I will get straight
to the point, shoving
past year after year
after year, count them
dear, sick puppy
torn from the pack
blood smeared
you culled me from
the herd and made me
your stuffed meal
your worse than zeal
your mascot

When I was twelve years old
you bent me into a comma

When I was twelve and
one quarter you bent me
into a fist, a fetal position
you could not resist

The love of a child
when I was twelve
and a half I fought
back but lucky you
no mother love was
listening


The anatomy of a child

You *******

Who's the hunter now?

Not you, nearly seventy
years old, ***** hippie
with one dry pointed
finger (you know
which one)

To be

To be continued
when I'm done

what does little Ernest croon
in his death at afternoon?
(kow dow r 2 bul retoinis
wus de woids uf lil Oinis

There came a time when
I would have to let the machines
either finish my great project
of dying or god forbid
start over
I can laugh at them from
deep inside, cracking one eye
open to see if the one in charge
of watching me is finished
with her knitting
I have a great impulse
to tell her HEY THAT IS ME
that sweater in your lap
and it doesn't matter
how fierce your effort
because all things come
undone like me and and
and JOLLY GOOD WEATHER
(I scream and scream as if
from the depths of a dream
but no one hears me anymore,
not ever)

They think they've won
I stopped eatimg, they added a tube
I stopped moving, they added wheels
I stopped talking, they found a way
into my head

That was my wedding day

When they fitted my mouth with
rubber it was like getting fit for my
gown and I demanded the bride's
maids be fitted too, only in a smarter
color

And the reception was a whirl
as each of my guests danced
out of my head, one jolt after
another

I keep my groom hidden
to this day, one bit of me
they can't take away, stuffed
in my womb, a Freudian thing
I can't help but be his mother

She enters a room
with a compact stare
a two inch by two inch
sort of thing that SNAPS
SHUT sooner rather than
later and if you get chewed
in her moments, get a leg
caught in the trap of her gaze?
count yourself lucky to have
not been devoured on the spot
or stomped by the CLICK
CLACK of her heels or
simply shoved sideways
between act I and act II
of one of her excruciating
plays
She enters a room in large
strides, legs like a compass
with two sharp toes marking
the divide because NO ONE
shares her space, even as she
marches head first into a wall
or face down into your purse
she is ALL GEOMETRY,
GET IT? not your sort of thing
My mother hovers like a
florescent bulb, leaving spots
in her wake, purple, mostly
she leaves a room ******
of its color, she's a *******
layer cake
She exits always in great haste
she takes the wind with her
and leaves NOTHING behind
not even you, a second thought
a ticket for two- mother,
daughter, orchestra
seating (she leaves before
intermission, with a cough
and a cloud and a hubbub
even the actors notice her
ugly absence, YOU)
Mother Darling, once
reaching the end, you
could say (and you do,
YOU DO) she was perfect
when vertical and even
when folded in half, a
pretty good sport
(Now, layered in ashes,
she will spend her days
in a horizontal haze and
just to be sure you give her
urn a good shake or two
as any old friend would
and well OF COURSE you
do)

Each morning I listened
to him **** as he slowly awoke
I jokingly called it "surfacing"
and I, like any wary prey,
gathered my armor for the day
This man thrashed so hard
in his sleep he'd bruised me
dreaming of his mother
again
WHY I OUGHTA he says
and TO THE MOON ALICE
I say in my head
He weighed himself each morning
and grew to twice my size
as I inevitably dwindled to half
if only he would join a pack
and hunt better meat than me
But I was separated from
mother love long ago
So now I'm more like penned veal
barely a meal and this is what
saves me from the cutting machine

He has decided on therapy
a diet of sorts, as he learns to eat
but not swallow and it's much like
training a dingo to be a deer
who is smart enough to let
his garden grow even if one night
feels like an eternity, never having
felt the sting or the birth of denial

Do you remember me
like I remember you?
Shakespeare class together
in our hippie high school
I remember our legs entwined
lying on our backs and sharing
one volume; you played Demetrius
to my Helena; it was spring
unfolding all around us
and like the most obvious
O'keefe sort of bloom
we filled up every corner
of that room with our untried
adolescence
(the teacher, frustrated and stern
only because I was ******* him
too)
By the end of that summer
my Demetrius had landed in
a cell- he could throw a good brick
through the window of anywhere
I asked but, alas, he couldn't do it
well
Come senior prom one year later
I had forgotten all about him
and he about me; forty years
later we seem to have got
everything we craved, that is
everything but the real thing
and that's good enough for
me

