The light I cast
makes me dwindle.
I melt, running off
myself. As I shrink

my flame expands.
I burn the hands of
the men that touch me.
When I’m a stub shall

they love me? Still,
a little flicker of truncated
love, waiting for a match
in a hollow glass, with

opaque walls. Blackness
calls. If you leave me
I'll burn the house
Down.

as a 54 Chevy
and wan as a summer
scorched lawn. They’re glazed
as a honey-dip donut. But I

hadn’t looked. I’m hooked
on the bottle, and the rage
followed me as Edgar Allen Poe’s
Raven. The man is, after all

my haven. He lowered his lids
as a shade. I’d have to wade through
his midnight oil with no paddle. He
is raddled. And I, a wrapped up

pupa in the chrysalis, acting like
my brain has syphilis, belching on
the fragment of trust that has
ensconced the two of us.

is dehydrated
as instant friends.
But the friends don’t
have the same shelf-

life. Blackened crystals
shimmering as fool's
gold are a lump of
coal. As you have

a sip you’ll find them
bitter.. I like
my coffee dated, as I like
my friends –

percolated.

of snow you grow cold. Crushed beneath
the sharp ice you harden as a steely knife. Oil’s
beneath the layers, a Michelangelo painting,
straining to soften beneath the winter coffin.


When you live life covered in a blanket
of lies truth is a butterfly. It flutters past
you. Can you catch the winged apprentice,
or shall it knock you senseless?

When you live life covered in a blanket
of leaves, a breeze can scatter you. Not like
a nest firmly packed, high in the trees. Can you
go on with no notes to the song? How shall you
string it together, with wax and leather.?

it can melt in
your hand. You can
freeze it to preserve it. But
you’ll not savor

the flavor until it’s
unwrapped. The juices
run down the length
of your chin. You’ll

be holding a stick. I’ll hold mine
with a grin. I took it
out of the box, unwrapped it
and lick after lick **** myself

in blue raspberry bliss. I’ve brain
freeze and a blue tongue. But
flings can be flung/songs can be
sung. I’ll not be hung up in

a box. I’ll bleed my colors on
the wood, than stuck in a bag
labeled Hood!

I talk in them
in shades of mediocrity.
They resound in bounds
of hypocrisy.

I walk in them
in shades of magenta.
They hold me snug
as a placenta.

I balk at them
in shades of brown.
They cut me
as a thorny crown.

I mock at them
in shades of trees.
They leave me stuffy
as a sneeze.

I walked up
for fifteen years. Some days
I traipsed up them
with haggard breath. Some days I

bounced up them
like a lunatic on ****. Some days
I climbed them as a mountain,
the steps a foothold. Some days I

waltz up shimmering,
a woman to behold. Some days I
ran up fast as a cheetah,
filling in the gaps as

an overloaded pita. I climbed them
wet in boots, trudging in
the snow. I climbed them in flip-flops,
sticking out my toes. I climbed

them in muddy sneakers, and studded
stilettos. I wasn’t aware until now –
planks of wood could
moisten my eyes. The carpet

covering his steps is neat and dry.