Foundation is just powder
Mascara runs
Eye-liner bleeds
Shadow’s just dust
A paint-on face isn’t much
It can all wash off
But this one thing can’t
the glint in my eyes when I see you
the blush on my cheeks when we touch
the smile curled up on my lips when I’m near you
this is forever etched-
permanent

that you’ve been kissing.
There’s an imprint on your collar.
And it’s pretty hard missing.
You don’t need to be a scholar
to understand about a ***** stain.
Because the squalor on your collar
won’t be easy to explain.

Shaped liked a pair of lips.
The hue is a scarlet red.
It looks level, then dips,
as if someone bled.
You’ll be next
when I hit you on the head
for having ***
when you’re already wed!

of Juniper berries
with hair flaxen and lips
of cherries turn from emerald
green to purple-black. But once

they turn they do not go
back. Swollen lil' violet orbs wish to
be the next in Forbes. Sharp and clear
with tongue to bite, like aged gin

leave you ****** at night. Hanging
on tailored trees, the fertile seeds
spread as autumn leaves. Food for
the waxwings and thrushes. The painter

airbrushes it on fences and lawns
from dusk till dawn. All are drawn
to the splendor, the sailor's call
the weaker gender!

of dew
like turquoise fountain springs
trickles misty rose
in color
on a palette
so, she clings.

And I'd paint her
crimson red,
as she's laying softly
in her whispers
on my moonlit, star borne bed.

As the morning sun
appeals
blowing golden kisses,
honey sweet
and so she kneels.

It's a wonderfully blended
hue
when amber sands
of moonlight
a little shy and blue
sneak up on the twilight
to kiss the morning dew.

sit quietly. Play with your
Barbies on the floor. Don't stir up
anxiety. Momma has lots of
chores. Your hair is long. Momma's

patience’s is short. Just sit quiet;
don't cavort! Black and blue
don't mix with a dress of violet
hue. Don't ask so many things. And don't

you sing, hum or whistle. Don’t set
your momma off like a missile! ******
noses are messy. And your dressy in your
white gloves and leather shoes. Momma has

a short fuse. She has to have a break. And
she's no frozen steak in her icebox for
a swollen eye. Just lie down and take
a nap. So, momma can quietly relax.

everything spoiled in your world
the silver linings have turned to cheap metallic
your mouth’s becomes sewer for phallics
your body’s a wrinkled up yonic
you spent your afternoons drinking ***** and tonic
when you come in you black out
the *** at the end of the rainbow is a chamber *** –
filled to the top with you know what
it’s incredible how you never give up

want to **** their daddies. And daddies
want to **** little girls. It’s not spoken
about. It’s not supposed to happen. But
what does one do with an *******

the old ***** won’t use because she lost
all her affection for you. She only likes
her drink. And eats chocolate cake by the
sink so the crumbs won’t spill on the floor. But
there’s no hiding she’s a big fat slob.

These abused children
grow up to be the neurotic
adults you see. You encounter them

at work, in the stores, in the gym
in your own therapist, a homonym of
the latter. What’s it matter? It

matters everything. They go on spreading
the germ, like a worm in an apple. God didn’t make
little green apples to be eaten by worms

Little Stray Hair

She had a stray hair that showed up
in the most unusual places. She’d tried to pluck it. But it

popped back up again. She’d tried to bleach it. But it stood out
strong as white against her olive skin. She took a razor

to it and cut herself. The blood ran out. And the very next
day something was sprouting in the same place. So she

tried to conceal wearing turtlenecks. But menopause made her sweat. So she embraced it, even gave it a name. She called

it Bert. It was her little secret. Sometimes she would cut it with a
scissors, if it grew too long. But she became fond of it.  Like a

tattoo she couldn’t imagine life without it.  It was like Cindy Crawford’s mole. After a while it turned beautiful. She grew to love it.

like
a smile
a touch
kind words
an afternoon ****
apple-picking
finger-licking fried chicken
champagne for no occasion
a train leaving the station
a pond with ducklings
an afternoon of doing nothing

