People like to play with fire
but don’t want to get burned

People like to talk
but don’t want to listen

People usually say
the opposite of what they mean

People like to leave their opinion
but don’t want yours

People are a strange sort

he said. He doesn’t know what
he’s asking! Does it snow in Alaska? Is the
Taklamakan Desert barren? I pushed it
so far down it would be like a shot out of a canon. If I

were to go off, I would lose my balance and
stagger out of this office in a daze and then get into
a psychotic rage. Because what’s inside of me is
explosive. I’m talking TNT or dynamite. Once I’m lit

everybody ought to run for it. I’m a tiger in
a cage. And caged with good reason. You can’t
put an ax to the tree without it toppling. It doesn’t stay
hinged on a string like Janis Joplin. I only have

these lines to play, to snort to convert to music. To let
out a ****, to be amusing. Why would I start to go
on a rampage? I stay out of the hospital that way. And use
my ***** to null the pain. Feelings, doctor –

you want feelings? He doesn’t know what he’s asking.
Maybe he ought to visit Alaska. Or better yet the Taklamakan
Desert. He’d have better luck surfing there, like Tom Cruise
in his underwear.

that I was responsible
for his sleeping with me
that I would destroy
all his patient’s lives
he left me
with so much guilt
I’ve the nightmares/the shrills
the unanswered silences
for the dead it’s over –
but the living still
must go on if they will
but some don’t
some take it to bed
but never lay it to rest

in rows like cornfields.
Every direction I go
there's more to follow.
I cannot swallow
them whole.

His lies lie
uneven like my lawn
from dusk till dawn.
I’m not drawn to them.

His lies lie
down like a gambler’s
money on the table.
I'm not able to pick up.

His lies lie
on his head
like a cap -
flat.
He spat them out
of his mouth
like a downspout
running into the gutter.
I don't listen to him mutter.

is like the moon
swallowed the sun
for breakfast. And the
crest of the mountain
was a zit. And I popped
it with my fingertip.

A day without you
is like all the colors
bled into a basin. And I
was chasing them down
until I drowned.

A day without you
is like all the flowers
wilted. And their petals
fell. And my head was stuck
in a bell that was ringing,
until I was swinging
like a carousel.

A day without you
is like a kite
tangled in a tree. A boy
pulls the string. But the spine
snaps in half. And the tail *****
in the breeze.

I can’t say what the truth is
can’t tell you what is mine
or which way I am going
only that I don’t want it to end
even though I say I do
on those days my breath lingers
on the windowpane –
opaqueness on translucency
that’s what makes me realize
I’m materialized
but then it vaporizes as quickly

It’s this tendril of hope that I stretch
out like a girdle
around my middle
and pray
tomorrow will turn into
something
and I fiddle with that thought
a lot
while this goof
d
o
w
n
s
100 proof

he would say. I hated
uncertainty. I wanted the answers
immediately. He introduced me Gibran
and Rilke. He encouraged my poetry –

to accept what is without question. He sacrificed
his greatest love for me – psychology
I sacrificed my heart, which had already been
broken once, ironically by another psychologist –

the one that he would see. I introduced them. We
went to couple’s counselling together –
to answer the questions because they were getting
more and more unbearable living them. And at the end

when I found out he had lied I said to Jim
“your life is over” and I took him for everything –
His career and eighty thousand. He died a little over a
year from the day. But he died with the answers. Though I
don’t think knowing them helped him in anyway.

I give my all.
No less.
But my all
is far from best.

I take nothing.
No more!
Because nothing
is near the worst
of practicalities.
That is my reality.

the time has come
not later
not tomorrow
not when you feel like it
not when you think it’s right
not when you’re ready
you’ll never be ready
no more excuses
no more hedging your bets
the moment is upon us
say
Yes

to pretend anymore. Too many
years wearing the fake smiles, along
with the skirts and button-up blouses
with heels that gave me bunions that

hurt following other people’s wishes –
what they thought was best
for me. When I got dressed in
the morning I wasn’t sure who was

leaving the house, who rode on the
train and was chatting it up
up with the boss. And when I came
home and started preparing the dinner

on the stove I didn’t know
why. I just wanted take-out
tonight. And when the alarm clock
growled in my ear the next morning

making me do it all over again
I never question it. I just arose
out of my bed like the dead and went
to my desk and typed on the letter- head

whatever it was that the boss wanted
for the day just to collect the pay that
went toward the bills but never seemed to
be enough. Because they kept piling up.

