with me
or in a
fantasy? I see
your body

next to mine,
but your thoughts
are out of line. Your
head isn’t connected

to the event. It’s floating
on a string attached
to someone else’s
hand. And if I cut it

you’ll be gone. Still, keeping
you while someone’s
holding the other end I
cannot apprehend. And I

won’t do it for long. You’re
more with her than with
me. And there’s no room
in this for three.

I have not faced
your cold stare.
You can’t be traced.
Please come here.
These words get laced,
entangle and snare.
So, this I based
my deepest fear.
I acted in haste.
So, I bear
a life that’s chaste.
It’s not fair.

I'm a stone.
Hurled in a hurricane.
A ripple in a pond.
Thrown in from the rain.

Making waves.
I triple.
And reach beyond
his tangled hairy day.

Radiating halo rings.
Burping strawberry bubbles.
To him
a skating fling,

standing scratchy stubble.
Fast water jets.
Sharp bayonets.
As rings in a tree

you can count every
go around.
They all fall back on me,
in a painted poppy scene.

As the blues slam-dunk
the greens
the toad drones.
I'm a stone.

blood petals, pouring on
the table. A crimson blanket
settles as snow on the cables. Outside
the picture window a cardinal

flies as the rose
drops her head like a sleepy
child. The thorns pointing out
like fangs in a viper’s mouth. I remember

September when this rose was
full bloom. And every man smelled
sweet perfume. But didn’t he
have to pluck her. After he ****** her,

flung her like feed for the cattle
into a trough. His garden
in rows of stems, with their heads
cut off.

is a cut rose
one buried beneath the snow
is frozen
one put in a watered glass
is transparent
one whose petals have fallen
is a rose minus its petals
one tightly sealed bud
is a rose that hasn’t become
opened
by the sun
one shorn of its thorns
is a rose
that can’t draw blood
one left to flower
is a rose
in all its glory
and power

A Rose that isn’t yours to Keep

Some days the sun doesn’t feel like sunning. It hides
behind the clouds. And some days it doesn’t come out
at all. It might peep out at you in a furtive manner. It might pull
its head back in and play shy. Not all days are bright.  Some roses

are not ready to open. They hold their petals inward tightly,  
not ready yet to yield their fragrance. To pluck them now,
you’d lose the flower. Maybe she’s the sun playing hide and
seek. Maybe she’s a rose, that isn’t yours to keep.

looked at, but not touched. None
can lay their hands on the silky
soft weave of every petal that can’t
breathe.  But curls up in a crimson smile,

hiding in a crystal tower. None can whiff
a strawberry kiss placed in an upside
down vase, holding still in place, so as not
to spoil. But stillness stirs

recoil. Well, you won’t be scratched
by thorns!  But you won’t dance on plush
green lawns, or wink at the azure sky
or chat with the butterfly.

don’t need to be
watered. They’ll never
grow. They’re not

soft to the touch. Their
petals don’t fall off. They
don’t need sunlight. They stay
exactly where you

put them. The seasons
have no meaning. They’ll
never bend under the
snow. They’ll never dance in

the wind. They’ll never open up
come the spring. They won’t
perfume my garden, or provide
nectar to the bee. They’re not

pretty to look at. Their time is
spent indoors. They’ll never feel
the gentle rain bead upon
their tender veins. They have

no roots, nor will they grow
offshoots. They’ll never die. But
they never had any life to die
for.

You are some place -
far away
I don’t know where
that is
I don’t know what
you’re doing
or who
you’re doing it with
But my one wish is
you know this -
That although I’m not there
with you
or the person
you’re doing things with
You’re in my thoughts
And that’s as close
as I’ll get
to being intimate

the pieces splitting
become parts of their own,
each with a tongue
and a backbone. The jagged

edges are my sharps
that I pluck as the steel strings
of a harp. This music I dance
over the page. All the pieces

pulchritudinously engage! Crystal
snowflakes embound. A brilliant
diamond in the round. Like a mosiac
of colored tiles I wear it as

my father's grey and red
argyles. I fine tune this craft
out of broken splinters
and built me a raft!

time had stopped and I’ve gotten off the train
going south where people yawning with
open mouth having indolent dreams
of fairies and queens, sit as department store

mannequins with a cup of coffee and
newspaper in hand to read about the grand schemes
of Politian’s, and mending local bridges and who
murdered who, the 4 alarm fires, who fixed what

to get their kids into Harvard and walking
the platform as if I was reborn into the fog I roll
as a bus passes me by slow, I blow a kiss
to the existentialists

I glisten as the full moon
shining. But inside of me
the walls have holes thick
as Swiss cheese. You can swim
through them if you please.

