Previously Published on Haiku for Lovers (Button Tapper Press) . . .

The perfect puzzle.
All of my pieces match yours.
We are one embrace.


(http://buttontapper.com/)

Previously Published on The Burlesque Press Variety Show . . .

Waiting Room Rant

Yes, you may change the channel

on the community television. (Thank you

so much for not asking).  But it is not okay

for you to turn the volume to ear-bleeding decibels

in hopes of distracting from your daughter

using the chair between us as a trampoline

and screaming her abc’s as loud as her 6-year-old lungs

will let her.  I get it, you’re sick,

exhausted, and wishing (probably not for the first time)

you were not a single mother or maybe just not

a mother (the single part being incidental to you), longing

for the days when you could just die in bed in peace.

We second that dream, by the way, as you engross

yourself in the latest talk show bimbo’s babble

about who’s banging who in Hollywood this week

instead of reprimanding your child who has

now decided to graduate her self-

made Olympic trials from trampoline to hurdles.  My legs

and those of the three other women in the room serve

as the hurdles in question.  Only to extricate

yourself long enough to make a snide comment

about your daughter falling on her face

after tripping over “someone who should take more care

where they place their legs.”  As if

we can just detach them and move them off to the side

for convenience.  You go back

to your semi-conscious state as the receptionist calls

my name, completely unaware of how close

you came to pushing the wrong person’s button.  I debate

on telling you about the ponderings posed in my head

after reading the article in the magazine I just put

down that reminded me all state prison inmates get free

healthcare.  I smile, again, at the thought

as I disappear behind a one-way locked door.

(https://burlesquepressllc.com/the-burlesque-blog/)

Previously Published on The Broken City . . .

If De-Elevator Tries to Break You Down

Plug in2 the electric word:  Life.  It means forever,

and that’s a mighty long time to be someone

else’s shell/shadow/strung-out puppet.  Mister,

I have my own hand to shove up some anonymous . . . ask

me where I’m going and I’ll show you a place you’ll never see.

I am a diamond-studded time machine.  Going down? 

Too bad, I’m flying with the purple banana and have no desire

to learn how to drive a truck.  That’s why they call me Dr.

Everything’ll Be Alright.  My medicine is in the wind

and the wine.  It tastes like water if you push B for basement,

but lands you in the back seat of a little red corvette, going up

at a speed that does not know sound is supposed to have a barrier.

*Inspired by “Let’s Go Crazy” by Prince,  Purple Rain, 1984.

(http://www.thebrokencitymag.com/)

Previously Published on Boy Slut . . .

Tears for Her

I found you tying your self in-
to burgundy knots of sheets
and pain.  Turning/burning/churning.
I watched the darkness breathe
for you.  Could not
the stammering stop the drowning?
Bubbles of blame blew through you.
Lies.
([Wrongly] Labeled as misconstrued
communications.)  Failing
is more than an option now.  Though
broken is the pro-offered term.
Incorrect!  Assumptions
are so much harsher than the actual
face of the mirror's dark.

Previously Published on Boy Slut . . .

Suffocation

Green.  To orange.  Then blue.
Your eye magic charms glow.  Through me
you are alive.  Ageless and undefined,
you hang wingless in my mind.  My(?) angel.
You cannot be.  My world
is dying inside of me.  And mine
is not strong enough to be.  Without you,
this time-strangled heart cannot hold [on].
Yet another year's beating falls
outside of comprehension.  Listen
to the air.  It is heavier now.  Slowing
like [my] pulse.  Points
pounding nowhere through collapsing
veins.  Your touch pulls a gasp.  I grasp
at the silver threads trailing your fingers.
But still I cannot breathe when you lean
in and kiss.  Me?

Previously Published on Boy Slut . . .

