the size of the kitchen sink. Now I trudge
with every step instead of smoothly slink. Bending
from the weight pushing down on me I can’t see
straight. I see perpendicularly. It makes my gait

wobbly. So exhausted I can't sleep.  Every turn
I take the boulder barrels as a jeep, leaving tracks
upon my sheets. Run over by black lies and
used to bes I weep blood-soaked drops hard as

lollipops that break my teeth. The sun's a nun
that has to preach.  But this boulder only smolders
making me vexatious to reach. The landslide that is I
has blocked every street. This mountain has crumbled

at my feet. Today the streetcleaners sweep up
the rubble. How did this chip grow into a boulder? Or is
that I'm older I sunk in the debris?

paint it
fire-engine red
taint the hail
with rounded steel
so, it knocks off a couple heads

I’d like to take the sky
rowing a boat
and if I tire
I can sit back
and see the clouds just float

I’d like to take the sky
bring it down
to the earth
so, the men and woman
that can’t reach it
are saddled with its girth

growling in my stomach
larger than a lion
that ties in everything I do

brighter than a flame burning
turning light onto the shadows
flinging pens as if they're arrows

on the marks of men
that left footprints on my hide
the stain has spread and dried

a song I’ll sing till I die
and none can silence me
I’m a worker bee

from the winter storm
that cut me down.
Now I’ve thorns
I wear as crowns.
A fallen tree,
my bark stripped.
Now I’ve quills to fill
the holes
since I tipped.
No one wants a pointed edge,
broken stock,
a spiky hedge.

they twist
into a knot
and squeeze out
every
last drop
then complain
after
they’ve drained
everything

they’d take
my blood
if I gave them
a syringe
cut a hole
they would –
impinge
and lay me
out
have a laugh
after
they hacked
me
in /half

a moment
jump back into the frame
you can't take my place
I’d have things the same
look behind me –
now it’s yesterday

If I could freezeframe
this man
twist-tie the hands of time
wrap myself around him
as he’s mine
so, we can chill out and unwind

If I could freezeframe
that year
hang it on the wall
if only I'd looked into a crystal ball!
but then you don't have a second chance
this movie plays out till the end
can’t rewind –
and go back again

I want to lasso the sun out of the sky
And claim it as mine. Only let it shine in
my own backyard. The rest of the world can
live in shade. They’ll never know why it
strayed. Why shouldn’t it be only for me?

I want to cage the wood thrush so much.
Only have him sing his beautiful long song for
my ears alone, like a music box that comes with
a lock. Others can enjoy the kee-eeeee-arr of the
hawk. Why shouldn’t it be only for me?

I want to pick all the flowers; put them in
my room. Light up the air with their sweet
perfume, until their colorful heads droop, like
noodles in a chicken soup. Because they

haven’t the sun or the beautiful sound
of the wood thrush’s song, or the swing of the
breeze, or the pitter-patter of the rain as a tease. Maybe
here is where they don’t belong, arranged en masse
in a tall translucent glass.

Icon

legend, feel my presence. There can
only be one me. In my own skin
is how I’m growing. I’ll water myself

every day, provide my own type
of shade. I’ll prune and trim,
cut back enough

so I can grow new buds. I’ll blossom
into what I’m supposed to me. Whatever
that is, will be unique. It won’t be

you or anyone else. I’ve got to
learn to love myself. I’m not
young. But I don’t need

to be young. I’m not
wealthy. But I don’t need
to be wealthy. I’m not the brightest

star that ever shined. But I’m in
the sky. And to me
that’s just fine.

it was ignorance, complacency
thinking we had forever
but forever died –
forever
but this survived
and this is what I’m making my art
this is what is I’ve got
so, I’m turning it out
I’m reliving it –
line
by line
stronger through time
stronger through the truth that you
were so afraid of me knowing
I found out through
your best friend
and my love –
hasn’t changed since then
clearly speaking from my heart
I would do it over again
knowing its tragic end

its’ carried
within you
it’s the mole
on your face
the sty
in your eye
the snarls
in your hair
the canker
in your mouth
the callous
on your hands
the knots
in your stomach
the cyst
on your back
the blister
on your foot
and the bunion
Look What
he’s done

Stop!
your complaining.
It’s very draining.
Stop!
wearing a frown.
It gets us down.
Stop!
with your chiding
it’s overriding
everyone’s joy.
Why annoy us
with your bunk?
Get out of your funk!