fall in puddles like the rain
outside the window
on the ground they slowly piddle
dribbling memories hang as curtains

blowing in the breeze
of the big-mouthed window
flapping in the dusty air
wings of penguins that can't fly

turn from side to side
like a swivel chair
the blackness grows like a fungus
on all of us

we learn not to trust
the nights are taffy
stretching out
pulling and twisting

we'll shine up
the lines glossy
the next morning
with paint and spray
to begin the day

She asserted her wiles gaily.
A precocious child,
you covered in love daily.
You called her wild.
She played inside your baily.

Threw her clothes on the floor,
she got naked.
Came onto you like a *****,
hoping to make it.
You couldn’t take it anymore.

When angry she gets very mean,
flails and screams.
She’s impossible for one to wean.
So it seems
you’re stuck with a capricious queen.

the things you said
your lines were wrinkles
as an unmade bed. I felt *****
and unclean as unwashed sheets
and I slept in them as a mother hen
laying on her eggs
till they cracked
and the yolks ran out
in a yellow river

When I went over
the way we were
I was drained as the sand
in an hourglass. The more I poured
myself into you the less of me
I spilled over you as sweet perfume
now I'm an empty bottle
sitting on the dresser
covered in the dust of us

When I went over
everything I lost
you were debris blowing
in the wind
catching in my eye
making me blind
a cyclone spinning
till I crashed
and splintered
you can hang your hat
on my jagged splinters

you’ve got
all that is inside you
and don’t hold back a smidgen
when it’s the heart and soul in you
your bread and your religion
and you’re still overlooked
made to feel trifle

You know what you are –
you’re a dazzling eyeful
not just a modicum of something
no scintilla of vanilla
you’re the zuppa inglese
no bushy-tailed chinchilla
put yourself out there –
beat your chest
you’re a gorilla

bell choirs
ringing in my ears
never expires
stinging within my tears

His words
echoes
bouncing off the walls
sticking spotted geckoes
barking red fox calls

His words
black smoke
everywhere
making me choke
taking all my air

His words
darts
colored feathered purple
aimed at my heart
thrown into the center circle
a bleeding cherry ****

thick, slapping it with
metallic cherry lipstick. Flashing
the ivory as elephant’s tusks. But not
letting them strip you down, removing
the husks.

You plaster it on
the corset and silk underwire
bra. You stand as a donkey braying
“hee-haw”

You plaster it on
sugary, the tone and the pitch. But you’re
wicked as the wicked witch of
the west. Inside each breast is patch of
black lying dormant from every whack.

You plaster it on
the perfumed spray, so the dyed honey-
suckle hair looks like a float in the Macy’s
Thanksgiving Day parade.

You plaster it on
the charm, dying a little every time,
drowning in a glass of ***** and
lime. Smashed as a walked-on banana –
Sick of this Pollyanna

Hello, I'm Sandra

The anger hides
the emptiness inside
But if the truth did show
I guess you would know
of the displaced self
When there's no one else
who could take control
I hand you my soul

Though I might be blind
I am not resigned
What I do not know
shall not be foe
I'm too strong to quit
give up on it.
The past remains.
Yet my path has changed.
And I must follow
the empty hollow
of a displaced self

And if freedom rings
I'd give up these things
to let in the light
that brought me sight
Though this shape is bent
it’s heaven sent
If you believe in prayer
then all is fair

It's a beauty song
that rang along.
But I just heard it when
I believed, and then
it sang for me
in a higher key.
And so shall it resound
now that I am found!

Time should be filled
with sandy beaches
and sun
cockleshells
and crazy spells –
not wishing
the day be done

It should not be killed
with idleness or the mundane
with things that don't please
or offer release
just doing it the same

over you. The same hand that patted me
on the back slaps me in the face, The same eyes
that looked into mine so lovable show detachment
the next time we embrace. I run away and then

come crawling back home. It hurts to stay. But it
kills me to be alone. One day I’m filled with
elation and song. The next time I’m consumed with
contempt and can barely get along. How can

the same person who once held me up make me
now so furlong? Once I was baking chocolate cupcakes
and sitting in your lap. Now I’m frying the contents
of my brains in a 2oz. shot glass. I used to believe

love was healing. Now I’ve come to know it
as a weapon of destruction. And the fall-out reduces me
to a trash can of burning leaves. All the colors bleed
into black char. And the night rains ashes instead

of water. I feel as a stillborn. I was alive when I
was incubated, safe and warm attached to the cord –
the same one that strangled me. I died the day I was
born. Some things aren’t meant to be.