We play dress-ups and
you are the monster
while I am the queen
I wear a pretty dress
mascara, lipstick
the whole ******
thing
And you hide under
the bed

You are too terrible
to be seen

You are the reason
children take a running
leap from the door
to the bed and
over the floor
(lest something awful
grab their ankles and
shake the muffled
shrieks from them
no, no, no (no
okay... yes)

We play dress-ups
have smokes between
acts, mommies and
aunties and all pretty
women smoke lovely
cigarettes

(you, stay under the
bed)

I think she was there
the entire time, watching
my thighs, shins, ankles
feet disappear each
night and
I should've heard
it breathing, her
under his side
of the bed
while he was ******* me
he was ******* her
in her head

Let's play dress-ups
let's pretend he is the man
and you are the woman
in his demented scheme

(I imagine her mouth full
of his kind of love, something
dreadful indeed

anything to accommodate
his seething hate)

Open wide and she is
full as a balloon on a Sunday
afternoon birthday party
in June, pretty dresses
and ugly, dead
inside

Let's play dress-ups
I am the queen and you

You are that infernal machine
called hate

I saw a fella on the TV today
I didn't bother to unmute him
(Why should I? No one bothered  to unmute me)
He spoke of the seven ways to
follow The Path of God and I am
sorry but I lost the thread and
with it the general idea I'm sure
of this because I consulted my cat
on the bigger issues you see and
By the time we looked up
he or someone who looked
just like him- The Path of God guy-
was trying to sell us life insurance

I try to not make any
life altering decisions
when I don't feel in
my right mind, that is
mad, or simply
less than human
which isn't a bad
thing, I mean
in the absence of morals
even a chimp will end up
doing the right thing
but there I go
already bungling
one thought for
another
or, as I am wont to say
I DIGRESS,

What a quandary, then
when the very thing I want
to change is what is making
me crazy (and I say change
because being a moral
animal ****** is not
an option unless I hire
a chimp and
BUT I DIGRESS

I cannot even rely on
that whole ******* about
fight or flight- I am apt
to do neither while
being betrayed by
motor memory, no
I just sit and take it
dear and fight is not
the opposite of flight
nope nope nope
not around here

I've spent almost a decade
getting bashed around
the whole time remaining
as mute as a goldfish
(boy o boy- if goldfish
could *****! once again
I digress)

(Skip ahead ten stanzas)

I will not wait for her
to run out of weapons
there is no glory in
a war of attrition
although I do like
the idea of revenge
as long as it's done
thoughtfully and
with moral intent
or else with a chimp
let loose to eat her face
or not, I'll leave that
to Fate

It was exactly one minute
After midnight when I fell
Madly for a shadow, a weak
Spot in that whole space/time
As if anyone would believe
In that old thing
Is love is love is love
Is not is not is not
No matter
I enjoy licking my wounds
My wounded heart, my
Syncopated madness
A march up the back of
A not so trusty ladder
A gift from a carpenter
Who fancies himself
Some sort of Jesus
Who ran out of nails
2,000 or so years ago
His mother bleats
YOU NEVER WRITE
YOU NEVER CALL
You and your fancy
Friends and all

I like baked fish
I like a fish in a dish
I like Lillian Gish
I like to dress up
in a gigantic wide
brimmed hat and
go to the movies

I like smooth stones
I like sun bleached bones
I like raspberry scones
I like to hide behind
the bookshelf and
scream when you
walk by

I like sleeping dogs
I like foggy fogs
I like Prague
I like to sob into
a pillow and never
wake up again

