can I pen a poem
if I don’t know him? I see
the man’s brows rise
and fall.
So, a note I do call.

You ask
can I sing a song
if it rains on my lawn? I hear
the clouds clap their applause –
So, I sing without pause.

You ask
can I paint a picture
if I’ve no liquor? And make
the picture sunny
as the world is grey and runny?
So, I splatter it in dots
and watch it defrost.

doesn’t cover
a frown. It can turn  
the lips to wine or azure,
plum, pink or lavender. But

you’re an amateur. The waxy
paste sticks to the cloth, you
have to  toss. And your painted
smile rinses out

in the wash. The gloss
can’t shine the river
of brine swelled as a wave
above the nose on your face.

an ectoparasite
doesn’t have
the might to live off
her wooly home. I’d like

to roam. But I’m so
small. And the world’s
so big. I move in it faster
and can relax as

I’m sheltered by
a canine with big teeth
and bushy hind, with a built-in
swatter. And I don’t drink water.

the earth is
a pond. My tears
make a puddle so big

the fish can cuddle. They
roll as dice so fast
it scares the mice. I’ve a moat

around myself. You can see
dead bodies float as lily pads –

none can cross
but the albatross.

is Groundhog Day. I pop
out and see my shadow.  I crawl
back in my hole, bury myself
under the things I stole.

Every day
is Howdy Doody Day. I pack up
the rage and the pain, say goodbye
to my audience. Leave ‘em all
with a dance.

Every day
is April Fool's Day. I pick
apart myself, selling pieces
to men, painting their
piece golden.

every week. The answer
is the same. He can look
at the clouds and ask
how it rains. He can listen

to the woodpecker peck
at the trees, ask how he doesn't
leave, as not a spec is found. Man
has asked if the earth is round. He can
look at the stain in his carpet. I haven't forgot

it. True as the harvest moon,
a life in the stain. The woodpecker
pecks for insects in the hollow pit
of dead wood.  He pecks for answers

in the hollow pit of a dead stain. It's caked
on as the bark. Just a touch and it falls
off. The wind blew down the tree in her
yard. It's ashes now as her grandpa's

cigar. Planted years past by a woman's
hand, a madman's plans -
now is rotten as the stain. All's forgot. But
the plot it sits in silence.

the sun warms
for others it burns

For some
the rain waters
for others it drowns

For some
the rose perfumes
for others it cuts

For some
the sidewalk smooths
for others it cracks

I’m just a blade
growing out of
its crack