Evening bleeds
a flaxen seed

Will not make this -
an easy read

Smudges smear
Words tear

So de soleil
It’s not engraved

Moss in clumps
as matted hair

Thick as knots
in tapestry

Tell a tale -
A quick story

In lines as fine
as silky thread

Back at the top -
the first line read

count the seconds
as she the years?
Do you
turn around
fast as a spinning top
so not to see
a drop
fall
as the rain
on the pane
streaking the glass?  
Do you
play the music loud
to drown out
the sound
in your head?
Do you
run
not looking back
at the scene
of the crime?
Do you
fill your time
as your desk
with clutter –
lower the shutters
in your window?
she’ll see you’re not home
but the car engine
is warm -
the only warmth
she can touch
and she naps
as a cat
under the hood
Do you
chop her up
as a piece of wood
The pile's growing bigger
but it's many months
til winter

because it doesn’t fit
in the present. It’s old and worn
and spent, as us. Blown in the wind
as dust. It lies on the grass

like a sausage casing, without
the meat and spice. It doesn't have
a life. I weep as I look at it. All the years
I put into it. And now to have it laid. The hardest

part is walking past it.  It lasted as
an elastic stretched beyond the shape
it took on. I pick it up and hold the emptiness
in my hands, and stroke the mold of the

withered band. Memories is all I'll
take. And grow a new skin in
the wake of yesterday, just as the snake  
does. But it's hard to shed this love.

in people’s faces
in their expressions
their gaze
their words and what they say
not only what they say
but how they say it
sometimes I’ll misinterpret it
and I’ll feel so blue
because I don’t understand
if I’m worthy of them
sometimes I just feel used
I wish that I didn’t rely on
other people
liking me or not
But that’s the way sales
are made or not –
when you’re an artist

myself
with me
as I go
in the same shoes
though they’ve
grown larger
through the years
are miry
and full of tears

I carry
my pain
deep inside my chest
my chest concaved
and that shaved years off
my life

I carry
the past
in an hourglass
looking at the grains of sand fall
slow on the days I’m restless
faster on the days, with you
till I shattered the glass
and all the grains spewed

I carry
the weight
of this world
upon my back
like a gunny sack
filled with rocks
and obnoxious things
on such a petite frame
till I cut the strings

has his head held high up
in the clouds. He doesn't have humility
like the ones walking on four feet. They don’t
carry a briefcase or phone. They roam

the forest and scrounge the land/not eating
out of someone’s hand. The call of the wild is
the call of the free. The day is young as it
is light. And the night shines bright as the silver

moon. No schedules/plug-in things or
blether. Treading on acorns, leaves and
feathers. The filters are the trees. And the only hot air
is a breeze. They hunt to live/not live to hunt. I’d like
to have my life unrushed and sleep in the brush.

the instant I see you
on the street. I lower my face
so, our eyes don’t meet. I act as if
we are strangers, and my insides flutter
like butterflies flitting from flower
to flower. You have that power over me.

I die
in the blackness of night
shadows on the wall
my tormented dreams, I
see as real. But it
isn’t as it seems.

I die
as I stare at the picture
of you, that electric smile
and eyes sea blue. The olive skin
and ebony hair, the swing
of arms flying in the air.