As I implode
my hair is chestnut
sheen. But through every strand
runs blood-******* fleas curling
their lips for a sip of my blood,
not ever getting enough.

As I implode
I stand tall as the Sears Tower
in Chicago. But all my floors
are collapsing into a thick billowing
heaps of smoke. You can swing from
the ceiling with a rope.

As I implode
I look pretty as the cherry
rose, perfume sweet -
but underneath a tunneling vole
has dug holes and destroyed
my roots. So, man pulled me out
as a rotten tooth. Stuck me in a see-through
glass. My withered petals falling fast.

As I implode
and everything around
me crashes,
so I'm the Phoenix
rising from the ashes.

No more hellos
Is it too much to bear?
A simple exchange
To show that you care
Only a minute
Out of a twenty-four-hour day
Only a minute
For you to say
Hi there; how are you?
Remember the time
You used to?
Remember the time
it mattered?
I was important to you
Whatever happened
To:
A call
      An email
         A text
A simple exchange
would take
A minute or less.
A simple exchange
God Bless!

am I. The only high-rise I enjoy
is the sun rise early in the morning.
I don't like lying tangled up in the sheets
in my bed snoring. My friends are

the jay and the robin, the chipmunk
and bunnies hopping in my back
yard. The only stars I follow are
the shining beacons painted on

a moonlit sky. I have no ties
that bind me. You can find me
under the old oak tree in a canopy
of emerald leaves, swinging in my denim

hammock, drinking coffee out of
my ceramic cup, curled up with a
book. Simple things you cannot take from
me, cool me down like a summer's breeze.

As Is

Some will like me as is. Some will not. Some
will want to turn me into someone they like without
realizing you can not. If your hair is too long you can
cut it. If your clothes are inapt you can change them. If the

music’s too offensive you can shut it off. But you can’t cut someone else’s hair, or change someone else’s clothes,
or shut someone else off. You can only realize for you, they
are not. And if I decide to style my hair differently or wear other

clothes and suddenly be quiet for you, I will not be
me. I will lose myself. You will not have me
either. I will be someone that neither of us knows. No one
will be happy, not me/not you. You might think you’re happy

for a little while, until you realize that I’m not a child. You may
cut a child’s hair and change their clothes. You may hush
a child when they’re speaking out of turn. But an adult is
someone you will never own.

I hear the roaring rapids
splashing up their spray. And the pine
needles waltzing in the hay, as I
shuffle my feet along the path. A drop

of dew is the morning bath
to the black, cloaked ant. The grey squirrels
can’t sit still. Running, climbing
and chasing on fours. Nature, my friend

is never a bore! Golden, crimson
marmalade of shade are the trees in
autumn. Ferns are the fans for the dwellers
of earth’s bottom. A butterfly circles

a shy violet, as a robin plays pilot
in the clouds. The crowds of scurrying
chipmunks dash into the crevice of
a stone fence.

And I lose my sense of place
as I’m face to face with a doe, lowering
her spotted head at my toes.

a bud
you cut me off
before I could bloom.
So, I couldn't
resume to grow
into a bright red rose.

As I was
a flittering butterfly
you sheared my wings.
So, I couldn’t fly.
But I still danced
on the ground.
Till you pranced on me
with shoes dirt brown.

As I was
the apple
of their eye
you poisoned the fruit
with bitter lies.
Till I was rotten
through and through.
Still, I haven't gotten
over you.

you peered out from the sides
wouldn't throw me a twine.
I called out in gravel and in thunder.

You plundered every line
disguised in cherry wine.
And I turpentine, oily and bovine

swallowed the sand in the glass
filling up my nose on the pass
cutting my eyes on the toss.