"I am only the maid!"
she will shout at him
then disappear for
a week
hunted down like
lean dog in winter
he always proffered
her a treat
and how could she
refuse? with hatred
she would show up
again to clean his
dishes and make
the bed,
until he got it in
his head, well, he
decided he liked
the maid and not
in the way she was
usually liked
which is to say he
was ***** (no, but
thanks anyway)
a week or two later
he tells her he's in
love and she bursts
out laughing, tells
him she's not 11
years old
but
she did have a lot
of bills, about 800
bucks worth, give
or take
O NO! (you see
it was love and love
is free), three more
weeks and he's
climbing the walls
reconsiders her
circumstances
and his own
another day or two
he has made the maid
on the fresh linens and
all was pretty romantic
until he raised himself
on one elbow and blew
hot air in her face and
a hot load in her ****
he said, "You know
this isn't quid pro quo
..." and she answered
"Veni, vidi, vici...
(whatever gets
you off.")
and what a happy
woman was she
money new minted
in her fat purse
and this little piggy
went wee wee wee
all the way back
to Queens
yup

Darling
You
Master of distress
Even the scream
Of cordoroy
Can't match
The bleeding
Of your jeans

I take small bites like
a stomach locked in
      a corset
my heart, too
is trapped under
a vice
I do not make
a pig of myself
I give my eyes
a sense but not
a solid reality
why linger in this
tomb (you see
the moment we met
he was already dead
to me)
Love my dear is
a eulogy
Buy the cheapest
box and move on
Cardboard
Victorian
The last of that
model and would
      it be pretentious
to have my stone
      inscribed:
The wallpaper was
killing me
?

The worst part of being
left and half undone
is finding all of the
loose ends and
where was I
torn
(Me, ball of yarn
you, so many knitting
needles shoved in
one scar or another
and each time, indeed,
The inclination to pick up
where you left off pulled me
toward the worst and most
terrifying possibilities, a
nerve hanging by the thinnest
vein but I still yanked at it,
you see I would never
leave a job unfinished
even if the yanking of
the yarn undoes everything
one or the other of us
meant to finish
I've put too many hours
into this, gathering or
scattering, assembling
or finally tearing myself
to shreds
I've lost the meaning
or at the very least
shouldn't building
feel better than
destroying?
O what a hateful trench!
this could be, was for awhile
this life of mine then scattered
like each season, I expect nothing
more and less would be a blessing
I have lost the talent of
renewing myself and
never had the patience
to watch it come upon me
naturally so you see
The twelve year old
left half undone is still
waiting for me
Home. a word, not meant
for  that twig of a girl
Sometimes in a quiet rage
I imagine arriving home
disassembled as I am
(again, again, and again)
with my mouth made mute
by the layers of my dread
and so much packing tape-
I laugh to imagine a chorus
of folks intoning the word
Home and in all it's meaning

In the end I want to be
the worst most horrific
delivery ever landing on
your porch, no return address
because I have returned
with no intention of leaving
and even when I tell you to
handle me with care I doubt
you will recognize me
I've spent my life fancying
myself to be the kind of person
who would not ****** someone
like you but here's the problem
*******- no matter how well
I put myself together I always
end up back here, the ugly
part of you

My ego wasn't built
for his kind of abuse
banal, pedestrian- more
Ralph Kramden then
anything, couldn't even
finish a sentence except
with a shaking fist ("Well
I oughta...") and how many
evenings we sat together
on the couch as he listed
the ways I failed him and
why he doesn't punch me
in the mouth, how one punch
would **** me for sure ("is why
he don't hit me, at least not
anymore...")

I am but one more in a long line
of reluctant escapees, more ashamed
of my leaving then I am of staying
because the former is so visible
while the latter happens behind
of everyone's eyes (the whole
block has heard all variety of
shrieks and cries, one after
another, hustling from the
door to the car and then in
reverse, sunglasses and a hat
each day a little less of a person
first breakable then broken while
he grew larger in the same
increments, grew fat)

There is no understanding
around there, only a tsk tsk tsk
and the occasional "stupid *****"
"must love gettin' hit, why else
would she be back?"
but if I knocked on one of their
doors all ****** and bruised
would someone answer?

