he’s listening. His eyes
are slats that overlap like venetian
blinds. But I’m a crayon. And I’m
coloring outside the lines.

He looks like
he hears the echoes
from my lips.  His ears
don't slip on the ice. And we've rolled
this dice more than once or twice.

He looks like
he's up for the drill. His head
is filled from music; he holds in his
hands. But I’m tired of the carousel. Riding
a horse that doesn’t touch ground, circling again
round and round.

is "a doll"
a pretty face
the flashing smile
round pointed mounds
and curvy hips
my cherry lips
not my wit

All he saw
is my rage
a pink panther
pacing in her cage
the inferno that bit him
like a lion
not that I'm trying
to cover up the pain
and that I'm dying
slowly every day

All he saw
is a dinosaur
I'm extinct in his head
my poetry dead -
he wouldn’t lend to thieves!
not that I'm prolific and gifted
and colorful as the autumn leaves

dissolves
into dust. My boyfriend
turned to rust. He tarnished as specks
hanging from my eyes. His memory
crystalized.

Everything I touch
breaks –
the vase that holds the flowers
my spirit by the hours.

Everything I touch
crumbles
as the leaves
underneath my feet. My hands
are made of tacks, poking holes
in men’s backs.
  
Everything I touch
fades
as the shade
on a scorching summer’s day –
The grass is yellow and thin
like my skin.  Pulled and stretched
as straw. And my youth
is no more.

row me out in a Clinker. Didn’t plan,
not a thinker. Pack a bottle
of *** with me. Dress me in
a red silk negligée. Around my neck

place a lei of purple flowers. Bury me
out at sea/seventeen hundred hours,
when the sky is a shy marmalade. I laid out
in the sun, as a young thing. So, my skin is

tawny. They say I’m a bit scrawny. Remember
me as a woman on fire burned by the licks of
her flames/none can tame. I lived/laughed and loved
a few. Where I’m headed? Like in life, I haven’t a clue!

a running rapid
not a vapid rivulet
She’s a canyon big and bold
not a pebble or a stone

She’s a loud crack of lightning
not a steady murmur
She’s a swirling typhoon
not a distant tremor

She’s a pulling riptide
not a circling ripple
She’s a shooting spark
not a flickering fizzle

She’s the blazing sun
not a billowing cloud
She’s the fertile earth
after it’s tilled and plowed

She’s wild horses
an oasis in the desert
she’ll put you off
drag you under
raise you up as the Titanic
throw you back
in a panic

She’ll love you fiercely
as a lion
show you parts of her
but she’s hiding
the blackness in her chest
She’ll hand you her soul
nothing less

climb the mountain
But you’re leaky as a fountain pen
and more sunken than a glen

Some people say
shine bright as a star
But you’re a dried up, smoky cigar
half charred

Some people say
give me all I ask
But you’re not up to the simplest task
And still don the mask

Some people say
“get over it”
But you’re about to quit

Some people say
more than they do
And don't have a clue

playing the same chorus big
as King Kong. The men are footnotes
through the tune. They enter
in April/exit in June. The song is played

through the years. It began on eight-tracks,
then records, and went to cassettes. As it
hit the CD’s I became a mess of broken needles
and skipped tracks/mangled tapes and old

hacks. Now the same tune is on
my phone. And I sigh in my drink to it all
alone. It plays on my head every night
in my black, drenched bed. I can’t stop

the chorus and the shrieks. My voice
is hoarse. And I’ve no strength. I’m
weak. I sang it to lovers and to friends. I sang
it on YouTube to women and men. Some

like it. Some do not. Some can relate. But then
it’s forgot. It echoes in school hallways
and locker rooms. It echoes in broom closets
and doctor’s offices. (that prey on us loons)