Afraid to cry
Your tears might freeze
Afraid to love
You might be brought to your knees
Afraid to rage
You might implode
Afraid to receive
You might be owed
Afraid to confess
Your skin might peel
Afraid to be human
You might be real

are droplets of brine
strung as beads
hung over the cavity
of my black chest.

The sparkle in my smile
is a palette of metallic red
painted on with a wand
thick as a loaf of bread.

The wave of my arms
is as a pendulum weighted
down and fixed on the hour
living in a cherry tower.

The swing in my hips
is a **** on a vane
that swirls in the direction
of a fickle wind
and swings back again.

The spring in my step
is from a pebble that sits
in my shoes and rolls around
as I move.

burning out as this day,
fading into the backdrop because
you’ve no shade. Your phone is
always nearby. It sticks to your ribs

as warm apple pie. Everyone relies
upon you as much as they do the sun
and the moon. What can I say? You’re
the stars in their eyes, the light of their

lives. This earth would dry out and crack
if it didn’t have you. It’s a lot on one
man’s back. Always the open door. You
never take in the welcome mat.

He was a brick wall. I was a rubber ball
bouncing off him. He was the stone. I was
alone sitting next to him. He didn't read

a line/didn't hear a word I
said. My words, winged as birds
flew over his head. I swear

I was fog. I'd no visibility. I hung
like mist. But he'd no agility. I was
the blood-filled cyst he drained. He cut off

the tip and let run the pain. My screams
were bottled he didn’t uncork. I was
just a model he repeatedly forked.

is a lonely man
that let many opportunities
pass him
insecure
a gauche man
unrefined
that resigned himself
for less
because it was safe
now even today
the only thing changed
is
he’s older
more plump
with less hair
but no wiser
in that
he still is
what he wrote himself
to be
in the lyrics
he construed
did not change
history

Why is it
they always read
someone else’s
and not me?
and why
do they buy
someone else’s
and not mine?
aren’t I worth
what someone else
is?
haven’t I given
as much
as someone else
gives?
haven’t I
sweated?
haven’t I
labored?
Why is it
always
I’m never
favored?

if I can’t save me from
myself? If I haven’t the strength
to go on who will hold me up
when I’m about to fall

down? Who will grab the razor
from whence my hand it came? Who
will take the blame for all the shame of
my past? Who will cut the rope

around my neck before I strangle
myself to death? Who will take the bottle
of poison before I empty it out come
morning? Who will hold me in their

arms when I’ve shattered in pieces so
small that they fall off as flakes of dandruff
and are carried away with the wind? Who will
absolve me of all my sin?

I count

As much as a rock star
The greatest czar
The earl of Kent
The president
A doctor or a lawyer
Mark Twain’s Tom Sawyer
Dickens or Thoreau
I’m not letting this go

I count

As much as barrels full of money
Don’t need to be someone’s honey
I count as one single, sensational person
Even when things worsen
I count even more
I count from sea to shore

I count

You better hear me
Let me say this nice and clearly
You ain’t gonna stop me
Just watch me!

blowing in the wind
moving in every direction
turning like the water mill
not a rock standing still

I would shine in the sun
like a ****'s red feathers spun
all that moves for me is time
growing old with every chime

looking to rise like the yeast
not lying in the pan
like the grease
let me live –
or I shall cease

the sun is yellow. You
selling it to me, young
fellow? I see the sun go down. I see
it hides behind the clouds.

You don’t have to tell me
the trees are tall. You’re too in
the forest to see them all. You’re so
low you're a rolling stone.

You don’t have to tell me
the earth is flat as the red bird
mat outside the door. And if I go walking
I’ll fall off the horizon. I've a dream
I’m not compromising.

like the warm, wet sand
on a summer’s afternoon
Let me leave my footprints
on you.

Love me
like a scoop of vanilla
ice-cream. Let me go down
soft and easy.

Love me
like an open window. You’ll
hear my soft pitter patter when the rain
falls.  The only thing that matters above
all is that you keep me alive in
your dreams. You know I’m never far
from reach.

can't be made of chalk. It fades
as men walk over it. It blends
with the ground. So, the white
turns brown.

This line of mine
can't be drawn with sticks. The men
kick them to the side. And roll in
just like the tide, drowning me
with their energy.

This line of mine
can't be built with bricks. It make
a wall a mountain tall. So, no man
can climb at all.

