Ah but I am so
****** hungry
Dontcha know
Licked lips
Drop of drool
I swell with the
Smell of toast
Butter swirled
With honey
(Honey)
Slake my hunger
For you
Not so much
But it will have
   to do

I am Hegel I am Rilke
I am a bruise wearing
a shoe I am Castaneda
I am Philip Roth I am
what's for dinner I
am the underside
of you
I am Sybil Sheppard
pretending to be Sartre
while De Beauvoir
pretends to be
vichyssoise on a
spoon
I am your Last Great
Chance left to the seat
of your pants, anonymous
parlez vous anything
(You)
I am a pentimento
the umber of your
umbrage all about
me and (you again)
you
I am the Part Three
of your Part Two the
ever growing closet
of not me a bruise
looking for the toe
of a shoe comment
dites vous *******
just *******

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

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

Today, just as easily as yesterday
or even tomorrow, and who really
knows what sort of cosmic change
one more trip up the stairs, a minute
or so involved in finding a set of keys
can bring? I do not claim any bit of
godly eye into the possible futures
much less the remiss and distress
of the concreteness of the past

No

Even so I can tell you this:

Today I ran over a wedding gown
in the middle lane of a local interstate
and just as I was getting over the shock
and twist of so much crinoline, so much
taffeta, catching a breath and wondering
what it could mean: what looked to be
a golf ball bounced twice in front of me
then bashed around under me and
any hope of spying it in my rear view
was dashed completely

I was trying to listen to an NPR show
about the human mind and death and
what we think we can tolerate in the end
is exactly what we cling to, if only
to not end

I was reminded of my mother's slow
and lingering death (painful, thoughtless
absurd) and how many lives end that way
not at all what we plan to endure with
the pleas to please **** me when it comes
to that and not a minute more, absent
of all dignity which we think in our
last lucid moments is important;
which we think in our last lucid
moments is more important than
diapers or mumbling or *******
ourselves

And not a single one of us knows
when we will give in, what little
moment will mark the beginning
of the end- a golf ball, a wedding  
dress, a wolf passing by our bathroom
window as we take a midnight ****

That could be enough, that could be
the undoing, a small grunt and a passing
fact, like you- passing, fact, past tense
just a glint in a lonesome wolf's eye
as you cross over from wanting to live
to wanting to die

If I could give you every thought
that I left unexpressed and tie them
up in a drawstring bag and if this bag
could only hold the sweet ones,
the good ones, the ones that
made you feel O YES THIS
IS SOMETHING and you
could let go of the rest
well:
Thoughtless would just be
a poor beggar we never had
to feed, living on air and
quite nowhere, not
with you and not with
me and if love were
enough, if love could
make I AM SORRY
get up and stand
on its hind legs and
pick flowers from
the highest tree
we would not have
a problem now
would we? you
would be you and
I would be me
fed on promises
(there is no other world
I want than ours) and
every thought made
less thoughtless
gathered together in
my bag of Please- I would
everyday shower you
with these
If

If a Jenny met
a fella met him
eye to eye, how
could he be
so hard to
doom to make
a Jenny cry?
(Did she did
or did she not
look him
in his eye?)
and when
a mirror
conscience
shook did
he not make
a rotten lie?
If a Jenny
smiled at
him or any
bluest eye
laid a Jenny
on her back
and looking
at the sky
Tell her true
(what did
he do when
he took her
by surprise?)
can a fella
can he now
before she
grow old
and die?
If a Jenny lets
loose a fella
of all his
woes and
whys? let
a Jenny o
let a Jenny
rise

The wont of his ways
the stretch of his gaze
as if the compass stare
would snare you or
someone else in
his haze (don't
count anything
don't doubt a single
syllable, I promise you
will be all the more
invisible, your lips
will mean nothing
see (death of love
climbs backward
up a tree WHAT
a beauty)