Even before shame takes over
they make up some excuse still
peering at me through a crack
in the drapes I AM NOT THEIR
****** MISTAKE is why I
don't leave because their kind
of abuse is even harder to take

Invisible women take up
a lot of space

My heart is a bassoon
once I've tackled it
to the ground, oboe
in my good hand
As a battering ram
A morning star
A mace
A flail

Nary more a tune

My heart is a bassoon!
got it now? It waits
to fill up every room

"Water always finds
It's own level" or so they
say and if my heart were
full of water I wouldn't
have a clue what they
mean by that anyway

My heart is a *******
bassoon and if I were to
put it in the bath it would
ruin it

Good morning in the garden
of forgetting, each of our chairs
assembled- Miss Postpartum
always sits on the outer edge
wedged against a tree and
looking up at the leaves
Botched Suicide, well,
there are several of us
we sit together in a loose
ring, Rope and Kicked Over
Step Stool sits at 3 o'clock
and I generally prefer 6
at the bottom of course
and Jumped From a
Window lingers around 9
for the third and hopefully
the last time
Slashed Wrist takes her
place near the top, at the
eleventh hour, as usual
she is as unsure as her
halfhearted cuts
Certainly no one is here
because we want to be
quite the opposite, we just
haven't mastered our exits
and it doesn't matter how
many mornings we find
ourselves here in this
circle of doom- at least
we know our places
all of us expecting to
exit soon

I am spread out like a *******
your own personal Jew and
while I bury my blood in your
thread count I knit one
perl two
Why do I let you annihilate me
like this then stitch me back
together?
You use the same holes each time
then ***** about their emptiness
leaving me no time to rebloom
Your garden looks like so many
dug up graves, your kind of love-
one prays while the other one brays
we cannot get enough of you
having left ourselves, bones and
all with nothing but our souls
to chew

Ah but what sort of tricks
do I have up my sleeve
when I practice to myself
deceive?
My midnight lover
with his wandering
eye has wandered too
far and wide to slyly
coax back to my side
(Ah, my dear
it's dark in
here)
yet my own and
faithful hand finds
all of the familiar
valleys and peaks-
the fingers minus
the wedding band
a well and practiced
sweep-
like a breeze
over my thighs
The art of tickling
the tickler, feels
like a tree
dropping
each and
every leaf
all at one time
I fall, I fell
again and
well met by
moonlight
let's call it
a night?)

It's a wonderful thing
to find out, clearly
I still love myself
whether or not
it's true of him
(and one more
round, shall we?
only because we
can)

Goodnight dear
and
then

(Ah, hell, just one
more...)

On the same night
I found my mother's scotch
and my step-monster's gun,
I learned how to deal from
the bottom of the deck
and find a fella easily parted
from his folding money yet
still think he's having fun;
That a 12 year old girl can
Make quick work of 14 year
old boy (learned the word
"sucker"), learned Barbie
was just practice for bigger
and slightly more challenging
toys;
How to hold my liquor
even if it refused to hold me
and that warm feeling in my
belly was only a short reprieve;
And at the crack of noon, after
the adults have come and gone,
how to get rid of the remnants
of a night of squalor... and
(finally) were they stashed
the ****

"Yeah, that's 'Almost' with an 'A', yup, kind like
'John Amos' but with a 't' on the end,  also with
an 'l' between the 'a' and the 'm'..."
"Huh? Who's John Amos? jaysus feckin christ,
'Good Times'? The guy with the wide nostrils?
Bad example, sorry, let's move on..."  
"...that's 'a' as in 'aardvark', 'l' as in... no no no, only
one 'a'... 'l' as in 'lemur', 'm' as in... '******' (this
person knows how 'aardvark is spelled?) 'o' as in
'o my god', 's' as in... 'seizure'- yeah, that's 'seizure'-
S,E,I,Z,... no no no! not 'c'! 'z' as in 'zoo'...  'u' as in
(******* christ) 'UNICEF'... yeah, UNICEF, I think it's
an anagram... huh? ANAGRAM! with an 'a'!  'a' as in..."
"Okay, so that's 'a'... where the **** were we? NO
I WON'T WATCH MY LANGUAGE! Anyway where
the **** are you? Mumbai? As in former Bombay?
(why'd they change the name?)... and why do they
only train you in English cuss words? What was that?
What I just said or how do I spell my name? o crap just
never mind."
"...'o'? What's after 'o'? You mean you're actually keeping
track?!? wow! Forget what I said about your training-
you're a ******* genius... O... no, not 'o'! Only one
'o'! So, one 'o', not two, not..."
"In fact, **** it, I don't give a **** anymore, add an 'o'
to my name, call me "Almoost" call me "Bitchface", huh?
You wanta know how I spell Bitchface?"
"Where were we... 'o'... NO! NOT A THIRD 'O'!"
" 's' as in **** **** ****... and 't' as in um, Tel Aviv
... hello? HELLO???"
"O my god o my god omygodomygod I just got
disconnected!"
"NOOOOOOOO"!