Little things
are sometimes the most important
parts of life
because they take us away
from our worries
and add a touch of spice

as if you're a pimple. Don't
pick at it. Don't cover it up with
a lot of "make-up". Smile so women
can see your teeth. Don't put all your

thoughts on a red-hot spot
growing beneath your face. Not moving,
taking little space. She didn't
sneeze on you or drool. She didn't tear

up in a weeping pool. In a few weeks,
she'll vanish. And you'll forget her like
you did your Spanish.

he would say. I hated
uncertainty. I wanted the answers
immediately. He introduced me Gibran
and Rilke. He encouraged my poetry –

to accept what is without question. He sacrificed
his greatest love for me – psychology
I sacrificed my heart, which had already been
broken once, ironically by another psychologist –

the one that he would see. I introduced them. We
went to couple’s counselling together –
to answer the questions because they were getting
more and more unbearable living them. And at the end

when I found out he had lied I said to Jim
“your life is over” and I took him for everything –
His career and eighty thousand. He died a little over a
year from the day. But he died with the answers. Though I
don’t think knowing them helped him in anyway.

isn’t going through
the motions. It’s
the motions going through
you. Those vibes got to jive
in you every day. Even a log
can roll if you give it
a push. And if it’s hollow
life can still grow inside
of it. So, the next time someone
cuts you down or you’re low
to the ground remember this –
there’s more use in you than firewood.

the walls are growing thinner
every day. The starch and flour
is sour. All around me is grey. I can
poke a hole with my finger to emit

some light, as I linger in the dank.
of the night. At least a fish tank you can
see out of. I see myself as a rainbow
pinata, colorful on the outside but baked

as an enchilada. They can fill me with things -
******* Jack toys and paper rings, gumdrops
and lollipops to name a few. But it doesn't take
a lot to become unglued.

There’re all around
They stand in line with you
Sit with you at the same table in the library
They live next store to you
The dead-end street
They eat with you
Sleep with you
They are there  
So is the sofa and chair
That you eat on
And sleep on
Yet something isn’t
And this is
The absence of

heavy and slow
hard as rigor mortis
lagging and old
carrying it all on my back
the weight of the world
in a gunnysack

solitary as the cold wind
on the prairie
life gushes by me
friends are poison ivy

I tuck myself inside myself
and sit as a stone
as the moon, all alone
reclusive, shy, and diurnal
writing in my journal

dark and grumpy
clawed and bumpy
drinking from a puddle
head in a muddle over my past
snapping at men
as a telephoto lens

if I flew as an eagle
or swam as the dolphin
or ran as the horses
I’d be less obnoxious

To live in a world that
Encourages isolation
To read what people say
Never to look them in the face
Not to touch or hold someone
But to run
Living in a plastic bubble
Afraid of germs
No one learns in classrooms anymore
Computers take the place of a friend
Loneliness is Killing Us -
More than any virus

I spend all my days
and nights with. I curl up
on the couch with. My ocean
fleece blanket is a pouch

which I wrap my body in. It's
my cocoon on a rainy
afternoon. This blackened
silhouette burns me like

a smoking cigarette, enshrouds
me in a fog, as I lay sleeping like
a log. Dancing pirouettes in
my crimson cotton sweats, with

a book between my hands,
a ***** and lime sitting on the
nightstand. I have no plans. I like to
doze till twilight hits my toes.

in a pool of water
as the camera rolled
his wayward daughter
wet and cold
but he couldn’t spot her

Loneliness sits
in a ***** martini
salty and cloudy
in her stuffed bikini
she’s a bit rowdy
for a teeny ******

Loneliness sits
in a paperback
pages yellow
lines are hacked
in type, she bellows
they say she’s whacked

Loneliness sits
in a gilded cage
a broken mirror
it’ll age
only queerer
but never sage

on my chest as a buttoned
vest. It's a stone I carry
in my purse for better or
worse. I have wings inside

my cage. But they've grown dull
as I have aged. Quiet days blend
into dark fitful nights. The only
shine is my lamp light. My pen,

my only friend. It's there in the morning
with my coffee. And doesn't speak
back to me. Where I place it is
where it stays. It lies on the table

next to the sunflowers and cable. Fits
like a glove in my hand. Everything goes
as planned. All inside the squares,
in a house with empty chairs.