I have decided (and
there is simply no
arguing here) 'if'
is the sexiest word
in the English language
and once unloaded of
its baggage and all of
those maddening
contingencies, 'if' is
like two legs dancing
around in a striptease
'if' is the most lewd,
the most suggestive
thing on two legs,
one letter leaning
against the other,
the most beautiful
***** you have ever
seen, standing on
a street corner
the 'i' buck naked while
the 'f' blandly looks
away (yes, too often
the 'i' is an embarrassing
display)
the 'f'  staggers
under its own sort
of weight, having
lent itself to 'u' and  
the beginning of 'fu' 'fu'
'fu' you (but you are
already stuck now
aren't you?)
pay the 'i' up front
while the 'f' crooks
a finger and you
can do nothing
but obey this is
why the 'i' so often
breaks itself in two
always too much
but never quite
enough, without
the 'f' nothing
absolutely nothing
will do

m'lady mistakes
a punch to the face
as something more
compliant
tis not his kink
you should know
as you stand there
all defiant
a twist and turn
and a slow waxy
burn
is all you ever
hoped for
but with regard
to you and
the things you
do, your neck
is what a
rope's for
to keep this man
one rule of thumb
and forget the
usual blather:
have a ****
'tween your thighs
keep your mouth
well shut and at
the end of day
when he thinks
of you not as
a ***** but
a **** is all
that really
matters

The Federal Bureau of Death
along with the AMA and your
sainted mother agree that the
sixth most likely way to get
car jacked is to live in Detroit

The Weather People have reported
a massive sigh of relief coming out
of the Midwest and is causing Lake
Effect Remorse

If you live in Detroit you sinply
don't understand

I have no idea what does
or does not grow in those
sorry patches once full
of hope, the ones I checked on
everyday, waiting for the first
bit of green to push its way
out of the earth as if to prove
something about my worthiness
my optimism, even in the face
of all that other decay
I don't believe he ever
took a look, kept his face
pointed the other way
sure of disappointment
but like a kid who can barely
wait for Christmas he waited
for a garden that pops up
all in one day, along with
a woman that transforms
over night, not the one
he went to sleep with
but someone so much
better
I've always had the hope
that in my absence my
gardens flourished,
even went crazy with
green and vines and
fruits and flowers,
so many flowers
and even with the next
one coming behind me
and bashing the crap
out of everything that
sprouted, that's okay
I imagined always the
following year and
and the one after that
in the event she was
still there, the blooms
coming back in spite
of all her efforts to
**** them
and if flowers could talk?
what else could they say
but, Lady, give up-
she will never go
away

The way you smile
at me, almost six feet
above the floor, you
there, plus six inches
more (how clever
walking on your
hind legs and
all)

And I do, I do
I like to look up
at you

And when gravity
overtakes me?

Well you do, you do
you like to look down
at me

At your service dear
just feed and water me
trusty houseplant, a vine
of a thing

And you my trusty
tree of a man
feet like roots
I like to stand on
when we dance

(We have never
danced)

YOU O you o impossible
you, would like me to
fit you into my mouth
with a shoe horn you
and a shoe OPEN WIDE
(he says) spread those
wings and he pulled me
apart from the inside

If I could IF I COULD dear
I would fly away from
you

YOU O PSYCHOTIC o
******* (and *******
again, *******) you
dear o you smear o rip
me wide open like you
do O PANZERBLITZ you
treat me like your own
personal Jew

you O MERCILESS YOU
you fed off of me, you and
your little fake **** of a face
YOU ******, FOR SO LONG
it was only you

me (O ME) WHAT you left
of me, there on the side of
your shoe, dog ****, no I am
not, simply not, YOU FORGOT
what you left behind left to rot
***** you

(and yes and yes and certainly
so much less, you nullified me
and nothing here, nothing left
to fix with your rotten
tools)

Like a child you liked to
see how things worked
from the inside pulled
apart one piece at a time
the clock no longer ticks
and I don't think so, no
this heart no longer
kicks, put back together
like this, BANG UP JOB
if I must say so and I
must

