
and broke out in hives

Waited till
the calendars flung
out of the window as robin sung
on snowy branch
and my pen danced on perfumed paper
that lit up like fire
as I inhaled the vapor
drunk on yesterday
and bent of this caper

Waited
in shadows hung
on city streets
like stalkers stalking me
in the desert moon
and weeping icicles
in the month of June
till I froze in my tracks
an ice-sculptor for the parade
with a pound of lemon, *****
and sage

of dark clouds hanging over
me. It’s raining black depression
and horror in every corridor. As I walk across
my lawn the grass cuts my feet. Every blade

a steely knife with rows and rows
of teeth. I can’t wait for night when I
can fall asleep to stop the agony. It pains me
when I'm awake. I act mechanically,

as a drone in a swarm of bees. I eat, but
the food is plastic. And it only fills my
stomach with acid. I hear things people

speak. But it does not compute. It’s mangled
as a buffalo after a lion sinks his jaws
in. I look at the day. But the colors
are grey as a seal and have no appeal. I scream in

silence, as if I’m in a padded room. I’m dust you can
sweep up with a broom. My limbs hang
loose. I’m flat as a paper doll you can rip in
a fell swoop. Even the horizon looks rusty and droops.

but I left my heart
under your doormat.

You can hear it beating
up against the slats.

But you might mistake it for
the flap of a wing
when a bird’s in flight.

You might mistake it for
the whimpering of a coyote
crying late at night.

You might mistake it for
branches dancing in the wind
in the pale moonlight.

But when you feel something
tugging at your heart
grabbing hold of it tight
there’s no mistaken it then.

A true heart is never slight.

of fear. It’s like a ghost town
around here. Roam empty
stores where people go no
more. I read the signs that say

stay away. A little bit of me
dies each day. I see empty
playgrounds. There are no sounds of
children’s laughter. The days go by

one after another with more
of the same. No celebrations/no parades.
People’s homes have become their cage.
I could never envision something as

this. I’m in matrix. I can’t eat
my lunch at the local deli. My belly is
growling because the supermarkets have
empty shelves. I can’t even see my own

son. No one visits anyone. Businesses have
shut down. So many sick and neglected. The
elderly are the most affected. Every station talks
of the deaths. Every paper’s headline’s

says we’ve got to confine this monster.
But what can they do when they’re closing
down movies and concerts. No more sporting
events. Universities and schools are going

on-line. It’s enough to drive one
out of their mind. Every day spent
in isolation. We are headed for damnation.
Empty parking lots/empty sidewalks. I can’t

spot a single person. Nothing here is
for certain. No one knows how long
this will go on. No one can say.
Except the world I’ve known has changed.

this. And I wanna be
that. I wanna go
here. And I’m ******
I’m not there. I wanna be

famous, a star of
the screen. I wanna be
rich. And I wanna be
lean. I wanna have

this. And I wanna have
that. And I’m gonna be
****** if it doesn’t happen
real fast.

I’m Not Your Steppin’ Stone,Valerie.
I’m a Believer. It’s A Little Bit Me,
A Little Bit You. What am I Doing Hangin’
Around? I should be taking the Last Train to
Clarksville. Look Out! Here Comes Tomorrow.

I want it, want it, want it
more than the baby wants the bottle
more than a theory to Aristotle
I need it, need it, need it
more than a heart needs to beat
more than a man needs to eat
more than Romeo needs Juliet
more than a gambler lives for his next bet
It consumes me as the plague
Makes this thought seem rather vague
It's got me, got me, got me
Will I last this day?
Is April after May?