to me as a scab
does to a knee. But I can’t pick it
off or it would bleed into my heart. So, I wear

it as a second skin, covering the
the one I’m in. It trolls around the city
looking for love or pity. Trailing the baited line

in hopes to find somewhere it can settle, safe from
fallen angels. Some have fixed band-aids to it. Some
have used ointment. But it always oozes discontent

and bruises like a cheap cigar. I take it off with my socks
at night. Lay it on my pillow. Tell it to go to sleep. It never
listens to me. I must give it its nightly bottle before I

put it back on in the morning. It never remembers
a thing of what I told it, or that I hold it out to others
to do something with. They simply don’t know what to

make of it. So, I smile and shake it in their face, wearing
the best impish disgrace I can muster up. This helps
somewhat.

I was minus twenty-one,
young in the head. You stood
*****, not bent. Chestnuts
roasting below your brow. My *******

milky as a momma cow. Tulips
danced on your driveway. Marigolds
curtsied in marmalade. It’s years since
we cut the ribbon. What a feast

that Thanksgiving! You poured
gravy all over my lumps. I stood
bent in high-heeled pumps over
your knees. I was carrots and you

the peas. Yesterday was
years ago.  I lost it along with
my keys. It fell asleep in a deep-
freeze. I thaw it out in the middle

of night with a lemon wedge
in my ***** and sprite. Drinking
bubbles down, wearing pancake
make-up. I’m a clown.

and a seawall of masks
standing six feet back
waiting
taking count
to go in
you wait it out
staring at the phone
all alone
in a crowded line
the woman apologizes
she’s standing too close
judging what isle to go down
rounding up
the numbers
waiting turns
to take a look
at the clothes that sat
in isolation
for months

The thing has ended
but the feeling hasn’t
the feelings remain
Long Past
the feelings stay
Unchanged
time may pass
as time does
it was long ago
it was
it is

at who’s beside you. These are
your people. The ones who have been
there at the beginning. The ones who
hung around when things got

tough. This is your tribe, man, woman
or child. These are the people who
held you up when your legs gave out, and
your desire to move them was nil. When all

the strength you had was in a pill or
a bottle. And it hurt to swallow reality. And
all your heart could do was bleed. Look
around. And whoever’s here now –

thank them! Because you know
you’re ******* impossible! And they all
deserve a metal to put up with you.

she got it so much better
got her initials sewn on her sweater
and every towel in her million-dollar house
chased by every high-brow dude.
While you drink and brood

Look at her jetting off to exotic places.
Dreams she never chases -they find her.
She’s dolled up in pearls and fur.
While its only debt you incur.

Look at her published in another magazine.
Skinny as a bean
and that long blonde hair has so much sheen
a guy need sunglasses or he’d go blind
starring off into her tresses.
While you live in thrift-shop dresses.

Look at her going to another social gathering
all the people blathering –
Look at her
I know/I know
I told you so

with a smile.
Show some teeth.
Widen
your mouth.
It's so kinder than
wearing a pout.

Look at me
as you talk.
If you can’t look me
in the eye
I’ll inject
you're telling
a lie.

Look at me
when we make love,
or I’ll ask
if you’re daydreaming  of
a pretty girl

the stretcher nailed
the staples running as tracks
thumbing their way around
a hitchhiker making the rounds
the keys
the wire with slack
no colorful scene
lying flat
divorced from all men
surrounded in darkness
immobile and hooked
covering the cracks
the front is the show
But oh, look at the back

wading in an inch of water
tucking bills into feathers
preening themselves
without a note of who’s around
what a lovely day for a swim in the pond
and to be a duck
instead of ducking the world

the glittering peach eyeshadow
there appears a girl
every day that's overshadowed

the cherry bomb lipstick smile
there appears a girl
holding in a lot of bile.