My brain
this cage
this basket
of consciousness
like two hands
holding a bee
fingers letting
in the idea but
not the reality
of flight
one dumb
thumb
pried away
from the
other
I am
free

Okay, I brace myself, "okay" being a sort of mantra either spoken alone or placed at the end of every sentence with the lift of a question mark. I do try and keep this okay thing to myself, packed in my head along with other stuff, okay?
And so I stumble, verbally if not silently, okay okay (okay?) as I count down the minutes (25) when I absolutely MUST leave the house even if this time it is By Choice, For Pleasure, whatever that is. I'll call it Not Torture.
I haven't practiced removing the grimace for such a long time I fear it's stuck there.
I scared a Boy Scout earlier in the day and I swear I did nothing at all scary. I bet there will be Boy Scouts out there. Maybe not at the bar but at the Target. I've never seen a Boy Scout at the Target but one time my friend saw a Mormon in the parking lot. He was racing headlong toward him and he panicked, my friend, so  he blurted out "You are the devil." The Mormon was pretty upset.
By now I have to assume there are Boy Scouts everywhere and naturally I am scared to death. I assure you I can develop a full blown phobia over a matter of hours and that's when I try not to think about it. Well, you try not thinking about Boy Scouts! Especially after you've resolved to NOT THINK ABOUT BOY SCOUTS. Aversion therapy doesn't work in case you were gonna suggest that.
Can I sue the Boy Scouts?
How many minutes do I still have left?
Is it still legal in West Virginia to walk behind someone saying over and over again in either of their ears YOUR GONNA DIE YOU'RE GONNA DIE? I'm pretty sure they legalized it within the borders of NYC (even Staten Island, which surprises me). This was due to a statute made during the whole explosion of Performance Art.
How many minutes do I have left?
Why don't I get a prize, twenty bucks or something, for fooling everyone and convincing them I'm okay?

Absinthe, I carried under
My coat and over the border
From Spain to my latest
Fling with hope
The clatter of language
Is different but the more
I learn the more I understand
None of them, neither coming
Nor going, has much more
Than a veneer of charm
We are doctors
Above all else
We do know harm
Pity, ain't it? That death
Sounds so much better
In Spanish although
I wear my German
Like a saw
Cured, *******,
Broken heart and all

Love is a party to
which you are not
invited

Ah well, two or
even three steps
short of hate, good
enough, you are
the waitress of his
cold served fate
(eat it, I
insist)

You, ****, have
convinced the one
who hates you most
that in the absence of love
well, here is your ghost

Warm, right holes
right temperature

Oooh lah lah

You cannot go past
those red velvet ropes
the ones meant for v.i.p.s
and certainly not for you
to pass through

Love exits each time
you enter

Love is a party, dear
but not a costumed event
you stake your **** hole
of a mouth as a declaration
of love, you stake your
freakish circus tent

Ten years, count 'em
a few more, count 'em
your sort of love is a war
of attrition

(****, ****, ****
you blinded ***-faced
bug)

Veni, vidi, vucci
go to hell you
slug

SO THAT'S me, he says
in all my Glory, take me
or leave me, it's all the same
and he puffs himself up
to what he thinks is the
full measure of a quotable
Man
Wife picks up the pieces
as each word lands and
fits them into her pockets
and into her heart like
a set of keys
none
were meant
to free her but she's
learning piece by piece
this really rotten game
Life is as cavalier as a
cave man, he's studied
all the tricks of language
but doesn't know his wife
by her first name
Wife sweeps past him
on her broom, as defined
and definite as one long
blade) I'll meet you
There
my darling and before
he can ask where
She is as gone
as gone can be and
he should know
because Life
took her there
you see

