This paradise I found
is within myself
Every time I dance and shout
I close my eyes and I’m who I want to be

When I open them
I’m not sure who’s in front of me
I knew all along that I was faking it
By pretending to be what everyone else wanted
I lost part of me in the making of it

I close my eyes and I’m who I want to be
Now if I could only get people
to listen to me
instead of seeing what they only want to see

some fantasy
created in their minds
for their own pleasure
not caring whether it has any grain of truth
The hell I pay for not listening to myself
A black bare stage of selfish wealth

their jaws drop
till the dentures slide
out. And the tongues flop
in the back of their
mouth.

Make
their eyes roll
till the pupils
can’t be seen. You
won’t see the color-
if their brown, blue
or green.

Make
their bodies quiver
till they’re slimy in sweat
like rancid liver. Then make
them eat it –
their words. And feed the gibberish
leftovers to the birds.

Make
wild, daily
love. Sing as the canary
and cut a rug.

Tell someone you care.
It might be the last words they hear.
Don’t put if off a moment longer.
Remember tomorrow is not promised.

Make that visit to a friend.
Give them a part of yourself.
Remember that they’re hurting too.
We always think we have more time than we do.
But we don’t.

Make Today the Day

You’re worried about change. You feel safe
when things stay the same. Comfortable, but not
happy, life becomes a habit. One day is no different

than the next. Keeping what you don’t need, not following
your heart or your dreams. You’ve been trying hard
to fit in. Slowly, over time you don’t recognize yourself or

where you’ve been. You thought you’ve sacrificed,
only to learn you took the easy way out. It’s not
too late to take a chance and do the things you put off,

because tomorrow’s not promised. But at the end of the day
you’re too tired to even think. Days have a way of slipping
into years. Don’t let another moment pass you

by. Make today the day you come around. Follow your
heart’s desires. Let go of everything you don’t need,
and breathe. It will feel strange at first as first. You’re

scared. Holding you back is only fear. At the end of your
life you’ll be grateful you took flight, with nothing but the
wind riding your back, free and unencumbered at last.

still in bed
with the covers draped
over his bald head.

Maybe he was
dancing with her
as he sat motionless.
He did not stir

Maybe he was
lost in reverie.
Even if I saw him –
he wasn’t with me!

What’s wonderful
about memories
is they happen
and when they’re over
they last a life-time.

What’s awful
about memories
is they happen
and when they’re over
they last a life-time

lying in honey plains,
making chains of daisy
flowers, dancing pirouettes in  
rainbow showers. Skipping

stones in the muddy
river. Watching them bounce,
those silver slivers. Spying the
heron stalking a fish. Seeing if he

delivers the deed in one fell
swoop. Laughing as the otter
swims loop de loop. Catching a
whiff of fallen acorns. The squashed

oak fruit intense as the
day warms. Crimson branches of
leaves wave. The ****** again
gave the old tree a shave!

Me, Myself & I

at slow and steady speed
walking side by side
no one takes the lead
scaling mountains
one step at a time
fingers laced together
making the arduous climb
in all types of weather

if one of us slipped
the other two cushion the fall
we are all equipped
to handle it all
the three of us
against the world
building up a truss
head held to the sky
Me, Myself & I

you’ll never drag me down
you can be condescending
ignore me if you will
go on pretending that you’re better
because you got a fancy label
stamped inside you/on your back
because you belong to this group or that
I’ll make an impact
without the fancy label
inside/on my back
without being part of something bigger
by myself
not dependent on approval
to get out in the open
not needing praise
the glory stands in my story
and I’ll carry it to my grave
because I don’t give a ****
I’m very special
the way I am
I will defy everyone –
because I’m three in one

cheap cigars
they’ll smoke you
as they stroke you
then idle as a car

Men are
vultures
flying overhead
swirling as a blizzard
in your satin bed
till you bled
as a ******
newlywed

Men are
storm clouds
raining on your parade
blowing out your light
leaving you shade

Men are
Venus Fly Traps
the closer you stand
they snap
trapped in
soft hair
and cherry grin
they have you pinned

Men are
rivers
travelers carried away
and running
emptying out themselves
like broken plumbing

******* up the air
around me. Pulling me
under and trying to drown
me. Looking down

their noses. I can't stand it
when they whistle. Their words
are shooting missiles. They lie!
They squeal! Pigs sniffing for

their next meal. The squirrels
work hard digging acorns in my
yard. The birds are up at dawn
singing songs on my front

lawn. The little bunny sniffs
quietly chewing blades of grass. This is
me/how I pass my afternoon -
in reverie and solitude.

