Flesh is heretic.
My body is a witch.
I am burning it.

Yes I am torching
ber curves and paps and wiles.
They scorch in my self denials.

How she meshed my head
in the half-truths
of her fevers

till I renounced
milk and honey
and the taste of lunch.

I vomited
her hungers.
Now the ***** is burning.

I am starved and curveless.
I am skin and bone.
She has learned her lesson.

Thin as a rib
I turn in sleep.
My dreams probe

a claustrophobia
a sensuous enclosure.
How warm it was and wide

once by a warm drum,
once by the song of his breath
and in his sleeping side.

Only a little more,
only a few more days
sinless, foodless,

I will slip
back into him again
as if I had never been away.

Caged so
I will grow
angular and holy

past pain,
keeping his heart
such company

as will make me forget
in a small space
the fall

into forked dark,
into python needs
heaving to hips and *******
and lips and heat
and sweat and fat and greed.

If only I could tie
All the birds to
The tree.
A simple cord
From branch to knee.


The birds would work
Together. In chaos
Comes flight.

Carry the tree south…a message:
The winters are warmer.
Before the oak wilt sets
Before the mistletoe comes.

The birds can save the trees.
Instead they sit and Tweet.
Then **** on my car.

When I'm a grownup,
I would like a home away from home.

A cabin, perhaps, isolated from the world,
where there would be a lake in my backyard.

Maybe I will also have a treehouse, or a hammock,
where I would read and watch my children play in the water.

Then we would roast marshmallows and make s'mores,
and catch fireflies in the bushes.

My husband would sing silly songs and play his guitar,
and make my children blush with fiery laughter.

When the kids would fall asleep in the bunks,
a cuddle would be awaiting in front of the fireplace.

Where we would watch sappy old movies,
and savor our salty popcorn and sweet milk chocolate.

Together, we would laugh and cry.
Together, we would have escaped the world.
Together, we would have been happy.

A kid with a deflated red balloon
peeks over the booth
at Village Inn
at three in the morning.

His second-hand
Power Ranger
hand-me-down t-shirt
features a ten-year old
grape juice
stain.

His eyes -
bloodshot and heavy
with the weight
of dependent parents -
meet mine.

His hands -
calloused
like a thirty-year old
construction worker's -
grip the balloon
with white knuckles.

he asks:
"May I please borrow your ketchup?”

I oblige
and hand him the bottle.

He thanks me,
hands it to his father,
and returns to his french fries.

her strive for attention
deprives her actual intention
and she thrives off tension
but she feels alive with this pretension
and what I've failed to mention
its her contrive for perfection…of love

The empty page before me
holds magic within its bounds
I sit and hold its edges
'til my inspiration's found  

Shh... Quiet now and you’ll hear
it so softy speak to me
Guide's my mind to fill its lines
but knows not what it’s to be  

The poet's task is simple -
to repeat the paper's tale
and give its thoughts some action
on this course we dare to sail  

The subject can be the same
of the many poems you'll read
but each one holds some magic
as it plants its thoughtful seed  

For two poets can hear its voice
though miles apart they be
and both will craft a telling
each one grayed by what they see  

For therein lies the magic
which each poet is entwined
new ways to express the thoughts
of blank pages that we find  

The poet is a partner
to the paper, thought and word
A poem is but their melding
giving sight to things once blurred