Over my head
drowning in the sauce.
On the bottom

I'm a clump
not more than a stump
with feet.

slithering
on the ground
strangling its prey
swallowing them whole
doesn’t have two legs
Cold-blooded
beady eyes
willing to strike
fangs that hang
like stalactites

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.

tiny glitter in the soft sand
you have to look closely,
gaze, watch.....
to see what's at hand.
In this vast open space
what's hanging out there
are willow of the wisps
ghostly lightings in the air.
Off the beaten path,
beckoning you to pursue,
hush, hush, come......
follow the nightly stalkers
into realms you never knew.
Over steep cliffs you're hanging,
down torrents of pouring rain.
Billowing clouds of thunder,
Clash! Bang! Clang!
Black wind is blowing you,
Whooshhhhhhhhh
a **** on a weather vane.
But darkness is not a nemesis!
In fact it's a telepathic portal.
If you open up to it
ah, oh, la, la.....
your spirit shall be immortal!

so very fine, the first to
grow in. And when the time
comes to trim I keep a precious piece
from him.

A strand of hair
platinum blonde, not long
before I know you’re
seeing her. It’s not mine. And it’s wrapped
around your collar.

A strand of hair
what’s left up there
now in older years is gray
and balding. You comb it over
the top to cover the shiny large spot.
But it doesn’t hide a lot. It’s still showing.

You - expecting me to change?
Me - maybe for a day or more
We all have our ways
Set as an old lady’s hair in rollers
I get a little bolder each day
We always go back to the familiar
It’s easier that way
Sorry I let you down
You don’t serve it
Sorry I wasn’t around
When you needed me - I ran
I run everything down
I’m a broken record
I keep repeating
The same old pattern
I never did learn Latin in high-school
I learned to cop out
As usual

they find hair in unusual places.
Some grow under noses,
as spikey thorns in roses.
Some sprout out of chins
as pointy silver pins.

They’re so long
you could hang your bathrobe on.
They’re sharp enough to scour
the grimiest bathroom shower.

We pluck them
bleach them
wax them
even shave them

But they grow back
just as the dandelions on our front lawn.
And not only that
but they come in thicker.

I could grow a mustache, even a beard
if I kept them there.
I thought it was bad enough
when I had to shave the hair under
my arms and legs!

up to the top
it's gonna spill
over. Even a glass
has boundaries.. It's like

a wallet overstuffed
till it splits the hide,
from all that's stuffed
inside. It rips

the stitches
in your pants as you
do a dance to fit
it in. It falls out

at the slightest
bend. But you can't undo
the past. It's a puddle
of sour milk spilled on the floor.

I’m a **** star! It’s funny
men spend their money to see this old
body. Not too shoddy –

for a woman of my age. I'm still
sage in my writing. And I like singing every
morning! But those things

don’t make a buck. I've no nips and
tucks. I work hard bringing this body into verse  
as a bard. And with Covid it’s safer to look at

videos than stand face to face. No masks are
worn. No threat of disease.  It’s all in the click
of a screen! I make hundreds of dollars

just to touch myself and holler! Not too shabby
for a flabby old woman with thighs swinging
as a rooster’s wattle. And still drinks from

the bottle. The sun-tanning hasn’t wrinkled
my skin! At 55 I’m still hopping.

you were squishy. And I could
roll you on the floor. But when
I broke you open I found out you
were hard-nosed with teeth that bit
me in the night.

At first, I thought
you were bright, that you illuminated
the sky. Until I found out you were
a forest fire that burned every woman
in his path.

At first, I thought
you were a warm bubble bath
that I could sink into after a
hard day. But the water turned cold
and flat and drained.

lies lying around me
kept me from the truth.
In searching the world over
I lost my youth.

A thousand
mountains to mount
and my legs turned to
jello. I melted into the snow
a bright shade of yellow.

A thousand
teardrops dropping from
my face into a river of
dreams that escaped.

A thousand
****** pricking under
my skin, all the while
smiling. And I let them
in. Now I’m leaking
as a fountain pen.

A thousand
barrels full of demons
barreling through my door.
I’m left screaming as my ship
leaves the shore.