turning from bright green
to red hot fire burns. They detach
as a chick hatched breaking
from the shell. Swirling

in the swell. Then they fly off
in a scoff, running rivers and jumping
rocks. Leaving me with sentimental twigs
that I hasten in every swig.

turning from the brightest green
to crimson rose. Breaking off and
blowing in the purple wind, spinning like
a **** on a weathervane. Following the flock,

chasing every Jane. Billowing in gusts
carried by the river. Smelling as musk,
thick as fatty liver. I trust none
of them. Chivalry is lost. Where are the

gentlemen? I'm happy to lose my head
reading a book than giving head to the sort
with dashing looks. Remember December,
after the bloom as trees lose their color

standing naked in their squalor. Their
gnarly limbs hung restless. Splintered now
and breathless. After the fall they all leave,
sneaking past us in a breeze.

the more you want from them
the less they give to you
they need their space
but then get all upset
when you give them what they want
like maybe you’ve moved on
and aren’t waiting around the clock
for them to text or call

they need coddling like a baby
but only on their terms
and maybe means “no”
but I’m afraid to tell you so
I’ll just give you hope
until you figure it out yourself

but the answer will be yes
if there’s a chance of losing you
because I’m scared to death
about going back out there
just to confuse the **** out of
another girl
and start all over again
pretending to be
something different
than what I truly am –
just a lonely, scared boy
dressed up as a man

takes away dreams. If it doesn’t ****
you it rots out your brain –
Permanently
You’ll slowly recover so that

you can eat on your own, and walk
again. But you’ll never come home. You
won’t be able to retain anything. You will
not work or go to school. You will not

have a girlfriend. You will go nowhere
on your own without a staff member
helping you. You cannot even tie your own
shoes. You can’t go the bathroom

without someone wiping your ***. You
cannot do much. But you can pack a punch, or
leave a mark on someone else when neurons
shoot off and you get upset. So, get the *******

vaccine for your children. I would have
for mine. But it didn’t come out in time. It came
out a mere three months later after he was already
infected lying in a hospital bed, disconnected
from everything he knew his whole life.

Meningitis B ***** Up Lives

we’re all fools for something
might as well
be something we believe in
we all throw our hearts around
might as well
be someone we love
we all take unnecessary risks
might as well
be something worth talking about
we all get burned
might as well
live

time legs. Drink till you
empty. Now the cup's filled
with dregs. The leak in

the ceiling's only
a drip. The crack in the cup
broke off just a chip. The Ker

plunk is growing louder
than the horns from ships
in the harbor, cutting into the dregs

like shears from the barber. How did
a dewdrop rolling off a golden tile
grow to a baseball pitched

ninety-three miles an hour? How did
the rose porcelain not break in half?
How did it live through this gypsy impact?

going through the motions
the same rituals
because it’s what I do
it’s what I’ve done before
what I’m used to
without questioning it
and getting fed up
about my life
because I’m not happy
I’m mindless
I need to pay less mind
to things that harm me
and don’t bring change
not be a pig in the pen
that rolls in his ****
again, and again
do things different
make a change
if only for a day
try it
a different way

inside of me
saying don’t do that
can’t take chances
you look fat
don’t go to dances
they’ll only laugh
poke fun at you
think you daft
those kids in school
are mean
things they said
stuck in my head
mini me
wished them dead
but sat quiet in the corner
swallowing her rage
became a loner
but now
I’m not mini any more
Now I say **** ‘em all

These lines never pass the embryonic stage.
They never formed limbs to walk off
on their own.
They never found a mouth to speak up loudly
and be heard.
They don’t even show, this early on.
So, nobody missing them.
You can’t miss what never had a start.

Yet each one has a beating heart.
No bigger than a pixel.
A light united, only if it was wishful.
If they were nourished by the father,
and given love to form I am sure
they would turn into their own.

I’ve given them all I can.
I labored hours every morning, pouring my
heart and soul into each one of them.
I spread the exciting news to everyone.
I’ve crossed my fingers and prayed that one of them
would be born.

One of them would have a name,
a name that everyone knew and called.
But as soon as the news goes out
I am left holding the empty sac of dreams.
Because this early on most don't recognize
they ever existed -
just as they don't recognize me as their mother.
And to give of yourself with nothing to show
is the worse feeling of all.

with losing weight or
stopping drinking. Misery is
a heavy weight that sits on your chest
from the moment you get up to
the moment you go to bed. You can buy
jewelry – that gives you a high for
a day. You can dress yourself in lacy
******* and bra, but that won’t make it
go. You can  eat a slice of chocolate cake and
wash it down with a milkshake but you're still
the same. There is no “happy pill” like
the doctors try to push on you, some
instant cure that will snap you back from
the depths of agony that you find yourself
drowning in. You need to recharge, but how?
Going outside yourself.  They all say look
within. They don’t know you’ve been
looking into a vacant line and you’ve had it.

is like eating apple pie
without the apples.
I can taste the cinnamon
and the sugar
clung to

the empty crust.
But no fruit
piled high in the plate.
And all the crust does
is flake.