"To begin with, all my boyfriends
need to be named Anthony-
are you okay with that,
Anthony?"
from the look on his face
well, he doesn't look exactly
okay with it so I try to reason
with him, point out how ******
his current name is and how
being called Anthony should
come as a great relief ("Right
Anthony?")
and now he looks to be
in bargaining mode so
I stop him before he wastes
any breath- "No, we're not
gonna settle for Tony- Tony's
worse then the name you
need to get rid of." and
just like that he jumped
out of my car at a red light
which you might think
would surprise the crap
out of me but nope-
he's the third Anthony
I've lost this week and
it isn't even Friday

Passivity runs through her
a rat in an empty building
her skeleton
She doesn't move
not one tired knee ****
even with the teeth resting
in her lap, folded in her
folded hands
Her love for him is
a death row inmate
cold cell on a hot
afternoon, waiting
in the chair
And he is all inside her
chewing away at the anatomy
a frayed wire wrapped around
her pulse, thump thump thump
her heart beats in time with
his bored blinking eyes
He stands by her bath holding
a toaster above his head and
she waits for the wire to touch
the water, fork into the flesh
the wolf and the lamb
Tears wet the cords
he says don't call me that
(darling) push push push
it away
She says
but he is all inside her now
he will take some away
but it all grows back
and what was once benign?
like kisses and when she rubbed
against his malignant sighs?
(Any amount of pain but the
aching longing) he kisses her
and touches the bones of her
face, a skull in a field of clover
greedy green and she'll eat
anything
Did ge slap her, did he **** her
in that impossible circle
pushing the beating fingers
into her mouth? (her fingers
She ate herself one morning
after a night of trying to forget
what she could not remember

It's not sadness it's not loss
or rejection or pain it's not
the absence of love or the
fury of hate it's not
anything but
minutes torn inside out
and stretched into infinity
and as each beat of my
heart lands in my mouth
I would give almost
anything to
not be
this
all of my parts ripped
out and laid on a rock
like a squirrel, a child's
sick project for the
day anything to
keep boredom
away
I love you, why
not?
your project for
tomorrow is to learn
love anything but
hate start with
your mother it's
not too late then
move on to the
living not
you
not anything
but me

There are those who come
crawling on their hands and
knees, dragging with them an
eternity of distant landscapes
each bearing witness to our
love unending (honey, smile
for the camera)

I bore so easily

Who doesn't know I prefer
a receding figure as abstract
as a line of trees rather than
the acute outline of someone
I can still remember?

What makes me, of all people
worth the climb? I ponder that
often and with no reasonable
answer

That is, until today when
I realized this or that one
was more bored than me
and so. I filled a hole like
cancer

(honey, dance for
the camera)

THIS one told me
my life is in ghastly
shape
AFTER PULLING and
plying me with all manner
of tools
A SCULPTOR and his
muse
THE CREATOR of what
was otherwise mine
now abandoned
the artist is bored
he wipes his hands
of this
ONCE DECLARED done
he stands back from it
his singular and great
work
THIS ONE told me
what a disappointment
I've turned out to be
(THE GREAT artist
walks away from
me, now it's my
mess)
ALL of me undone
GOODBYE MY one
and truly handful of
none

You darling
Me failed
Failed of all
grammar
Failed from
within
Oof oof
Me darling
You caveman
And I'm assailed-
You with your
tuxedo grin
and me with
my crinoline
(Dance dance
dance away
from him)
Away from
Averages that
Don't average
If you know what
I mean (darling
Death hurts less
than to take it
on the chin)

You hodge podge
of a person you
random facsimile
you who would
pull yourself off
of four legs just
to have a go
at me

Climbing up the
evolutionary ladder
keeping me at bay
while that lizard
brain of yours
feels the real time
of our mutual
decay

Something soft in me
the warm red blood
in me, you could smell it
even from under that stone
with one eye peering
above the mud while
the other eye plays
dead, white as a
bone

You kept your weapons
well hid but in the soft
light of night and under
a bowl of stars I could
hear your claws sliding
over white flesh and
scars

You, fooling me by
standing on two legs
and showing off those
practiced and opposable
thumbs- how ******
gallant of you

(And I watched him
fall on his neck, biting
himself in half; in his
parody of a human
he forgot to add a
spine)