Look Beyond
the feathered pink sweater
there appears a girl
weathered from her debtors

Look beyond
the silk stockings clinging to her legs
there appears a girl
that's walked on many eggs

Look beyond
the studded red stilettos
there appears a girl
that grew up in the ghetto

as a child going pass
a bakery store window
displaying cupcakes
piled high of buttercream frosting

smiles and hugs –
the kind you can’t wipe off
with a damp cloth
sign said “closed”

but the cakes stood *****
as a cold woman’s *******
and came with dimples
making her mouth water –

a drop of saliva fell
from her mouth to the ground
creating a crystal bead
of ice

and she squashed it
as she stepped
to leave –
sign said “closed”

I divested myself in this merger
a heart that could not perjure
waved itself stately as a flag
and to not a one it would brag
so long I’ve cried
these tears have calcified

When I look in the mirror
no reflection in the glass
time is all that I pass
in a bottle
I’m just a dottle
in the old man’s pipe
not worth the hullabaloo or the hype

make the pots rattle
while I dabble in this peculiarity
as a flower shedding its leaves
make the drawers fly open
sick of hoping
I need a sign from the sky
a flash of the red light
bilious ***** of thunder
the earth is pulling me under
and I need to stay on top of it
so, I won’t sink into the abyss
of hopelessness

to you. Couldn't swim in cornflower
lakes of blooming mistakes. Drowned
as the ice cracked this body. Built
me a soddy that sank in the banks

of the Pio. You lost your brio
and sleeve. Cleaved to the past
when this woman could skate a diamond
lake. Spin and circle figure

eights. Pirouettes on tattered
crimson tutus. Stood on battered tiptoes
for you. Now the only lines that rhyme
is tequila mixed with lime.  And salt

the shot glass. The bloat turns out
as gas. Passing on cornflower
lakes. The fallen leaves bid to be raked
and bagged. Conversations nipped/not dragged.

we play
till our hearts got in the way.
You tried to stave off love.
I was in –
well, maybe sort of

Love is a game
with no rules
written only for fools.
You put all your chips in.
But in the end
lose everything.

Love is a game
with high stakes
because it takes
all the air out of you.
You’re useless
an empty pool.

As you sit at the bottom
you wonder
how did you ever
go under?

I can’t follow it. It runs on
fumes. And I consume the vapor
and lose myself in the
smokey air. It strips me

and disappears. But not
after grating me like a block
of cheese. But I’ve no sauce
to cling. I lost everything.

sadly, many think it is ***
*** is ****** waste
it’s all organs and parts when it
has no heart
a ***** gets stiff and then erupts
it gets stiff because it lusts
the ***** knows not of love
only what turns it on and off
you can get your **** up from any
buxom broad
but the one woman in your heart
will grow over the years
through all the changes and challenges

When love is the only motive
it becomes the lotus –
floating on top the squalor that surrounds it
rising above the muddy water
it sits in
never to become imprisoned
by its home
untouched by that in which it has grown –
into a beautiful soul

You can’t get close without
opening yourself up. And there’s great risk
in doing that. We all want love.
But we also want to avoid pain. Well, you can

have both in the same. Loving someone
is overcoming the pain enough
to remain. Overcoming the pain involves both
people, not one trying to tough it out

alone. Not one trying to pretend all is
right when all is wrong. Not one playing the martyr;
not one thinking they’re smarter. But two people being
vulnerable and honest.  Love is worth the pain it cost.

your heart is its holster
and wearing two faces
helps you to bolster
this Eros image
many believe
in the act of a scrimmage
you easily deceive

The truth is my weapon
proof is my holster
wearing integrity
helps me to bolster
my transcendence
in the act of a scrimmage
I, have ascendance.

If life throws something at you
catch it.
Any hurdle that stands in your way
jump it.
If a problem presents itself
solve it.
Anything that does you harm
leave it.
But most of all
what you are given in life
love it.

like the warm, wet sand
on a summer’s afternoon
Let me leave my footprints
on you.