How do I do this
I told myself to stop
If I insist, I thought
Find a piece to lop

Need to condense it
Boil it like broth
Trim all the fat
Skim off the froth

Season it well
Give it bite
Not too heavy
Keep it lite

Cool it
Taste it
Serve it
To you

Ah
Ooh
Mm

wasn’t those mommies who read story books in laps
and crooks of her *****. She shook those needle painted hooks
until said bled a velvet red and ran off alone to hide inside
the white ruffled canopy bed. She was cumbersome as the long mink

coat; she’d tote on a five-foot one frame of the mentally
insane. Little Dolly she’d call the tiny tot. Now sit and look pretty, don’t spoil your dress or I’ll beat you silly! Daddy had friends inside
his head that kept him entertained.  But when he got angry with them

there was hell to pay. And he took it out on the two with garish
words and hyperbole that could fill the vortex of dolly’s soul. Between the cries and begs mommy got exasperated and wiped the floor up
with dolly’s head like a mop. She must have got brain damaged when

she pitched her skull like a baseball through the glass window. It shattered into a hundred pieces. Boy, did she beat the bejesus out of Dolly!  She had welts the size of thick cigars and her behind was
on fire as a wood-burning stove and hung off her side like a overcooked

marshmallow.   Mommy dearest smoked those Parliaments one after the other. And between each puff of swirling grit she’d cuss out loudly and hurl her spit. Gawd, if only she’d choke on it! The orange bee-hive hair she wore looked like a hornet’s nest. Stung a thousand times young, and a thousand more since they rolled her corpse out the door.

my hand around his little waist
like a ballerina in a music box
I could hear the song above the clock
an expression of love painted on his

oval face, oval as an egg a little birdie laid
something hatched on Monday, and I left it
to develop as film does in a dark room –
it needs to be closed off

when I come back it will be ready
and I want to prepare myself for its readiness
not in dress but in spirit so, I’ll be worthy of it
we shall see how it develops

One More
temerarious lie
one more
supercilious reply
one more
unanswered call
one more
hyperbolic stall
one more
slammed door
one more
overstuffed drawer
one more
fitful sleep
one more
day I weep
one more
promise broken
one more
day we haven't spoken


One Less
smiling extol
one less
united goal
one less
card to buy
one less
steak to fry
one less
bed to make
one less
****** to fake
one less
***** dish to scrub
one less
ring around the tub
one less
lipstick stain on his collar
one less
night we fight and holler

Dedicated to Dr. Richard Geist

More Snippets

The time I sat in your lap and felt
the curve of the mole under your shirt. Then my hand
went south
to the flaccid place in your pants.
I walked out. We never got the chance
to talk about that afternoon when I was the spoon
in your gravy.

The time I brought in a bone, and wore
the metallic collar like a dog. You walked me around
your office on a leash. You’ve yet to tame the ravenous
beast. You only think that you do.

I called you naked one night I couldn’t
sleep. You were sleeping soundly in your bed all alone
with your telephone. You answered it in a pleasant voice,
and called my name and said how happy you were
this August night when I woke you up under Maine
moonlight.

After my biopsy you packed some ice for my breast,
gathered in a paper towel. I pushed my shirt down and
placed it there. Ice-cold warmth from your hand.

Our one-year anniversary. You lit the candle. I split
the chocolate cupcake right down the middle. You
poured two glasses of organic milk. We drank/we ate
on the couch, celebrating, what else? The two of us.

Silence is the dreaded distraction
What do you do with your hands?
With your stomach growling?
Your heart pounding?
Your head spinning?
Too much sound,
too much movement,
too much space,
too many thoughts carrying you away
You’re splattered all over the place, Mr. Big
The room’s growing smaller by the minute
It will fit on the head of a pin if she doesn’t say something
You long for diversion to break the intimacy
Fill it up Big, Mr. Big
With words,
with food,
with work to do
Make it larger, so the parts don’t fit together
Spread them out as countries, even continents
Oceans away, other time zones
Not this

with your Big plans
and Big dreams
Big ideas
and Big schemes
Black and fat
as a storm cloud
with a leather jacket
as your shroud
tough as gristle
with an attitude
as thistle
thick as cement
and hell-bent on
the things you don’t have
brass is your knuckles
tacks for your eyes
you’re so sticky
you scare off the flies
I’m scared of you
I’m so little
I fit in your shoe

I waited in a chair
by the door
next to the long table
filled with magazines
the New Yorker, Times and People.