I die
as a memory pops up
of the walks through
the park, you cupping my hand,
the talks we shared of
all our plans. The wind waltzing
through the trees, and the crunch of
red leaves under our feet.

geometry, chemistry
or history. He looks at picture
books. Doesn’t know many words. But he
can sing songs he’s heard. Doesn’t know

world affairs or politics. He skips
stones and plays sticks. Doesn’t know how to
read the paper, or how to tip the waiter. But he can
pull a kite on a string. He can run and laugh

in the wind. He doesn't know guns shoot
bullets. His guns are plastic and only squirt
water. Doesn't know how to clean his
clothes. Rolls in mud as an otter/rides on

the teeter-totter. He doesn't know about masks
and latex gloves. He only knows kisses and
hugs. He doesn't know about ***/hasn't smoked
a cigarette. Doesn't know about beer in a can. Only knows

bears roam the land. He doesn't know about taxes
or work, how to drive a car or the neighborhood
bar. He doesn't know how some men are venomous,
or how not to trust. If I didn't know better/ I'd say
he is the smartest man ever.

to make the sweet wine.
Pluck them all first from the vine.
You need to cut the roses
for the wedding day. Every bride

needs a blooming bouquet.  
The apple must be pressed
to make the cider. And the meat
is ground for the meatball sliders.

So, I too have been crushed
cut, pressed, and ground
down. And as my bits fall together
I stand out from the pressure!

as snow turns into
a puddle and dissolves
I wouldn't fuddle my head
with alcohol. Paint myself up

as a doll. Spread my legs
as Eagle wings! Pulled as
a puppet on strings. I'm a snowball
that's grown from men that buttered
me up as a scone, greasing their fingers

and licking my bones. I once was
a river. Now I've a river of men that skate
on ice. Some fallen in. That's the vice of
wearing pigskin!

Fallacious

as the spider legs she wears on
her eyes. The hairy ones, tarantula in size. As deceptive
as the curling smile she paints on her lips. And the
artificial sweetener replacing the sugar

in her dish. Her friends are much the same,
no deep conversations, no intimacies. All her life
she’s been fed lies that tasted like
cardboard boxed pies. Many false starts

turned into complete stops,
with nowhere for her to get off. If she had
a kernel of truth, she’d microwave it until it expanded,
to the size of a fruit.

I Drink You

hard as steel
you cut my throat
as a razor wheel going down
until the blood collects
in a pool
in my stomach

I drink you
frozen as an ice-cube
until I'm freezer burn
and my tonsils
turn to icicles
and scrape my gizzards
destroy my innards
until they're broth
with foam
on top

I drink you
as a cyanide capsule
because I never want to
give you the satisfaction
that you destroyed
my will to live
reduced me down
to a pill

No matter how I serve it,
it always tastes bland.
I baked it in a souffle, and it fell
flat on its face.
I set it aflame in brandy
and it burned.

I slow-cooked it in a crockpot
with seasonings all afternoon.
But it all stuck together
at the bottom
like a *** of tar and feathers.

After I steamed it,
it turned into a prune.
When I fried it in my pan
it blackened like a raven.

What was I to do?
I decided to return it
from whence it came from.

But I lost the receipt.
No one would take it back.

I’ll burry it in my yard after the thaw.

blue water
palm trees dipping
as a river otter
breezes teasing
my hair
string bikini
is all I wear
frozen drink melting
in my hand
toes dancing pirouettes
in the sand
not a cloud
to block the view
skin bronzed
as a statue
smells of coconut
and pineapples
standing under
a straw hut
sunlight dabbles
I hear the waves crashing
men and women splashing
Calypso music
permeates the air
laying on a lounge chair
men with braided tresses
woman wearing
flowered sundresses
volleyball and barbeques
think I might take a snooze

You Can’t Separate Yourself

enough to give to anyone else. You think
you lose a part of yourself each time you have
a bowel movement. You hate to see even your own ****
flushed down the toilet. It disturbs your perfect world,

which you have no control over. Your emotions
are your best kept secrets. They’re like money in a safe
deposit box. You check them daily. Only you know the combination. You’re narcissistic. You can’t face your own

immortality. Your body is steel. To think that someday
you’ll be cremated is unacceptable. You’ll come back
as a vulture, no different than you are today,
except for the pretty face.

in smiles and flattery. But he's
just a placebo with a medical  
degree.

He dresses to ****
in tight dungarees, wearing
a five-o'clock shadow and Cartier
shades. He throws you a look, hiding the ace
of spades.

He dresses to ****
a flaming red rocket. You didn't
see the fuel in his trouser pocket. All you
could see was the picture in your locket.

He dresses to ****
in snakeskin boots, a Mr. Hyde. But to
the world outside, he's a white coat that loots
women as his prize.