Love me
like a scoop of vanilla
ice-cream. Let me go down
soft and easy.

Love me
like an open window. You’ll
hear my soft pitter patter when the rain
falls.  The only thing that matters above
all is that you keep me alive in
your dreams. You know I’m never far
from reach.

once as supper
like swallowing an upper
like a snort of *******
hits straight to the brain!

Love me
twice as windshield wipers
back and forth
you take south/I'll take north.

Love me
thrice as a triangle
we'll tangle with another
then we'll swap -
with her on top.

Love me
quarce is a farce! To go on
like this I'd miss work. I'd miss
my friends and the news at ten. You
only die once! But not I -
La petite mort
screams and sighs

I got pennies in my pocket
That’s all of my change
Inside of a heart shaped locket
A man that looks strange

I got nothing in my fridge
One last bottle of beer
And I don’t care a smidge
If I get out of here

I collect bruises like trophies
They all line my shelf
Got a quilt of my nana Sophie’s
Yes, I talk to myself

I’m not what you call intellectual
I don’t give a ****
Most of my words are ineffectual
Love me as I am

Our love’s kept underground
But still circulated
I’ve walked over it with bare foot
I’ve kicked the earth which created it
It’s traveled miles in darkness
The sound of death was alarming
But still circulated
I know it’s made its rounds
It’s come back –
Where it originated

piece together
broken dreams, ones that

have been shattered so hard
they break the frame that line

them. And crack the spine
that holds them up. Because love’s will

is stronger than anything that comes
against it. You can cut off its legs

and it will still run. You can pour acid
in its eyes and it will still see. You

can tie it up tight against a
tree. Lightening will strike and split

the bark. Pure and intact
will be the heart – the heart that loves

Nothing here isn’t that does hate a window
That receives the thawed-ground thin over it
And collects dust on the moon
And destroys accord oddly
The sleep of prey is everything:
I have left them there
Where they are down a hundred stone
But they would have the fox in view
To make dread the silent wolf. The juncture I mean,
Everyone has blinded them or dumbed them break
But at winter splintered time we lose them where
I deter my neighbor near the flat ground
And on a night we part to idle the curve
And break the opening several times once
We throw out the window against us as we stay in
To others the twigs that risen to others
And some are crumbs and some far squares
We have to disengage the statistical talk unbalanced
“Go were you’re not until our fronts are forward”
We keep feet smooth by planting them down
Oh, just every kind of indoor game,
All on their side it goes a lot more:
There as it was we need an opening:
I am no grass and he is all mower
His mower will always cut across
And starve the mower over the grass, I dare not say.
I say “Low Fences Make Dead Neighbors”

he was a dumb-waiter
champagne and caviar
I felt like a film star
pulled on a cable car
pushing buttons on the steel wall
lighting number/light them all
climbing up the floors
screaming hushed by open doors
and then descend
after the body bend
up and down/in and out
I had you in my mouth
the clank and the clunk
moving around as if we’re drunk
the thrill of getting caught
makes us both hot

Screaming
with your sound turned all the way down.
Standing
in an inch of water when you drown.
Sleeping
upright during the middle of the day.
Looking
at the sun and only seeing grey.
Hearing
scary voices that are definitely not yours.
Pretending
you can vaporize to get through locked doors.
Picking
off the mites that are crawling beneath your skin.
Bleeding
to feel alive, when you stick yourself with pins.
Wrestling
with the demons that hide under your bed.
Choking
on the rhetoric that fills your empty head.

They want a Madonna
in the kitchen. A woman to
clean and cook. They want
a ***** in the bedroom to ****

their ****, **** and spank until
their *** is raw. They want a Madonna
to take home to their family and
friends. But they want a *****

for the weekends. One who they can
boss around, pull her hair – shove up
against the wall. These type of men
they want it all –

but what do they give back? They look
shiny in their Lincolns and Cadillacs, in their
mother’s eyes, who are not wise to what
they mass-produced – useless narcissistic men
who think they own their woman