A thousand
pieces I can’t piece
back together. The broken
me reflecting in the glass
crystal blue.
All things pass.

I don’t care. I’m going out
as myself. I’m going out alone
anyway, so why do I need friends
here where I stay if they can’t support
my art then **** the lot. I’ll shine my
darkness on your lite. I’ll be the pus in your
pimple and pop. I’ll be the flake in your
sunburn and peel. I’ll be the smart-*** who
says how she feels.

A touch can go beyond the walls of skin.
I'm not lying.
I feel ya inside of me, my heart, my head, my body
I ain't trying
to fool you with some clever line, phrase or word.
I'm just crying
my eyes out to be heard.

Wares of a trader
On his back
Rubber to cover
His tracks
Packed in his wallet
Foils from his youth
The highest bidder
Was “patient”
Fist hammering
frustration
Words stammering
demoralization
Crawls into
every open hole
Riding his Trojan
Selling his soul
$80,000
Going once
Going twice
SOLD!

I’m gonna stick you
Like a needle
I’m gonna ***** you
Like a beetle

I’m gonna cut you
Like a laser
I’m gonna gut you
With my razor

I’m gonna fry
Your ***** in oil
I’m gonna lie
Them on tin foil

You’re gonna plead me
To stop it
You’re gonna need me
To drop it

I like to avenge
How sweet is revenge!

is like a week without a bath. I feel
grungy and seedy. My hair is stuck
in mats. My smile is upside down. I never
laugh. My eyelashes stick together from

the drowning of my tears. My shadow
doesn’t follow me. I’m not that great
company. I’m melancholy as a storm cloud
that hangs around after the rain. The knot

in my stomach’s tied so tight it feels
like a chain pulling me from the inside, and
ripping me apart. My heart’s a black
box with no output. It lies outside my

body. And my brain is a can worms that
the hungriest fish would turn down. This is
what I call destitute –
a week without you.

wet and newly hatched
after scratching to break out of the blue-
green shell can't go back once it's cracked
into the walls she felt safe and well. Pushed out

of the twigs and grass of nest
before her little wings can fly. We're all
born to die. This world is big and scary with
creatures sharp and hairy waiting to gobble her

skin, bones and all. And spit her out
in pellets like overzealous zealots. She can't
crawl back inside the shell. It fell from
the tree and broke into pieces. Just like feces

it stinks in the air and light. And beady-eyed
clawed feet roam the grounds at night
searching for a spotted bobbing robin with
wings held down so tight.

Momma does too. Prop it up
inside the crib to replace the warmth
that mother gives. Baby empties it
and goes off to sleep. Doctor says

it’ll cause tooth decay. Momma
never listens to doctors anyway. She likes
her wine red, red as blood. Red as the rug
in her room. Red as the strawberry moon

in June. Baby lies in her own waste. Momma’s
wasted too. Wasted as the burgundy. Wasted
as spilled blood. Wasted as the **** red rug and
strawberry moon in June.

you’re there bobbing
with your head up and down
You can’t fly –

You’d hit the ground.
Your wings aren’t sturdy,
little birdie.

Mother redbreast
leaves the nest
to find the worm.

Little Robin squirms.
Chirps with pointed beak
open like a tulip.

Baby isn’t fluid
in finding her own way.
She has no poise.

She must make noise.
It takes up all her day!

too brutal for this world
we’re geniuses when we’re undisturbed
we need to run
so, we pick us speed
shot through a gun
we penetrate deep
we’ll twist the blade inside each skull
and masquerade as something else
but beneath it all
we’re devils on the hunt
that like the ***** and ****
and the thrill of the chase
we don’t belong in any place
wherever we are
we incinerate
baby, we’re savages

If you won’t come in through
the back door, don’t bother knocking
on the front. The front faces
the street. It’s mowed perfectly. There’s

a welcome mat that smiles in the image
of a child. The number 35 is off
to the side, branding this place.

A clay rabbit sits on the grass.
The neighbor’s son pats it occasionally.
The mail carrier drops off the bills
and the ads in the long metallic box, with a lid
on the top.