Some are sunny and clear.
Others hazy and grey.
Some short as a nap on an airplane.
And some wear on like gears on a train
filling buckets and buckets of icy shard rain.

Some are quiet, so quiet they don’t make a sound.
While others are hurricanes knocking everything down.
Some are ****** upon us without warning.
Others are gentle as the orange sky dawning.

Some a gift and some a curse.
And some are so trite like they’re rehearsed.
Some we’ll not forget.
Others we write off like a rubber check.

But isn’t a tinge of pain in them all?
The hinge is broken and the dreams just loll.

telling me I can’t report the abuse
that I’ll ruin his life
as if he had no choice
when he used me and here I am
defending myself
to other professionals
it’s sick if you ask me how
they all stick together
like tar to feathers
how they place blame on the victim
how they hold me responsible
I didn’t take an oath to do no harm
I wasn’t making a six-figure salary
to sit in an arm-chair and listen to
an emotional woman who came to me for help
I was just his patient
not his friend
not the one
he was supposed to lean on
not the one who could fix
his problem
I had too many
of my own
they all stick together
while I come un
done

Another Fifteen

Exhausted, chasing little people all day at the
Small Fry nursery school made me want to come home
and take a nap in the afternoon. The second job I wasn’t on my feet, working behind a desk. Typing on a keyboard until my long,

polished nails chipped. Fifteen pounds added on, hugged
my already curvy hips. But it was fun dressing up in
skirts and high-heeled shoes, fancy blouses with silk buttons, and wearing perfume. When the lay-offs came I stayed home

all day, peering into my refrigerator out of boredom. I put
another fifteen pounds on. And added to the last fifteen, I looked like a pudgy, Italian girl all of five foot two in bare feet,
with no shoes. This is when I switched from skirts to sweet-pants

and long tees  that covered my derrière, almost down
to my knees. I was trying to get pregnant. But my ovulation was
off.  So I went to the fertility doctor. And he gave me some drugs that put another fifteen pounds more on my already-tudball

frame. I was ecstatic; after two cycles I got pregnant! Went and bought baby furniture and cleared out a room. But it wasn’t meant to be and I miscarried. I dove into a deep depression over losing baby Sarah, and ballooned up to one-hundred and seventy-five,

after yet another fifteen pounds were added to my hide. I wouldn’t leave the house. No one saw me that fat. On my small frame I looked a mountain and felt as a wide-end Mack. No one believes me when they see me today how much I struggled with my weight.

This Me

is me there,
what you interpret of it,
project onto it. This me
is me here,

what I interpret of it,
what I project onto
it. Who is right then? One is
a stranger, the other

a friend. One I denounce,
and one that I love. Little hint,
the one I denounce
is struggling hard.

with my wings stuck
to the sides. As I pulled them
apart they tore. So, I hung
in the air upside-down and swung

as a bat with my face
to the ground. But I couldn’t
fly. Twisted and folded onto myself
my reds and purples looked

tie-dyed more than anything
else. If I couldn't fly I'd sing. So
I popped off the top twittering. I'd
twitter in the morning as the sun

rose marmalade on a piece
of French toast. I twittered at noon
as the steam from the pavement filled
my trachea like a hot-air balloon. And I

twittered in the evening with
my friend the moon. And soon the twittering
made me rise. As leaven in the dough  
I rose up high. And with torn wings, now I fly.

It’s gone many miles,
in rain and snow. Skated on the
ice like an Olympic champion. But now its

threads have worn thin. It’s gone flat
a few times because something sharp
played it like a harp. It’s been changed

more than a baby. Rotated more
than a file drawer. When it retired to the
junkyard it was still useful. It became

more fun once it wasn’t driven. Just a rope
and a tree made it a perfect swing. It was
happier being lazy and carefree. It didn’t forget

the days of high-speed rolling. All those stops
and starts. And those lulls when the engine
was shut off. But now someone could

get giddy when it was pushed from
behind. Now it never touched the pavement. It
only reached for the sky.

into pieces. Every man
that held the chisel chipped
a little. A speck, a flake; it’s
snowing cake. A forest of crumbs
lies on my rug.

Day Breaks
too. The sun cracks open
as an egg on the morning
dew. My head is scrambled. My face,
toast. It’s raining in my kitchen. I can’t
stay afloat.