This line of mine
I frame in elastic. Not rigid,
but plastic. So, I can
stretch it out or pull it back. It can
expand or contract. Not set in
stone. But sewn in my
undergarments. So, men can leave
no comments.

Banality of My Reality  

Emotions can be as high as the stratosphere
or as low as the plains, intense as an inferno or mil
as a sun-shower passing through a summer’s afternoon. They bring on tears when sadness is experienced from loss of someone

or something that was important. Not everyone can
cry. Some people hold their sadness deep inside.  That’s a shame, because tears because a catharsis when they’re released
and not repressed. Tears can also express great joy, deeply felt

love, and miracles too. Anger is as passionate as
desire. It makes your heart beat faster. Your mind becomes nebulous to reason. Your blood pressure rises through
the ceiling. Your throat is tighter than a stripped *****. You sweat

profusely, ready to pounce at the slightest provocation. **** indignation! Love for another is the ultimate human
experience when it is shared, but the most painful when it is
not.  Pining as an evergreen, your tears become

needle-sharp leaves that fall to the ground in bunches, faster than
a balding man’s hair washes down the shower drain. I, myself
have lived through such pain, and came through it out the other end. It’s the banality of my reality, the dip in my bend.

like a rose
smelling sweet with candy apple
crimson cheeks. Till your silky petals fell.
And your head drooped. I could tell you
weren’t yourself. And all you left me
was a stalk jagged as a mountain rock.

You came on
like a watermelon
ripe and dripping down my chin,
like strawberry and vanilla gin.
No tellin’ you were overloaded
with hard black seeds. And even as
I spit ‘em out they grew sprouts.

You came on
like a song
on the radio playing soft
and slow. And I danced to
the music, making my head spin
like a record on a turntable.
Filling me with reverie like the honey
bee/till I was stung by the lash
of your tongue.

You came on
like a locomotive
puffing and pulling me along
on your tracks till you derailed.
And I crashed.

to cover the flavor
wanting the real essence of what this is
it may be sharp and biting to the tongue
tough and prickly -
hard to swallow
we're not eating cat or dog!
yes, a touch of niceness
not too much
we don’t want to blend it in
let it sit on the top

I love unzipping myself
and letting others peek into what’s
inside of me. There’s a whole junkyard
of interesting things that this brings.

It’s fascinating what can
be created. The juxtaposition alone
would make any heart groan.
The beast inside the beauty.

Why does everyone want
to avoid conflict? Harmony can
not be achieved by always
agreeing. Air out the differences.

You open a window
to get fresh air in your home.
Open the window to your
relationship as well; air it out.

There will be hurt.
Talk through it. Don’t hold
back. You won't get much air
from a window opened a crack.

out of the mouths of conservative gals
who hate their lives. So, they find someone
to tear apart, piece by piece. It’s become their art. You

will find me in words of a poem. It’s my secret hide-away,
black on white, Times New Roman. You could learn
something if you get between the spaces. You will

find me before the antebellum, in school-yard nosebleeds
broken ***** and garage band singers, bell-bottom pants and
butterfingers, chubby thighs and cellulite. You will find

me after the break, when hair has thinned, but belly
bloated. Drinking wine and eating cartons of Rocky road, watching
reruns in my pajamas.  You will find me

when it rains. You’ll smell the ocean and feel
my pain. But do not cry a single tear. Sing my song and
you will dance because I did what I wanted to do.

My lust for life
can never dry.
It’s called desire.
As the Nile,
it flows for miles.

The song I sing
cannot be silenced.
It’s called desire.
As ocean waves,
it misbehaves.

This burning fire
can never be extinguished.
It’s called desire.
As the sun rises
it reprises.

hand you my heart
for you to break it

Why do I
believe in all your lies
when you fake it

Why do I
cry out my eyes
I can’t take it

Why do I
even try
I can’t shake it

When will I realize
we’re not going to
make it

that had been asleep
that grew dusty
from lack of use
was pale
from lack of light
was sad
from lack of smiles
was hopeless

and I thank you
for making me
smile
making me
laugh
giving me
hope
making life
worthwhile

to say it! What will
he think? You’ll emasculate
him. He’s the one that should be
doing the pursuing. You play
hard to get. Make him chase after
it. Make him do all the work. You
sit back, look pretty and flirt. I’ve
heard it all before. And I don’t care
about what I’m supposed to do! So,
here it is –
I love you

Don’t Be Vapid

as the curtain drapes strung on the rod
above the window. They always move off to the side,
enough to let in the sunshine. Otherwise
they obstruct the view. There’s magic in this house

worth looking into. It’s in the kitchen
were last night’s grilled steak and onions permeating
the walls all the way into the hall
made your tongue saturate with flavor. You caught it

once again when it backed up in a hiccup. It’s in
your mother’s singing. And when she danced
on the table you couldn’t believe it supported her. She never
covers up herself or the furniture, unlike the drapes

that droop from their insipid position over the
living room window. They’re faded now to yellow,
looking more jaundice by the day. We could replace them,
bring in flowered ones. But that would be too feminine.