Desperate

ly trying to hang on.  To anything whole
in this field of fragmented, song-
like noises echo as whispers
on a pillow.  I fall through their depths.
Hoping their darker tonations will teach
me.  Peace is the desert
I long to drown in.  Spiteful.  Spirited.
Its blanding shades offer an oasis.
A fading, wavering, welcoming image.
Of [your] arms.  Shaped like home.

Previously Published on The Bond Street Review . . .

At Midnight

the lawn chair, in silhouette of my half-

sleep, resembled a deer for just a blink

as I rounded the corner of the house,

entered the yard.  I froze

in unintentional mimicry, caught

by my own vision.  Nerves settling

into the clarifying breeze, I continued

on, chuckling at my own confusion when

two fawn approached, wandered over,

sniffed the four-legged shadow . . .

(http://www.inkpublications.com/bondstreetreview/)

Previously Published on Bohemia . . .

Because Mars

is electric, red, and resistant to changes

imposed by the time-space continuum,

it was the perfect place to build the alien

discothèque.   Planetary minions

flocked to its garish lightshow. 12-eyed Saturians

decked out in full John-Travolta-Saturday-Night-

Fever regalia glow like ghosts under the strobing

black-lit mirror ball.  The Uranian revival

of Donna Summer’s greatest hits streamed

through the Milky Way like a midnight meteor

shower.  There was a hesitant fear of cross-

contamination caused by so many sequins, but

precaution was thrown to the vacuum, when

the local black hole closed out of respect

for the blue-man group’s light-year tribute

to Abba.

Previously Published on Bohemia . . .

Beep Beep

squeals this feathered fury

of a dream as it leaves me

in the dust  of my latest

failure.  I am

emaciated, starving in this desert

where I should be king.  Animal

instincts flame inside

inadequate body.  I stare down

the path before me:  prey’s

elicited departure runway,

already erased by wind and tumble-

weed.  Lightbulb pops into frame

above my head.  I know

hopeless, even before it lands,

an ACME anvil, smashing me flat.

Flash Fiction Previously Published on Bohemia . . .

A Tisket, A Tasket

The green and yellow picnic basket stared at me from its perch on the hallway table.  I could hear it mocking me:  He was using you, you fool!  I ignored the taunt as I continued rummaging through the closet.

* * * * *

It started with a letter to my love.  I had written it carefully, an enticing invitation to embark on a scavenger hunt that would end at a secluded little spot in the forest where I planned to be waiting, romantic picnic all arranged.  I couldn’t think of a better way to spend a Saturday afternoon.

I left the letter on his doorstep, rang the bell.  I hid in the bushes to watch his reaction.  He smiled as he opened it.  I had to cover my mouth to suppress a school-girl giggle.  He pulled out his phone and dialed, “Darling!  I got your note.  Can’t wait to see what’s waiting for me at the end.”  With that, he closed the receiver, went back inside.

I hurried back to my car to check my messages.  My cell phone screen glared back at me:  No missed calls?  No missed calls!  That wasn’t possible.  I heard him make the call.  That’s when reality smacked me right across the face.  I hadn’t signed the letter.  It never occurred to me he would think it was from someone else.  There shouldn’t have been a someone else.  I started the car and headed for the finale’s destination. 

* * * * *

I actually shouted a triumphant “Aha!” as I emerged from the closet, shovel in hand.  I turned to the green and yellow picnic basket, noticed the bottom right corner was darkening, threatening to drip on the rug.  “Good thing I found this in time.”  It was my turn to mock the childish carrier.  “DNA on my carpet wouldn’t be very prudent now would it?”

I linked my arm through the handles as I headed for the door.  Practically skipping into the back woods, I couldn’t stop myself from singing a new version of my favorite childhood rhyme:

A tisket, a tasket,

a green and yellow basket.

I wrote a letter to my love

who pissed me off, I lost it.

I lost it, I lost it,

and now that little basket

is filled with pieces of my love

and buried like a casket!

Previously Published on The Blue Hour . . .

Sensing Sunflowers

Golden-seed children dance on

exaggerated limbs.  Field filled

with followers echoing movements

in wave of would-be smiles.  My mind

wanders with them across the wind.