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

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

I need I need I need (let
me repeat I NEED)
your **** between
my thighs I need
to feel your hot and
heavy breath between
my sighs I need
your fingers in my
*** and in my
****** baby like
a bowling ball
I will roll quite
heavy slam me
right into the
wall
I need you I need all
every bit and even
the hell of you
even your empty
voicemail piece
an automated I DON'T
GIVE A **** I need
I need your *******
face
****

I wake I WAKE UP I
feel your hands the
grounded rubber
the vague electricity
of you milling around
and through my glassy
bones, your hands
have not yet found
a home
I wake up (I WAKE UP)
I feel the future in
my gums, two wrigley
twins jumping rope
double dutch veins
hurt like a stone
I wake up (yup)
too many tubes
reaching from within
dig them out and turn
them loose without
me (PLEASE go on
without me)
I wake up and it is
the next century, muscles
heave a giant groan

This was never what
I wanted (who would?)
this was never the plan
(why would it be?)

I am a **** of a mistake
I try to keep it under my
skin, under the bandages
but I still get thrown back
into the game, patched up
like new again, blown
backward into a mirror
DO OVER DO OVER
DO OVER no thank
you

I scream *******
with a mouth full
of sand

And this is the good part

I want nothing more
of your sweet dumb
eyed camel looking
score, as if love can
come in at the eyes
rather than pulled
between my thighs

Well then! which course
is the worst for the wear
and tear?
to **** yourself beyond
some skinny little freak
of a girl's stare?

Dear sir I hope my
brown eyes followed
you every *******
where, I hope
they followed you
into each of your
legitimate beds,
one after the
other, Mr. Man
full of himself and
all that wasn't
said

Dear sir I hope I stuck
to you like a flea, drawing
blood from you as you
did from me

I want to dress up
like Kim K. and ****
your **** I want
to be culturally
relevant I want
to run into Prada
and **** every
mannequin
and leave a blood
soaked floor
and what's more
I want to blame it
all on you calling
me a *****
I am the human toll
of all your deficits
I am a felony waiting
to unfold I am your
worst nightmare
wrapped in a nightgown
I am ten thousand
years old dropped
to the floor I am pure
gold
I am your trigger finger
your ten times a ******
your bomb waiting
to explode
Blame me on food
coloring and live wires
blank checks and all
the cans of food dated
expired because I have
no shelf life dear and
you waited way too
long to put it in here
so tired and so old
ouch

I wanted to write a poem
about kissing walls of all
shapes and sizes, about
davening or dervishing
not to mention shokeling
or the Arabic equivalent
but who wants to start
any sort of war? not me
said the girl no longer
a girl so if you see me
with a black box wrapped
tightly around my cocked
to the side head and I am
trying to kiss a rock
and not you instead-
please don't take it
personally- I'm as
confused as you
although I carry no
ammo or weaponry
or even self righteous
blather: I am not from
here or there or anywhere
you think might matter
in fact I do not matter
at all, perhaps I have
Tourette's, perhaps
I like to spin in place
and kiss rocks and
rub my skinny Irish
face at tourist traps
of no specific religious
affiliation, perhaps
I am CONFUSED
by all of your
tourist maps
read the back flap
(*Disclaimer: we hold
no responsibility for
your imminent
death, biblical  
or otherwise)

O hell this thing (let's
call it a woman for now)
she walks around to the
bark of his orders, bends
over backward to his
sieg heils and and
and
Hatred will set you free
and and and if only I could
crawl away on all threes
she says better you than
me with the last bit of him
caught in the jaws of her
snap! snap! snap! having
torn off the hand that fed
her (who cares?) it's a
rap! rap! rap!
See how things change
so quickly, see?
This Greek arriving empty
shaking ******, the Trojan
horse she rides atop, wasn't
it glamorous? demanding
gifts rather than receiving
them except for the vicious
and banging pieces
banging their way
out of her mouth, she
could only SHUT THE
**** UP for so long
(see?)
and now it's too late
*******, you're my
*****
(see?)
She misunderstands
EVERYTHING and so
she waves her vicious lips
once meant to please you
now spitting out a charm
a spell, a hell bent burnt
mantra and now
The world is wrong
including you (get used
to it)