I had no say in the matter
whether I was an accident
or planned. I was born into
this world a helpless baby

girl. I depended on you,
the adult, to take care
of me. I couldn’t walk
or talk. I didn’t have teeth. If I

was too much a burden
on you the parent, I shouldn’t
be shamed by your lack
of care. I shouldn’t have to

visit a therapist for sixteen
years! I shouldn’t have to undo
all the damage you’ve done! You’re
dead now; but my life still goes on. You should

have known to get help/should have
listened to your best friend. She warned
you. But no, you didn’t want to face that
or anything else. So, you put on a mask

and hid your real self. And many
believed you. Your performance
was grand! Even my best friends
couldn’t understand years later

when we’ve all grown up
that although the physical abuse
was healed, my internal scarring grew
roots so deep from the emotional

abuse that I will die with the
secrets inside. Because I’ve been shamed
so much not to talk. I didn’t ask to
be born. You didn’t want me. You

should have aborted me. But the legend
of pain lives on.

I shed all my tears.
I screamed every colorful word.
It fell on deaf ears.
Only these four walls have heard.

I divulged every emotion
a woman haves.
I caused such a commotion.
it split me in halves.

The halves reversed.
My head’s down at the ground.
This is the worst!
In a deep puddle I drowned.
No more will I thirst.

stuck at the bottom. Why don’t they see
she’s a flower that’s blossomed.  Her integrity
is gauged by the hungry mouth of words

on the page. She doesn’t languish. She
jumps as the bones in her tuna-fish sandwich. And swells
as the cull of the slaughtered. Never forgotten –

her lines are more than silk cotton. They’re dancing
machetes that strip-tease the rind off
the wheel of the cheese faster than a caterpillar's

sneeze. And blows it to pieces, serving it
back as a dish of whipped cream.

that porcelain face with spider
legs in black mascara they'd dance
like Mati Hari wearing a crimson
sari. Hazel colored iris scream

from all they've seen. They've held
back a river with honey glazed
ham. Stuck to their shell like a razor-
shell clam. Frosted cornflower

shadow is painted over the
lid. Curtained in bangs of ink pasta
squid swishing back and
forth like windshield wipers. Nose

blowing gunk out like winded
bagpipers. Or if they were sewn
tight with needle and thread she'd lay
them to rest like an indigo spread.

Why walk
Skip
Less talk
Strip

Why worry
Play
Less flurry
Stay

Why Hide
Be
Less pride
Agree?

Why wait
Amour
Less Hate
For sure!

You, the mountain. But when
I poked holes in you, you spilled out
as a fountain. And the reds all
bled into a pool of liver green that stank

so high and lost the sheen. I couldn't move
myself, bathed in the bath. I couldn't find
my footpath. My skin so wrinkled. The light
dimmed. I lost my twinkle. And my wings,

waterlogged. So, bogged down
the colors caked like make-up on
a clown. I washed them off in the sherry. And
also, ***** just to vary. I couldn't move

the hands of time back to the day
I climbed the mountain with the dizzying
view and threw myself off. I fell. But in the falling
I flew. And in the fluttering my wings lifted me
beyond mountains.

crystal lavender tears
that melt as dewdrops
in honeysuckle fields. They’ve
cried them for years.

Buterflies cry
a kaleidoscope of colors
in patterns of green, blue, red
purple and yellow. They've cried
them over every gal and fellow.

Butterflies cry
in flits of beaming light
that dance in the shadows
of shimmering moonlight. They've cried them
all night.


Butterflies cry
all by themselves, spreading
their wings to cover their felt. Their tears stick
like glitter to all that they touch.

