up isn’t going to
make me dance. Barking
as a dog isn't going to make
me cuddle. Squawking as a cockatoo

will only make me
leave the room. High pitched voices
cut across me as nails on
a blackboard, only leaving you

hoarse. Volume deafens
and threatens the listener. Level voices
are from level heads. And I won't turn
mine toward a wrecking ball that only squalls.

a frown turns
into a smile. I can walk
on clouds if the sky's
turned over. It'd rain

clover. If my feet's above
my head
I'd look up to people
that I met –

It’s a lively world
when everything’s
unfurled.

as the swan
not regal
as the eagle
not colorful
as the macaw
or as mellifluous
as the nightingale

stout body
on a bobbing heads
short legs
strutting about
plumage grey

strong and swift
as a hickory stick
awarded a medal
for serving in the air force
carrying messages
back and forth
in both world wars

Pigeons are hors concours!

engulf me as a wave,
and spray their mist
of warmth, as an elephant
washing himself. “Don’t leave us

to lay flat and still” as grandma’s
quill. It’s my cotton cave. And I
brave the day naked as a beach
in December. All I remember

is the burning sun. The day calls me
as my angry mother. I can't listen. My covers
glisten with last night's sweat. And I fret
if I move out of my cotton cave. I'll have lost

all their warmth. For I can't carry
them. They're an army of men. And I,
a bedbug nestled in as a morsel of chocolate
inside the cookie.

than the Mad Hatter. And the March
Hare points me to my unbirthday. So,
I say “if I’m not birthed on this earth” What
am I?  A cup of flavored hot water

called tea? A sweet mixture of flour and sugar
that's baked? Call me a cake with icing! I don't like vanishing
from a bite or a swallow.  I can whistle as a teapot
without making myself hot. And I can dish it out

without them calling me dessert. A squirt or
a lick? My colors bleed on a napkin? Crumbs that fall
on their laps? Or a hatpin that holds yellow hair? Ask
the March Hare. I'll age as wine shining down

the holes I've fallen in. Growing taller than
this town I’m in.

world I’d like to break
the glass that seals him in the scene
neat and clean. Is he a fairy-tale
I can't t enter into? Or is he

a display that provides me
visual entertainment? I can touch him
with my eyes, not my hands. I can touch
the glass, but not pass into the place

he stands. He's close. But
distant as a star. And as a star, I must
leave him behind the transparent
sphere.  Here, he can hold me in a stare,

but not in his arms. I can hear the whoosh
of the butterfly rustling on the pavement, no
claimant to the stars or moon. His sparkling
world leaves me pruned.

the day
as a Diamond Core
cutting the cement floor. Pieces
as scattered as my head, strung
together the beads of lead.

I break up
with men.
I shuffle them
as playing cards. I turn out
the jokers as a hand of poker. They're
my wild cards.

I break up
laughing.
Shy of gaffing
the prize. They just don't
buy my guise!

I break up
the eggs.
Scramble them
as my brain. The eggs
are soft. I am not.