There’s a sliding door
out back that’s off its track. To get to it
you must climb the broken stairs, up to the deck,
splintered and peeling.
Enter there

again. Been in this battle
since when. But I’ve readied myself
to ride out into that cold dark
night, following the trial of

stars and moonlight. I’ve packed
light. My pen is my compass
and friend. I’ve sheets without
a bed, spread *****-nilly in this

head. Till I lay them down,
wrinkled as a turtle on the beach,
and dripping as a sun-sweet apple
peach. I’ve nectar without a flower. The bees

are the hours that’ll pollinate the
chapters, filled with teardrops and laughter. As I
turn the page on all my younger days
I'll heave a billowing sigh out toward a blistering sky.

We were before
The same place we’ve been a hundred times
But who’s counting
The same place that gets us into trouble
Haven’t we learned
We keep repeating the same old familiar patterns
Sometimes I think it’s just a distraction
And although it does us no good
There’s something very comforting about it
We can’t seem to live without
But we’ll never grow from the same *** of spoiled soil
And we’ll never flourish in the shadow of yesterday’s mistakes
Here we are again –
Back in the same place

cut down many times
you grew back up

there was always something clinging to the sky
a stalk in your lover’s eye

and no matter the woodsman that chopped it down
his ax could do no harm

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.

I want to wrap this
around you. Let it fit in
the slats of your mind. Let it enter
each loop, one at a time. Let it all come

together    in the center      fitting
approximately. You can adjust it,
tighten it or allow it slack. The holes
are meant to be filled. But not all of them

will. I don’t want to bind you or make
you lose your pants. I
want to hold you at your edges
and dance.

Bitter berry
despite your pretty, white flowers
the bitterness you hold inside
is poison with each attending try
Even your leaves singe
upon touching them
All parts of you contain
an irritant that starts in your roots
and shoots up to the oblong crimson moons
Pain ensues -
Unbearable
5 or 6 will make you ill
But the 2nd one done you in
Never to go back
Black
No longer admiring
the pretty, white flowers
Bitter as the Bane
You must live in shade

I climb you
You stick me
Dig into my skin
Scratch and claw
****** raw

You opened
Closed wounds
I got hooked
Caught in
your sharp edges

the more I fought
the deeper the cut
I cried out in pain
No one came

I never did
get over you
I hung myself
on your points

Tuesday
took us back
One-hundred years

Bare

lies in hunger, dust mites
in your ***** hair. Yearns to be
converted to genius. Dances with
devils, alone. Plays

with itself, alone. Swings its bounty breast,
alone. For all to see. Thrusts out
its ******* proudly. Then retracts, back to
normal life never satisfied.

Those little piggy’s that went
to market and cooked roast beef can barely
get their feet onto the floor. And those busy hands
that typed all night need only to switch

on the light. Because the sun
hasn’t come up yet. If it’s too early
for the sun to rise then why should I? There’s
a coffee maker on the kitchen

counter. But the kitchen seems like
a journey from here. And this bed feels too warm
and comfortable to leave. This mind,
just wants to go back to sleep and dream.

he said. He’s twenty-four,
but has the mind of a two-
year old. So, I jump around on
the floor, making monkey noises

and swinging my arms high
over my head like I’m climbing
trees, like I’m flying high in the
breeze. As I perform this monkey

dance he laughs his pants off
and smiles at me. Tells me to do it
again. His pleasures are as simple as
me making a monkey of myself. He

doesn’t worry about bills to pay
or anything else. Sometimes I wonder
who has it better. What has been taken from
him has also given him freedom.

am I
do not be sad
do not cry
I've grown from the shards
splinters are stakes
in my yard
where the ivy climbs
and grows my grief
at anniversary times
I surcease pickled valentines
they don't preserve well in wine

You’re a beautiful mistake
that was created to create. The chromosomes
didn’t line up. Finally, you stopped trying
to be as the others. When you let go

the force is strong enough to turn your tears
into a river churning with rapids. It’s a wild
ride. You could fall off the sides. You know you
would drown in the water. It takes all for you

to muster the strength when you can’t see ahead
and you’re out in the middle of nowhere. The uncertainty
itself is a thrill that propels you at will, as it did
all the others before you.