intense
burning mid-day sun
blistering his skin
leaving him tail-spun

She was too
splintered
jabbing at his arms
too many winters
putting out alarms

She was too
needy
taking all his time
greedy
a woman in her prime

He was too
old
to play around
but men cannot be told
and he'd not slow down

with just myself. Lying in a red hammock
curled up under a cornflower sky, with a book
to read as a cardinal flies by.  Or walking
in the woods among the ferns and the trees

I find tranquility. The chattering song of
the jay, the stillness of a breaking day. Women are
critical and glib, drooling like babies wearing
a bib. Green- eyed and petty. Raining on me

like colored confetti. Friendship is overrated,
leaving me lonely and weighted. The babbling
of a brook I'll take than that of a woman. Time is
a gift not to squander. Thoughts are words

to sit and to ponder. Women spread them like
strawberry jam, rolling out of their mouths
like a broken dam. Like the sun and the moon
I'm a solitary man.

like a poached egg,
dripping yolk upon her
plate. Painting the plate gold,
like the yellow from a rainbow,
till she’s tossed in the dishwasher
with the folks, knives and saucers.

She's Runny
like a nose drooling
from a cold. Dabbing the tip
with a cotton handkerchief,
till her sniffer looks like a clown’s
fire-engine red and round.

She's Runny
like a watercolor bleeding
in the rain. Swirling blue,
purple and green before she's
time to set. She's ugly,
when she's wet.

She's Runny
like mascara
in black rivulets on
her face from weeping
like the clouds. She looks
like a racoon in the middle
of the afternoon!

painted candy apple red
with hinges and doors
and all the décor a jeweler
can make. Strung with pearls;

a smooth oval, standing on
painted golden legs. Not to  
touch. I easily break.
Not to be held. It'll dull

my shine. In a glass house
next to a crystal decanter of
cherry wine. Sitting on a shelf,
the one the furthest from

the sunshine.With the tip
of a finger you can flip my
top. Underneath is a diamond,
a treasure trove, a work of art!

like icicles on my nose. Hanging
jagged with pointed tip, so sharp
they cut my lower lip.  They rusted
from sitting outside in a paper

cup. I held them up
to the sun. It's years since
they've run like a river
down my face. They baked

in place like the cheese
souffle. Hardened like a ball of
clay. Then cracked into lines
I pen. My ink is wet. Better it than them.

a collection of spices,
rose petals, and orange rinds,
mixed in a bowl. We smell sweet,
but we’re dried and old. We look

pretty, my lavender and your
red berries. But we are caged
like two canaries. We had our days
before we were plucked, skinned

and shucked. Was I the one that
wanted more than to be bagged and
stored in your bedroom drawer? Sachets
tied with purple ribbons, only to sit

with misgivings and pairs of your
Argyle socks. Not plated on the bone
China like bagels and lox. Just tossed
together like yesterday’s slops.

is a nest
full of stinging hornets. I wear
the welts like notches in her
draw of belts. Large red bumps
from all she's lumped on me,
making my head a knotted tree.

Her tongue
Is a stiletto
born in the ghetto,
slicing right through me
like a roll of salami. As she bears
down her knife I grow smaller
with every slice.

Her tongue
is a revolver
shot out of her mouth
in rounds. I cannot absolve her
of the crime. Words are weapons
bleeding through me all the time.