Butterfies cry not often but much.

there is to laying
down
so low
is there’s not

a big drop
to the bottom. There’s
no place
to crop

in Autumn. It’s the
men on top
that have to stop. Those guys
have the longest

fall
when they’ve reached
the pinnacle
of it all.

a hand
you gave me a leg
and tripped me
till I fell flat
on my face

When I needed
a shoulder
to cry on
you gave me yours –
cold
to rely on

When I needed
a mirror
to reflect my light
you smashed it in pieces
all over the floor
throwing the frame
in an empty drawer

When I needed
a friend
you were a stranger
and stranger still –
I stuck with you

in the morning
in a smile
across the table
while he looks at me.
It makes me stable
in a topsy-turvy world,
I’m his girl.

Sugar is sweet
in the afternoon.
I don’t have to have
a pale moon for romance.
He and I can slow-dance
in the sun -
Not wait
till day is done.

Sugar is sweet
in evening.
A kiss is sweeter
than a cake.
A sloppy kiss
doesn’t leave crumbs!
He can sweep me up,
not the floor.
Bring me to the boudoir.

What does a boy do at four?
Play and dream –
But not one fighting for his life
Good Friday/April/2000/Easter weekend
Early morning
Lying stiff as the bed boards that support him
Eyes rolled back in his head –
You only see the whites
The sheets pulled down at his side
Something attacked him that night
Something came onto him with a terrible fright
The ambulance takes him away
Sirens blaring/tied to a stretcher
Tubes, catheters/no answers
Do a spinal/still unconscious
In a coma
Waiting in doctors’ offices filled with diplomas

It’s like being hit by lightening
That’s the chances of his recovering
Meningitis/Encephalitis
They pull the drapes in the ICU
You recite it
He’ll need to learn to walk again,
to talk, to feed himself
And then –
His cognitive functioning will be extremely limited
And the seizures/and spasms
Can’t believe that this has happened

But this was just the beginning -
Of a lengthy two year stay at Franciscans
Every day at the hospital
While his younger brother stayed with your schizophrenic father
Who just came out of McLean himself
Whose own brain was damaged from mental health
You’ve seen it growing up
And now in your child
Something so horrible it can’t be defined
Something that comes in the night and takes your mind
What does a boy do at four?
Learn to play and dream once more -

in the subway home tonight. This is much
more fascinating than your newspaper. There's the frontpage,
in bold Italics, pointy as the girl's long *******. It'll make
you sway. Hope you're not standing! The weather is a bit

chilly. Says so on the weather page. Tonight there's
going to be a bone frost.  Check out the
obituaries. Something's dying. But they didn't mark
the place or the time. The tv page says the drama on

the next window frame will hollow out
the train. Hope your stop is sooner than later. Don't forget
to tuck it under your arm. You won't have time to fold
it neatly and place it inside the black leather.

a heart
rip to shreds
split it apart
leaving it hanging
outside of its breast
with a gaping hole
in the middle of the chest
in the cold night air
till frost covers it
and the pieces look like
bacon bits
you spread on a salad
even broken -
it's still valid

Probe deeper -
Disrobe the fallacious

coverings. As the baby chick disrobes
it’s down to sprout out wings. Assumptions are

a mistress. The seduction will leave
you twisted. Disrobe the past. The lining that held

the ends up are splitting. We can’t keep
together what isn’t. Fall down the hole

with me once more. With eyes wide open
they’ll be no floor.

the sturgeon
not to swim.
You wouldn’t him –
Your chances be slim

You wouldn’t ask
the sun
not to shine.
For if it would rain
I’m sure you would whine.

You wouldn’t ask
the Robin
not to sing.
Who would dare –
such a thing!

You wouldn’t ask
the eagle
not to fly.
Well if you wouldn’t him
Why would you I?

I laid my mattress in
the living-room. And camped out
every day with the shades pulled
down to block out the light

from outside. I ate and ate until
my weight was one-hundred and
seventy-five. I had just miscarried my
baby girl. Her name would have been

Sarah if she came into this world. But
she never made it to her May birthday –
She was taken in a very sober October
when the colors of the leaves shined against

my pale face and barren waist. We died
the same way, taken before we could
consummate, like I did with Jim. And after we had
our fling he died too. Then I turned full-on to

the bottle. My son never made it home
from the hospital. It was too much to bear on anyone –
and this old woman is no longer young. But still
depressed, spending her time in a cold basement

video-taping ******* – *******, ***
and ***** for money. Her poems are just as her
baby girl, son and Jim –
all brain dead. No light has been shed on a one –
if it doesn’t involve a **** or tongue