Sisters, with love
hanging from their
clasped hands
swinging back
and forth like
a jump rope
double dutch
double something
a team, you would
think, but no
Faith is full of
christian love
while Hope
is morally
broke
cashed out
so to speak
but she keeps
her mouth shut
these days
while Faith appeals
to Charity, their
first cousin
a ***** (shouldn't
she have plenty
to spare?)
Faith moves around
from square to square
like a chessboard
piece, missionary
turned mercenary
cashing in on
blank checks
from God
Faith is fat
with Trust
while Hope
wrings her hands
and casts an eye toward
Charity, whatta ****
never there when
you want, that's
love, two sisters
at each other's
throat, charity
torn in half
bashed open like
a piggy bank
where's Trust
when you need him
most? (looking up
the skirt of Hope
while pinching
the *** of Faith
taking the last shards
of Charity, you
betcha) see you
next Sunday
see?

I say hanging from the hinge
of homelessness is the worst
sort of terror- try it (you
dipped your toes in once)
You say well everyone
has a door to open, to close
to keep the world at bay
(how quaint) I say
you have never been
without keys or a bed
or any old piece of floor
to rest your head
hmmph, well,
there was that time
you slept in a fountain
and all of Italy was yours
a plate to eat and yeah
you woke up wet and
sopping but you didn't
notice the rainbow
at your feet (did
you?) and
mother could always
find you and you could
always find her- at the end
of a Western Union while
your belly grumbled
for more screamed
for that sense of
entitlement YOU
REMIND ME OF A
BABY whining for
a new and clean place
to ****, white and full
of plenty but for
the one time you
rubbed shoulders
with reality, when
you ended up in a
decaying heap
you spent your short
life learning to skip
to throw a blind eye
to close your ears and
your nose when mother's
grasp let go for that one
terrifying moment
what did it feel like,
that slip into the gutter
of humanity's woes?
smells a lot like ****
(don't it?)

I sit outside of a closed library
Due to certain citywide cuts
This library has been closed
Since June which comes
Nowhere near explaining
To me why the *******
Pulled in behind me
So much for taking a ****
Off my back bumper

...and god opened up her legs
and said, "come, o come to me"
and yes, the believers flocked
like so many birds clinging
to a rock, faith a casualty
of a wave, of dumb luck
they said yes, yesyesyes
please and what the ****?
and god opened up her knees
and she let in all of the birds
and the flutter of so many
wings, yes they did they
pleased her and o my
and boy o boy and o ****
don't this feel nice and
god finally came
and the birds and the bees
and so many people just
like you and maybe me
they waited for more
because there's always
more and they waited
for god to breathe one
one last gasp, the unrolling
the tight fist unfolding,
the final gasp and
all things natural
and all things
unnatural, well,
they  continued to wait,
with little else do
to hear the final word
and
god let loose pretty much
each and every bird and
the way and the will
and the ungrasping
of all things let loose
on the world primed
for the final **** storm
yes!
and the world was covered
the world was smothered
in so much ****
yes!
and that was the way
and the will and so much
swill, goodnight and forever
******* (and you and you
and you) and that was pretty
much it, the world covered
in so much ****, get used
to it

if I put my next
steps
       here on earth
if I
put them in your hands
and follow
                 a few paces
behind
will you
run like a thief
thinking you
                      have
caught the better part
of me?

you fool

I would hate
to be
       as empty as you
running off with
only that
               little bit
that vicious bite
                             not even
the best bit
of me

I was saving that
for later
             see?

Meh derl'n, meh dere
who laid meh heer,
lait'ly on meh bak
ta stere et theh stars
frum theh windo clere
an mite ev'n been fruhm
mars

Laid here fair an squair
ta tuch an tuch, o yoo
an so much, on theh
uth'r side fruhm meh

Lait'ly dere, throo
a vale of teres) yoo
luff, quake b'nethe
me brethe an awl
theh uth'r stuff
weel cullit quite
like deth meh
dere

I am not this
unimaginable set
of we, two twigs
like darlings
      entwined
                and
moving lazy
up a tree,
still green
moss covered
              stone hands
warmed by the
sun and so
much
more
We
Together we might
make something
better, here inside
the blanket cover
of soil, of night
of stars and
even a well
lit
moon
I am not this
intangible
forgettable
and rarely used
tense, future
perfect and
                  continuous
Nope.
not
me