She tells him in so many words
he only has borrowed minutes
minutes here and at a high rate
of bare and bored interest and
he had better return the unused
portion, dragging it out of a
lion's mouth

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

He was all like and
I was all like
y'know
what I meeeeeen,
like?!
and then I was
like noooooo
waaaaaay! and
then he was like
wuhwuhwuh
why not?
like? and
like, oooh my
GAAAD,
like ****!
y'know what I mean
like **** THAT!
EEEEEEW! like
no way! no?
maybe what!?
like, jealous
much? like
WHAT is her
damage!? O
MY
GOD
I hate her, like
totally like!
WHAT a
*****!
y'know?
like did you see
what she was wearing
like?

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

Long trip, aint it?
from your finger
to my lips, glide
down my chin and
between my
****
(my knees are screaming
for you but darling, lets
not rush so
ah, for chrissakes,
he forgot my
hips
YOU are the king
of tomorrow I am
nothing but leftover
To Current Occupant
unread
(I stand on my porch
searching the horizon
for your headlights
the sound of a
Volkswagen
anything
I am the queen
of yesterday, at least
read my obit- I was
a well known poet)
almost

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

Love saves the day and
kisses all of your wishes
kisses them straight
away
Love holds your hand
and leads you to YES
YES YES and you say
yes indeed, I will
follow
Love yanks your arm
out of its socket and
hangs there like an empty
sleeve
Love did not have to ask
you and when he left, well,
Love did not ask him to
leave
(you did, study the facts
Missy)
Love ***** you and *****
you hard and especially
when you're not looking
Love shoves you *** back-
ward, *** over tete, Love
shoves you into an oven
please
Love is your last refuge
(and when you get there
there is no refuge)
Love laughs in your face

"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satin's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"

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

You are a wolf in
the house of doom
I even moved aside,
packed everything of
mine into one room
I gave you the lay
of the land, let you
roam through each
broken window
broken promise
with blood hanging
in threads, yours
now, not mine
while you crawled
close to the floor
up and down the
stairs, red trail
the sentry of
my heart
on all fours as
you tore each
chamber apart
love in one corner
love in the next
four times love
darling wolf
of my pulse
whole and
part

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

My childhood memory
comes and goes, just
like my childhood
until it simply
went; The order
of things, I don't
remember learning
the days of the week
and especially not
how nice it would
have been to know
what makes a day
out of a sun or a
moon or even
Saturn; days of
weeks of months
of years, torn up
like me never to be
retrieved like me
my childhood
memory
deceives me,
evades me,
hides from me
with only the sound
of it pushing through
yelling mouth as wide
as a mixing bowl
"MY NAME IS JANE
MY NAME IS JANE"
I said it over and over
again until it got to
dark to even play
the game where I
could be not me
for a change
I sat in a giant fire pit
encased in stone and brick
pretended it was a house
like Lucy's after she moved
to the country, not us
standing at the top of the
yard yelling cuss words
******* at cars
I suppose there were lots
of screams like when the
goldfish hit the floor and
died before we could save
even one or when mom
ran into the door again
memory does not pretend
at least it doesn't do that
we had no god, no food,
no father and no car

I do remember when our
new babysitter left us in
Paterson Park and no one
got us until it was well
after dark

Somehow none of us
screamed, why bother?
******* tee hee hee

TONGUE breech
birth RIPPED free
from the first BATTLE
CRY of infancy- a
SCREECH from
Mommy's tomb-
you made a poem
of me
DARLING meet
the OUTside
of the womb
a perfect crescent
shaped doom
death SQUAD
hair SPRAY
b-way play
YOU make big
deals of your
moral decay
GIMME AN F
GIMME AN E
gimme gimme
gimme a ****
tionary
YOU are a poet
now go
away