He stepped out
with his head round and bald as
St. Paul’s Cathedral
wearing a Mr. Roger’s smile
saying “welcome to my neighborhood”
and “you are special."

When I walked in it must have been raining
because lightening striked me.
I felt the zing like a pinball bounced off the bumpers
lightening up the numbers.

I told him the man before him was my father’s psychiatrist.
He took notes more he than he observed.
Probably because he forgot as soon
as the patient walked out the door.
He slipped the notes in a file that was numbered.
I was never going to be another number.
So, I left him for the Mr. Fred Rogers special.

Music Is

my companion’ it’s so understanding. When the clouds roll in, music is my friend. Where there is percussion
there’s no need for a discussion. It soothes my aching heart

the moment that it starts. People must give their opinions;
tell you what they’re thinking. Music is relaxing. It’s a great distraction. When my nerves are shot I play it a lot. Cymbals are

the thunder, makes me wonder about the universe, the ******, the meek, the cursed. It’s a catharsis, each string from my guitar is strumming my cares away, the lyrics a Shakespeare play,

each teardrop, another note that the composer wrote
especially for me.Music is epiphany, can’t buy that at Tiffany’s. Can’t wrap it in a box, put a ribbon on the top. I can take it on my

walk, when I’m driving, when I’m home, when I’m
all alone. It’s my best friend, sound that never ends.

from working out a bit. After
my **** I go down the red
carpeted stairs to the
basement burgundy broken

chair. I put my feet on the black
spot that I haven’t washed off. My MP3
is plugging my ears. The music
I hear distracts from my heavy

breathing and grunting as
I’m crunching for a half-n-hour
set. I wet my shirt with
the sweat. But dam! I look

like sculpture in the mirror. You
can call me “The Thinker” I go from
the sit-ups to composing a poem
every morning. I'm not paid for my

poetry. I'm only paid for *******. Men
cannot **** off to deep thought. Sass
in **** and ***. But they’ll sag. But
my poetry is ***** with my climbing

age. I'll engage and publish. Dry wit
is bustling. Dry ***** is disgusting!

I don’t read magazines
I look at the bright colored pictures
It’s much quicker

I don’t watch tv
I flip through the channels
Maybe I’ll catch something happening

I don’t write stories
I write poems
They’re much shorter
And I can make many of them

that swings by
my side. And hangs as
a cracked branch in the wind,
that hasn’t fallen off. I’ve had

men and friends as heavy, that
weighed me down as a levy. Every turn
or twist is a mangled cyst. Ever have
a match pair that doesn’t evenly

wear? If I had an ax I’d lop off
the sad timber. No point as it isn’t
limber. The stars I see aren’t shiny. No, I’d
say they’re spiny.  A hanger-oner

is like carrying an empty suitcase
with the zipper stuck in place that takes up
all my space. And the teeth of the zipper biting
into my flesh as lightning.

and I spend so much time
together. We rise like a flower in the morning
and shower. Sing of butterfly wings
and what this day could bring. Could it be

something new, like Cinderella’s shoe? Sometimes
we argue about our forsakenness. And my friend
loneliness hits me over the head with this. She says
“you got me” why do you need anyone else? I tell her

sometimes it’s nice to step outside myself. Then she pours
me a long cool drink so I don’t think of anything
she has to say. I wash it down with a frown and think
tomorrow’ll be a better day.

It’s acid.
My bodies made of plastic.
My brains are gummy worms.
No dimples, I’ve got burns.
My arms are machetes.
My hair is thin spaghetti.
My eyes are peppercorns.
No nose, I’ve got a horn.
My legs are made of rubber.
I don’t speak; I utter.
My ******* are lollipops.
If your **** them they’ll come off.
My *** is a lumpy hill that shoots out swill.
My stomach, a landfill.
I’m a diseased gene spawn from a bad seed
that met with rotten egg.
I didn’t hatch; I got laid.

doesn’t uplift me. It just
scrunches and compresses
my ******* in a limited
space with wires and hooks
in place.

My Stilettos
don’t uplift me. Although
I appear taller when I have
them on. I feel that much smaller
when I take them off.