I.  Seeing Sunflowers

Dark textured mouths, opened in

silent choral prayer and purse

of eminent awe.  These natural blonde

disciples trace path of fire-

god across the sky.  Bizarre,

clockwork ritual testing strength

of stem against Autumn’s breath.

II.  Hearing Sunflowers

Petals chitter, responsive

shudder against sunset, exhale in fabled

attempt to shake souls back

inside.  They echo, gilded

ghosts rattling invisible chains, inviting

footfall.  I answer automatically,

impulsively running, crashing

into their waiting embrace.

III.  Smelling Sunflowers

Subtle hint of seasonal change closes

around me.  Militant rows roar:  We are

different.  No need for overwhelming,

sickly blossomed bursts, ripe

enough to bottle.  Dime-share of diminutive

nut, dash of pollen, the only traces

the air dares to brush free.

IV.  Touching Sunflowers

Strange stalks confuse, tactility . . . unlabelable.  Faux-

fragile façade, difficult to break, pull. Cut

is required to topple these feather-headed harlots.

Harvest heralders, graceful

                                            ly falling, perfected

pictures of death’s bow.

V.  Tasting Sunflowers

Beheaded beads boil, toss in roasting

pan.  Pre-destined for packaging.

Snack for squirrels and dugout bench

warmers.  Split-shell spit, more

work than result, worth every bite

of calm repetitious swallow.

Previously Published on Blue Collar Review . . .

You’ve Got Mail

I remember the first time my computer chimed

those three little words.  It was intoxicating,

a new electronic drug.  I would race to the office,

excited to dive in, read, respond. 

This amazing telecommunications development

drastically cut down on telephone tie-up,

eliminated the need for counterproductive

five-hour meetings.  Unfortunately, I was not

the only addict.  Soon bosses and co-workers felt

the need to spam me their every half-formed thought,

and what used to be a friendly intonation

became a monotonous echo of exasperation.  The next

generation replaced vocabulary with notification tones,

gave us a choice of sounds to tell us our inbox was drowning

as progress became synonymous with paperless.  Attachments

poured in, piled up, mixed with spam that slipped

through filters, turned into nightmarish migraine.  I thought

it couldn’t get any worse, then the powers that be created

the phone app.  Now I hear that infuriating beep

on and off the clock.  Hell, I even hear it in my sleep.

(http://www.partisanpress.org/)

Previously Published on Blog from the Bog . . .

There was a Gnat

in my toilet.  Just flying around

inside the bowl.  I tried to shoo it out.

Ignored, I flushed nothing, hoping

it would spook.  Finally, I could hold it

no longer, dropped my pants, prayed

it would not fly up my butt, then laughed

at the thought of the poor creatures surprise

when it gets hit with the first drops

of an unexpected golden shower.

Previously Published on Blog from the Bog . . .

Kneeling Before the Porcelain Throne

Acid.

Corrosive waves

attack me from inside.

I am waiting for eruptive

vomit.

Previously Published on Blog from the Bog . . .

I Am Toilet

paper, random roll of almost attached pieces,

thin as air.  Crumpled in fist, I become barely passable

tool to clean up, dislodge random shit.  I am raw,

irritating, a pain in the ass.  I am disposable,

dropped and forgotten with every flush.

Previously Published on BlazeVox Online Journal . . .

The Elastic Gait of a Memory

The rain is like a screw,

twisting its sound to undertake the moon.

It settles, a kinder tension – ash-like

in its accrual.  It abstracts the steps

of pressure.  Every

                                drop

                                         institutes

a re-active response.  Trigger

is the echo of elemental automation:  Midnight’s cloud

disseminating.

A new filter formulates . . .

adjusts/converts/segments nothing

more than the dusty expression

of a star’s silent stare.

(http://www.blazevox.org/index.php/journal/)

Previously Published on BlazeVox Online Journal . . .