Laugh shriek quake
scream 4,000 miles
into your pillow
no worries dear no
one can hear you
here and anyway
grief makes a funnel
of itself and like an
abscess the entrance
is but a dot of ache
(like a smack that
doesn't really hurt)
that grows wider
into a deafening
wail you can empty
yourself here, just
keep digging until

Someone in China
drops dead ftom your
pain

Right side up, she's
a real catch, if
you can catch
her
Upside down, she
will make the moon
and the stars and
even the sun fall
in love with her
shadow
as it scatters and
so do the stars,
yup
Rolling down
a hill, you will
want to follow
but it's silly
but it doesn't
matter so you will
you will
anyway
Dancing in place
she will convince
you it is a circle
yes she will
as you twirl
behind her
Lying down next
to her you will
swear she is
taller than the
trees
and she is and
even taller
And she takes you
swimming with
the breeze, the
cool breeze
and you are happy
but you don't
know why and
you are sad
but
you don't know why
you just are and
so is
she

These fits come and go
and mostly I don't notice
the layer or two of skin
you took from me (although
I do want them back, along
with the linens and tea towels
and all of the more obvious
crap)

The ****** blade we hung
above the mantel and only
symbolically out of reach?

I want that back too, if
only to lick the blade and
have just one more miserable
moment with you

Sometimes it seems I go
straight from shaking so
hard I can barely fit my
key in the lock
to shut the door
to close out the world
to finally letting it all
slide to the floor
Sometimes I go straight
past GO and I forget
to collect myself or
anything else into
a plausible picture
to fool myself
to fool everyone else
to drop knees first
onto my pillow
Sometimes it seems
I plan my big sleep
I plan it while I'm
still sleeping
to collect the pills
to neglect the bills
and watch the sun
go round from one
side of the house
to the other.

Your outrage is a foot
on my throat, my mute
mouth is no match
against the clatter
and bash, like
the banging of pots
and pans on New Years
Eve, your outrage is
expressed as joy
while mine is broken
into a thousand silent
pieces, mine now
yours
Your outrage has
made mine invisible
and even improbable
You are the worst
kind of thief
of uncountable
things
with no evidence
of your onus, once
mine, heavy with
time but made
light of
No wonder your
outrage comes so
easy, weightless
as it is
I do not want
to be any part
of the cause
you took from
me, made
ridiculous
squalid and
squandered
I want you to feel
the real thing, at
least. up until the
moment it silences
you

I thought nothing of living
in a tree house at the age
of fourteen which baffles me
(why did this come so naturally
not to wonder at my lack
of sturdy walls and a family?)
and anyway my favorite saint
hung out in the upper limbs
of trees, throwing rocks
at her suitors, mostly
old men, stooped and
earth bound
Her father had sent them
one after the other until
she finally shattered and
winter was coming anyway
time for her to scatter

As did I.
The breeze was killing
me.

No one sees fourteen
year olds who live in trees
I assure you, NO one.

We are legion, our invisible
army of doom, no wonder
so much comes naturally
to me, having been taught
to not see the worst of
atrocities, I am perfectly
able to not see too

I'm not that different
from you

If you've read your Charlie
Dickens you would see me
through the gloom, a bit
of an anachronism but
it will just have to do

Razors pain you;
Rivers are danp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.

I don't know why I
stopped whatever
I was doing, likely
nothing, which is
hard to stop
doing
But I did, I
even stopped
moving my hands
and spent a moment
not recognizing them
like a word said over
and over again until
it sounds foreign
like detergent
de... ter... gent...
detergent
detergent
detergent
O yes, that was it
I stopped saying
detergent
and
I looked over at
the mulberry tree
the very moment
it dropped each
and
every leaf
soundlessly
no rustling, not
even a breeze
How fortunate
to shut up long
enough to bear
witness to such
things

Inwardly I am regal,
like a satin swathed
silent film star
starry eyed
rain on my bed
no more stars
stricken by my
weather
inside
My teeth shall remain
lodged in my formerly
pretty face
It's all done up
in chintz
(myself and my
deathbed)
Set the radio to
Frank Sinatra
Pour a tumbler
of scotch and
swallow the
pills
the only thing
missing is my
coffin

Who knew, then
I would have to
*****, crawl on
my elbows toward
a not so well appointed
toilet?

Not at all ready
for my close-up