My Smile
uplifts me because it’s always
something I wear. It’s not restricted
by anything. I never take it off. It’s
the first thing I see in the morning!

that gets clogged
a cesspool of waste
that gets bogged
with bitterness and hate

The muck
gets piled up
leaving me stuck
in the grunge

Oh! to expunge
all the vile lines
and plunge
into something refined

as a wedding band. It molds
like wet clay to my hand. It's not
loud as a freight train, more
like a gentle summer's

rain. I cannot hold the world
inside of it. There’re only a few
that fit. It’s not hot like the
midday sun. It's warm and

sweet like a Belgian bun. My circle
is tight. But it doesn't strangle me,
allowing me room to breathe. Even
small there's room to grow. Spreading

my wings, embracing me through
highs and lows. It's a bouquet of
colorful flowers in my garden. And no
winter has made it harden.

are wider. My distance
is longer. My patience is

shorter. These paths I walk
are narrower than they ever

were before. There is no glory
in living anymore.

smaller.
Is it because people don’t fit
in? Or is it because
I haven’t
made the room for them?

My corner is getting
colder.
Is it because I’m facing
away from the heat? Or is because
my back
is toward the outside?

My corner is getting
tighter.
is it because I’ve grown? Or is it because
the world
has grown around me?

must be stupid.
Instead of loading up his arrows
he’s shooting blanks.
There’s no love juice in his darts.
I’ll never give him thanks
unless he starts
sending someone my way.
This broken heart
can’t stand another lonely day.

split when I was two. He landed
in a mental hospital in a locked ward
where they fed him drugs to calm down
the noises in his head. I was beaten

by the *****. She dated a Politian
and ran off leaving me alone in the kitchen
in my own ***** and my ****. My daddy's
heart broke. He couldn't  come in. So, I sat

and stared off into space. I'm still doing
that this very day. But now I tell my story to
strangers. And sometimes I get paid for it -
the ones that are interested. They both died

at home three months apart. Both on the floor -
the ***** in the living room. My daddy in the
kitchen, after a horrible bout with cancer that left
him  a mere 108 pounds. Which do you think is worse?

Cancer will eat out your body, meningitis and
schizophrenia will take your mind. Then there's
little old me - the borderline

are sharp spikes
velvet stiletto shoes
walking towers of jagged blues
digging up holes with my sole

My edges
are rotating arrows
like a weathervane
my pain spinning in the wind
under a cornflower sky
but not getting off
sitting like a ****
not able to fly

My edges
are four pointed corners
of a square
so, I don't roll like a stone
I pose in the air

My edges
are colored fringe
decorating the outside
as I unhinge

are sneakers
that run
faster than a bullet
shot from a gun

My eyes
are icicle fountains
an avalanche
sliding down a mountain

My eyes
are rivers
that rapidly flow
into a sea
of covered snow

My lashes
windshield wipers
that grow heavy
like baby diapers

My pupils
a dark abyss
since I fallen
dilate and hiss

at least his legs did,
though they never left the chair. They jogged in place
as he was sitting there. I swear they could bore
holes in the floor, because they pounded

the ground as a drill. You could never tell
where he was off to.  My father ran the marathon,
at least his mouth did. He was  a locomotive that left
the tracks and derailed a long time

back. His smokestacks billowed in the air and blew in my face
until I disappeared. He spoke some English, but mostly
gibberish. And my only wish was that I could
get away from this. Anywhere was better when

the whistle blew, as boiling water in the tea kettle
spills it burns you. And it has. My father ran the Marathon -
So far, he hasn’t come back.

died
to many he was a savior
he left in dignity
not reality
he covered his stain
to all that remain he’s a stranger
I know his truth
his lies
and excuse
but he couldn’t be human on earth
so he took the secret with him
and left
the stain -
I

is back again. It’s a reminder
that I am alive. That to hurt is to feel
what is happening to me. My desk where
I write I can cut with a knife. It can splinter

and mar yet won’t feel anything at all. Only I
will feel the sadness from the beating it took
at my own hands. Only I will feel the long
absences if I chop it down and use it for firewood,

burning my hope in a fiery rage. I will swallow
that rage. And it will cut me
as it descends slowly into the gut - the very stuff
which I live off.

You can
lift me to the sky
or pummel me down to the earth

You can
make this woman a queen
or rob her of her mirth

You can
turn my juice to honey
or leave the well void

You can
create a utopia
or have my world destroyed

You can
if you desire to

My future is up to you

has gone out
and went. You can use
my heart for a broom
and sweep up

my excrement. I have nothing
left of my self-respect. I’m *******
drinking myself
to death. I have nothing

to leave
that’s worthwhile. You can
take my anguish
toss it in the laundry

pile. I’ve had it up to here –
where the **** that is I couldn’t
say. Don’t see me making
another day!