R E/P M

Skydiving naked in a mind field

ing moonbeams like bullets (matrix

style – all slow-motion black

patent sexy), I dial escape.  Screaming

winds respond with a synthesized version

of my own voice that could never be

described as an echo.  Thank god

for rip cords.  Way to overstate

the obvious.  I swallow

our mutual fear, continue

to free

            fall

into this quasi-dark

ness that doesn’t feel anything

like sleep.

(http://www.blazevox.org/index.php/journal/)

Previously Published on BlazeVox Online Journal . . .

Esoterical Space

belies physics.

Gravity.  Comprehension

falters.  In a blink

minds divide.  The law

from the logic.  Sink

ing metaphysical teeth

into loopholes that cannot hold

anything. (But their weight

in water?)  Obsoletrical observations

about inside the idea

of institutionalism.  That's why

the bars are banded in

shades of 3 X 3 X 4.  The doors

are all left open.  It is

freedom.  That is the lie.

(http://www.blazevox.org/index.php/journal/)

Previously Published on Bitterzoet Magazine . . .

The Shadow of a Window

is a cage, an impenetrable cell

my mind cannot escape.  The edges waver,

whisper like ghosts from corners of a hell

I can only imagine.  I tuck my legs

tighter beneath me, shrink within its frame.

It forces me smaller, smaller, smaller.

Soon I will be gone.

(https://bitterzoetmag.com/)

Previously Published on Bitterzoet Magazine . . .

I Am Dandelion

Unwanted weed, thriving against tended grains of green.

I resist every attempt at extraction.  Caustic sprays, repeated

attempts at diminishment, disintegration fail against a head

that chooses to live without ears.  I feed on frustration,

but tire quickly of repetitious scene.  I allow my hair to whiten,

mimic absence, before giving myself to whim of wind. 

I disperse, leaving nothing but random seed, a lone memory

that may or may not take root.

(https://bitterzoetmag.com/)

Previously Published on Big River Poetry Review . . .

I Am Two

halves of the same black

hole.  Tearing at my own skin,

the first dreams of being

a star, wishes for a radiant side

to project outward.  To breathe

in continuum, stretch myself

across a millennium of light years.

The other piece is cold,

reticent, prefers the somber

solace of absence, believes

emptiness is universal.

Echoing nothing is a talent

I have honed like a smile. 

Without teeth, I devour my own

tomorrow, grateful

the gift of darkness is eternal

and does not give a damn

how loud any clock ticks.

(http://www.bigriverpoetry.com/index.html)

Previously Published on Bigger Stones . . .

Automatic Poetry Machine

[Insert random conversational text

here.  Please.]

No subject

is too monumental or arbitrary. 

No cohesion is required.  Tired

brain?  Empty head?  No worries,

just enter random words.  Press

send when finished, then wait.

I process all prompts promptly.  Shake

things up, turn them sideways.  Dance

them on their heads through mine.  Images

playing at wanting

to become concrete.

I regurgitate, recycle.  Shiny fresh

ideas you never knew

you already had.

(http://biggerstones.weebly.com/)

Previously Published on Beat the Dust and Tales to Terrify. . .

When Night Shows its Fangs

A monstrous shadow, with the illusion of small, hard wings flapping at its shoulders

descended into my vision like a living nightmare.  I could not blink

as my eyelids were missing.  Evaporated was the word

echoing through this encapsulation.  I

was the jellified victim of my own

legacy.  Pluck one,

bleed two.  Thousands of imaginary

carrion companions parade before silence.

Cacophony gives way to ghostly emptiness.  This place

where memories wear me like a skinned skeleton.  I rattle externally,

dripping regret like coagulated flesh-cycles.  I am waiting for the sun to thaw me gone.

*first line is the ending line of the novel, Candlenight, by Phil Rickman

Joint Chapbook (with April Salzano) Published on Barometric Pressures Author Series . . .