My dear
My Lord
My haunt
My word
(eaten, like
a sword, skewered
down to the last
letter)
My prisoner fights
against my belly and
I keep talking loud
enough to cover
his screams
(HA! this is what
happens when you
give me your word
I take a promise
seriously or at
the very least I
take it, mine now,
not yours)
My sweet
My meat
My clawed
afterthought
Burp

Miss Anne I take in gips
and gasps (and what
is a gip I shall never
tell but it purrs
like a heart gone
all to hell
One decade gone
another renewed
shall I take another
pass by you?
Miss Anne you
make my hands
as large as the
moon but less
in charge as clumsy
as a puppy born
in June with a
mouth full of
flowers let loose
by a grin
forever goofy
thank to you
I win
(!)

Misses Missedherchance wakes up and
looks at herself in her tiny mirror (she
only wants to see herself in chunks,
taking some of the brunt away from
her sour assessment) she tells herself
"today I am **** ugly" and commences
the project of taking care of that, fixing
all of the holes and vacant places that
somehow got filled in with opportunistic
and mercenary forces while she slept
the sleep of a dead person
Misses Missedherchance wants to get
DOLLED UP, to show her walls, all
all of them, what a beauty she can be
when she's up to it, when she feels
there is a PURPOSE, and she waltzes
through the living room and
the living room walls whistle
just like a group of bricklayers
and she waltzes through the eat-in
kitchen (always hated those words,
"breakfast nook") and the walls
sing back to her in Spanish,
call her "Flaca" and she giggles
She is afraid to venture upstairs
to the bedroom because, well,
lets just say the bedroom
is a bit more critical, a bit
harder to please and she
makes a note to herself
to try and do something
about that one of
these days

It is in the garden of decay
where I learned about life
and how tenacious it is
no matter what the species
for example my brother
barely human by now
life lessons learned on
the back of death and
I think of a bumper sticker
I once saw, "Hard to ****"
No doubt yet being half
dead is an acquired skill

In a word, he is an atrocity

But consider this:
back to my garden where
miracles bloom even in
the stone cold of winter
A root has climbed around
A cocktail glass I sent sailing
in a fit of rage, in the dewy
promise of spring no less
and while hate raged in
the kitchen these two
singularly hopeless and
ugly broken things formed
a union that even throwing
more glasses at cannot tear
assunder

Well, tear ME assunder
why don'tcha?

Nope, being such a *****
has lost me that honor

Sincerely, Hard to ****

I would like to
**** a you or a
me, starkly
purely, so
much more
stutterly and
with a fork
says She
Go then, laughs
(pulls sheets
over knees)
says He
colder shoulder
cold bare ***
Your window
smells like cars
says She
Pools of sweat
lost of joy
taste of tongue
barely, Could
you please
asks She
possibly
feed me?

I can't I can't I simply
cannot live with this
emptiness (and why
didn't anyone tell me
how empty it would
be?) hell, I didn't expect
a box of chocolates (melted
stuck to the mailbox) or
even a limp dozen roses
or a farewell cordially
written by the hand
that knows well how to
cordially say goodbye
but I did expect something
and never mind why-
I expected maybe for
the sky to change color
or for each and every leaf
on each and every tree
to turn around in mourning
in deference to some wild
thing that not even nature
can explain, me and my
heart torn away like bark,
undressed of love and left
with only my nakedness
I thought I would feel it
in the air, come sweeping
down and defining each
of my breaths, each one
a death to me when really
I deserve no less than
a two mile snake of black
that runs through every red
light and leaves nothing
but road rage in it's wake
(hear me snicker between
the walls, ceiling, and floor
of my new and fabulous tree)
There is no special ceremony
no cake to cut, no carrying
this great loss over a threshold
like a bride, like a widow
all in one day, this death
like so many others that
folks just want to turn their
heads away, this death
like so many others, an
embarrassing display

So often it is shortly after
the worst of them drops
dead and then like magic
the insufferable ****
becomes the man
above all men

Already cast in bronze
he is, before even one
blade of grass can grow
directly above his
sainted head