Waves break
on rocks. You run a ground,
bound to sink. In a blink your life
flashes as lightening. Tightening your grip,
only to slip into the abyss.

with losing weight or
stopping drinking. Misery is
a heavy weight that sits on your chest
from the moment you get up to
the moment you go to bed. You can buy
jewelry – that gives you a high for
a day. You can dress yourself in lacy
******* and bra, but that won’t make it
go. You can  eat a slice of chocolate cake and
wash it down with a milkshake but you're still
the same. There is no “happy pill” like
the doctors try to push on you, some
instant cure that will snap you back from
the depths of agony that you find yourself
drowning in. You need to recharge, but how?
Going outside yourself.  They all say look
within. They don’t know you’ve been
looking into a vacant line and you’ve had it.

like eggs benedict, a poached
egg wobbly as it sits. Covered in hollandaise
sauce, spooling on his plate. Spilling
over the sides as he ate! Runny as
his nose the snowy winter he ran

a fever and had a cold. There was a big tear
in her, running like crimson sheer pantyhose,
from her crotch down to her toes. Runny
as the Colorado river. Against the pines

and mountains she's a sliver. Runny as
her hazel eyes. As the tear ducts fill
she cries. It drips like dew drops pearling
on her lips. Runny as drains collecting

all the rain beating down from the sky. Like
the juices in mom's baked apple pie. After all,
she was his honey. But amber sweetness
heated under the fire is hot and runny.

You can only take one of this,
one of that. The toddler outside in the short-shirt sleeve
shirt, with no adult watching his back, you told him
get inside before he gets frozen. Black folks holding

overstuffing bags of whatever they can get
just to tide them over till next month. It’s your very first
time. You shamelessly recognize the woman from the poetry
group in the library. They give you a number. You’re

83. So, you sit patiently, knowing it’s one less thing
you’ll have to steal. This is what it is, when you’ve nothing
left and they’re willing to give at the church
in your neighborhood. But you’re so willing to go

on this day. So, you pack in overstuffed bags
some cans and of this and of that. And you’re thankful,
even glad, that your refrigerator won’t be
so empty. But still when you get home you turn

to the bottle, like a baby whose mother’s on crack,
just to drink out of an empty ******. Can’t believe you sunk
as low as this. Someone smells just like ****. Probably
haven’t seen soap since they’ve shut off his water.

have broken off
not without
the jabs and jibs
I can’t live my life

infected from the splinters
under my skin
the speck in my eye’s
are bigger than my thighs

The jabs are *****
as the Boston Harbor
sharper than the blades
of a barber

I jib at pulling
them out
they are my teeth
and the scab -
my mouth

I can’t plant them in the sand. My toes
can’t giggle from the rocks
and pebbles. The stubby rebels like
to dance!  And how can they splash
taking out the trash? What shall they leave
me as they drain of my blood?
Footprints in the mud!

The problem is my legs.
They’re stuck as pegs in
a board. And both play off –
chord. I can’t swim in the ocean. I sit –
no motion. What shall they leave
me, the twin evils?
Tons of pins and needles!

understand
what you do
Do it anyway

Not everyone will
approve
They’re bound to have their say

Not everyone will
support you
in your efforts to be yourself

But you’ll die inside
if you’re someone else

parts of you each day
will be chipped away
until you’ll become a thought –
that they all forgot

this runs out he asks. I’ll reinvent
myself! What happens when a model
loses her figure? What happens
when an actress ages? What happens when

the sky turns to ice? When you lose your
love, your paradise? When everything you
believe in turns to rust. What happens when

it rains dust? I thought about the
question. And I came up with this –
what happens when it ends?
A new beginning somewhere still exists!

Drinking the poison to **** someone else
Going around dazed in circles
Hooked on the past
Hate is cast

Truths you didn’t share
Shrouded fear
Injustice and broken trust
Playing the victim, a must

Never allowing acceptance
or forgiveness
Oscillating between an angered past
and a fearful future
What these wounds need is a suture

Feeling strong about being wronged
Trying to take back power
All you do is sour
any light that could be shed upon it

Slamming into your own stone walls
because you won’t forgone it
Being imprisoned by imagined beliefs
Here it comes - the happiness thief
No one will ever do this to me again!
Giving up the Zen