(Barometric Pressures Author Series)

Flash Fiction Previously Published on Bare Fiction Magazine . . .

Counting Backwards to Truly Awake

I fall asleep in the hands of a clock that ticks backwards.  I find the counter motion comforting as I regress into dreams of the past (sometimes even mine).  I welcome the variation, it keeps me coming back, night after night, even though I am never tired. 

Tonight my eyes close on visions of a recognizable childhood.  Parents and pets have names I do not have to fabricate.  I let them pass through my fingers, soothing sensations of something almost tangible.  I giggle, pretending it tickles more than my fancy to walk past this psychological conveyor of ghostly images.  Laughter stops the flow.  I am twelve, dancing with my two best friends in a bedroom that was not mine.  We were dressed up in electric colors, holding spatulas as microphones.  We were miniature Madonnas, ready for our million-dollar contracts.  We did not understand what it meant to sing off key.

Hourly chime shattered the image, replaced it with another.  This one fell like a blanket.  Snow, piles of it lay in waiting for an overstuffed-suit and boots with eyes to come running, crashing through it.  Behind me a tiny puppy, all black fur and paws two times too big for its body mimicked my every move as best as he could.  All that could be seen of us was hat tassels and tail.  We were consumed by icy white.  Our laughter seemed frozen around me for more than a few moments, continued to linger even as invisible hands forced me further back, years elapsing with every footstep.

I stopped again, when something shiny caught my eye.  A tiny tiara, prize for petite perfection, smiled back from a home-made trophy case.  I was now five, and my mother dressed me like a lacy sailor.  I charmed three anonymous faces.  Judges.  Of what? I wondered, but continued to tell them a story about helping my father fix his car.  They laughed and made notes, later announced my name.  I had to stop playing to collect the rhinestone crown, never fully understanding what it was for.

Suddenly it was dawn, and I could follow myself no further.  I opened my eyes, reborn to reality.  Today I would breathe a little lighter knowing no matter how many times I abandon myself, all I have to do is close my eyes and wait for my own return.

(http://www.barefictionmagazine.co.uk/)

Previously Published on Bare Back Magazine . . .

Peep Show

I am their by-the-minute-baby-angel-
kitten.  I purr appropriately
every time they slide filthy singles
through the slot.  They raise my curtain,
I raise their full-flag salute.  Exposed
and pressed against the glass, they pant
at the possibilities.  I pose,
slowly, revealing hints
of what they will never have, but dream
they can.  Eventually, I open
myself to their fantasies.  They cannot slip
their money in fast enough to keep me.  Still
open, I pause, wait for them to catch up.
They pay extra for me to watch them
finish.  I mimic their momentum,
if not their enthusiasm.  Pretend
the show was reversed, that my climax was
more than the collection of cash
spread beneath my feet.



(http://www.barebackmag.com/) (warning -- adult content site)

Previously Published on The Autumn Sound Review . . .

Meadow’s Dance

Mellow shades of morning melt

into and over each other.  Grass-like arms

stretch to embrace folding yellow rays.  The sun

lands softly, kisses petals’ tips.  They erupt,

giggles of pink, shivering in the wind.

Flash Fiction Previously Published on Apocryph and Abstractions . . .

A Tale of Two:  Kamikaze Wings

I drove a flamingo to the perceived edge of the world to see if we would fall off.  We did not end.  Our journey continued past the red-buoyed warnings, my legs pedaling, wishing they were wings.  Air is so much easier to traverse than water, less natural resistance.  The sleek pink giant offered no assistance or caution, just willingly worked its wave through the waves. 

I grew tired after awhile, but the stoic expression of my voyage companion motivated me.  Unreasonable defiance was my stick.  I would find a way to wipe that Mona-Lisa-Know-It-All-Grin off its beak if I had to build a sandblaster.  I pedaled harder, my legs no longer registering feeling.  My muscles became liquid as the water that tried to force us back to a beginning that was no longer in sight.  Hours passed.  Then days, weeks.  Time lost all meaning as did trivial terminology like pain and progress. 