Of course when he
was quite alive she
could not wish him
more than dead
and all of the misery
he brought?
She turned into a
eulogy instead

The only solace left
to offer this deadly
boring woman?
with any bit of luck
she will soon be
joining him

My darling,
my dear,
fancy (prance
yourself over
here)
My darling,
my dear
another
soppy evening
bit in two
(if only, if only)
you knew
Cold as a gem
on a dead finger
you (if only
you)
You
my darling
my dear
(****)
you, if only
you would
do
(Anything
would do
no longer
haunted by
expectations
I give them
solidly to
you
minus the plus
side, one hell
of a ride
(****)
that too

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...)

I am the untied version
of you, shoe full of nothing
unscrewed and unchewed
a puncture in space and
time meant to hold us
in place where even
a well placed heel
won't do

The rhyme and reason of
a fork with two tines replacing
the precise oneness of
the edge of a knife

Sooner or later we will walk
on four heels, two for each
shoe

You can dress me up
but you can't take me
out

Besides, who will wait
on you?

I cannot occupy two places
at once, the served and the
server, even with a quick
costume change

Order for me, will you?

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)

She enters a room
with a compact stare
that SNAPS SHUT
sooner rather than
later and if you get
chewed in her moments
or get a leg caught in
the trap of her gaze?
count yourself as lucky
to have not been stomped
on the spot by the click
and clack of her simply
entering a room in long
strides, her legs like a
compass with two sharp
toes marking the dark
divide
because

No one shares her space
even as she marches head
first into a wall or face
down in your purse
because

she is ALL GEOMETRY
GET IT? not your sort
of thing

She 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 taking the wind and
leaving NOTHING not even
you, nope

She was perfect when vertical
and even when folded in half
a pretty good sport
because

She writes her name
on the bottom of one shoe
and her address on the
other just in case
she is ever again
horizontal
(wink)

Now, layered in ashes
upright as an umbrella
stand I give her urn a
good shake, y'know
as an old friend
because

That's how I am

You nearly dropped me
to my knees, somewhere
between those two valves
holding all of my blood
between you and your
trumpet call of ******
and rusty notes, I did
I did as I pleased

My parenthetical ******
you and your aborted mission
as if my heart and soul were
so much real estate,
a mere commission of
your concubine mentality
and a big ol' wrench in
your alternate reality
you did, you did
as you pleased

I defended your every atrocious
deed, you there, Herr Panzerblitz
standing with your chest out and
your thumb in the air testing
the breeze

I deferred to your omnipotence
like a good villager and even
in the shadow of each turned page
I deferred to your made up history
quelling my each and every fit
of rage

Deferring to all that was yours
was as easy as deferring my life
as a whole held in the fat of
your fist as you slowly lost
control

I am chopped in half by
the parentheses of your grip
half a woman who has found
her running legs and sliding
far and away from your
parenthetical head trip

I've been lucky in love
and always had my pick
but when they ask me
what "does the trick"?
how can I tell
any one of them
that what I've always
preferred is ugly
men?

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 don't have a good heart
I do not mean well and
if I were just a tad more
despicable I'd tell you
to burn in hell
Your doting smile does nothing
but make me wish I had steel toes
and if I were a little bit more bitter
I'd kick you right in the nose
The sound of your dragging
your knees from place to place
like fingers down a chalk board
and I can only imagine your
lovesick face
If I were completely heartless
and your feelings didn't matter
a jot, I'd have your drag yourself
to a graveyard and I'd point out
exactly where you should rot
(Ah, but you think I'm joking?
and this is just a ruse?
how could I be this awful
and this must be one of
my moods)
I will not be better, not later
and certainly not soon
your love leaves me frozen
your protestations a tired tune
I beg to no one special
I make my case to the empty air
if there is a god in this place
then please, I beg, I swear
I will never again in life
beguile any living man
nor none of the uncountable
dead- I make my peace
and good riddance sweets
I've put my heart to
bed