as the Sunday papers,
black on white
with politics, sports and capers.

I wear it
as the morning fog,
pounding pavement
from a morning jog.

I wear it
as the coffee grinds,
brewed and slow
and over time.

I wear it
as dishwater,
*****, bubbly
and that much hotter.

I wear it
in my toothpaste,
brushing the stains
peppermint laced.

I wear it
as a hair elastic,
holding the frayed
with rubber and plastic.

I wear it
as my red overcoat,
double-breasted
covering the bloat.

I wear it
in my *****.
Belting it out
as an opera.

I wear it
in my sleep.
Crawling in nightmares
it creeps.

I wear it
in every line.
Rhymed or not,
it's all mine.

but somebody's daughter
birthed from the bloodbath
and amniotic water
dressed in pink and violet lace
with ribbons weaved into her hair
a smile slapped on her crimson face
to not utter a sound till spoken to
and marry by the age of twenty-two?

Who am I to be
but a woman's friend
to listen, and listen and listen again
to serve coffee with a plate of bagels and advice
and at her wedding to throw the rice?

Who am I To be
but a man's wife
that takes the vows that last for life
who polishes the furniture till it shines
cooks the dinners precisely on time
and spreads her legs at a quarter of nine?

Who am I to be
but somebody's mother
sweating in pain from the bloodbath
dressed in a grey cotton gown
as doctors check for the breath
of this little life
after they cut me with their knife?

of Juniper berries
with hair flaxen and lips
of cherries turn from emerald
green to purple-black. But once

they turn they do not go
back. Swollen lil' violet orbs wish to
be the next in Forbes. Sharp and clear
with tongue to bite, like aged gin

leave you ****** at night. Hanging
on tailored trees, the fertile seeds
spread as autumn leaves. Food for
the waxwings and thrushes. The painter

airbrushes it on fences and lawns
from dusk till dawn. All are drawn
to the splendor, the sailor's call
the weaker gender!

as black satin sheets
at the bottom of my bed
spread tightly across
the four corners
and hung over the edge

Stretched
as salt water taffy
pulling the ribbons of azure
gold, red, purple and green
then cutting them clean into little clumps
that melt on the tongue
one by one

Stretched
as an elastic
wound around the finger
cutting off the circulation
and all sensation

Stretched
as on the rack
limbs tied with a rope
dislocating the joints
while the old man has a smoke

the day
the same way
coaxing myself
to climb out of
this mountain of bed
with all the covers
spread out like a thick blanket of snow
weighing down the branches
as this head dances
like a bobblehead doll
sealed in a box
you can purchase at the mall

I go through
the door
and out into the world
like a furled umbrella
that when dry is stellar

I go through
the motions
like a shackled prisoner
wearing heavy chains around the ankles
handing out samples of weathered burn lines
behind a thin screen
of rust colored dust in the basement
where the windows have no curtains
so, all can look in
at the experiment

happened how would I
I write? My scars are my
sight. If nothing occured I wouldn't
matured.If nothing set me off

I'd not lift off the page. I'd not
engage an audience. If nothing ever
jostled me, although I'm sozzled I'd
nothing to speak.

like a gold button, leaving me
with the hole, the spot that filled me,
held me in tight, now a slit overnight.
And soiled did he blight. High on
his horse, no longer enmeshed!
Another Macbeth.

He undid me
pressed Ctrl+Z on his keyboard
till not a trace of me
left. Then he typed in boldface
over the place I held breath.

He undid me
like a bun, secured with
a barrette. Shook me loose. Now
a hairy mess. Like Niagara Falls I fell
to my death.