Suddenly we struck land.  An expanse of sand sideswiped us.  (Focus too had abandoned us eons ago).  I wanted to get out, give up on this mission of migration, but the bird was still flipping me its accusatory grin, and my legs no longer believed solid belonged beneath their feet.  Sitting there in the spotlight of another morning’s sun, I suddenly understood we had already survived one pre-destined mythical death.  Encouraged,  I turned my feathered vessel around, pointed collective minds toward the celestial body that burned. 

We took off at a different pace, intent on flight.  This time our journey would be about height, not distance.  Both of us were curious to see how high we could get before something started to melt.

(https://apocryphaandabstractions.wordpress.com/)

Previously Published on Aphelion . . .

I Dream of Rings

of gold, blazing

atmospheric anomalies calling

me.  Saturn’s embrace,

waiting to welcome me to their fold.

There I dance, uninhibited

by the laws of physics, and therefore,

the physical necessities of life support.

I am my own

momentarily alien self, skimming

solar systems with a flip

of my hair . . . Flash forward

fifty light years.  I am queen

of a recently discovered star,

a purple-skinned princess

touched by a sun

on both shoulders, breathing

fire to keep the scales

of my settlement’s sentient beings warm.

(https://www.aphelion-webzine.com/)

Previously Published on Ann Arbor Review . . .

800

gumballs lived in a glass container

on the front counter of the little corner

store in the small Western Pennsylvanian

town I grew up in for years.  Don’t ask

me how I know there were 800, I just do.

I am as sure of that number as I am

of my name.

These gumballs were not for sale, not part

of some promotional contest.  They were

just sitting there for show, a useless colorful

display that plagued my childhood.  My still-

developing mind could not make sense of all

that waste, all those wonderful, unchewed

gumballs collecting dust.

I stared at them for years, from all angles

as I grew.  I waited for their great mystery

to be revealed.  But the store was sold, torn down,

replaced with a slick new 7-11.  Everyone rejoiced

at the improved convenience, the always (over) stocked

shelves. 

I resented the fancy neon sign and its clutter-less

counters.  They mocked me, along with the ghost

of that gumball-filled jar, its absence laughing

from my memory.

(http://annarborreview.net/)

Previously Published on Ann Arbor Review . . .

With Alligators

waiting on every embankment, jaws

posed in carnivorous smile, all eyes and instincts

follow me as I wade into the water. 

White robes rebel, refuse to hold

their breath, choose instead to spread about

me, petals to my stem.  Rooted among waveless tide,

I bloom.  Stoic queen scenting sacrificial call.

Waiting for selection, acceptance, and the whisper

of my cold-blooded king breaking the surface

of this sound.

(http://annarborreview.net/)

Previously Published on Annapurna Magazine . . .

With Killer

pickles hiding

behind every shadow, my heart

burns for a spear.  To slice

or not to slice?  Such a question

is too loaded for a single piece.  The buns

in front of me are average

at best, sedentary, stuck in stale postures

of enticement.  Open sesame!  I chant

in my mind.  Nothing

happens.  I toss a dash of salt over

my shoulder for luck before I move

on.

(https://annapurnamagazine.com/about-2/)

Previously Published on Annapurna Magazine . . .

Seeing Naked

pizza in my box infuriates me,

especially when I know I ordered it

dressed in mushrooms and pepperoni.  Pieces

of various food groups strategically placed

to balance my meal.  Instead,

bland expanse of cheese stares back,

a boring plane of white.  My teeth are

hesitant to bite.

(https://annapurnamagazine.com/about-2/)

Previously Published on Amulet . . .

The Edges of Matter

I want to be

more

than this ghost of myself.

I want to wander

beyond your eyes.

I want to open doors and windows

in your brain.

I want to fee you

every version of sun.

Every shadow of rain.

You need to see the colors.

To be.

But I am blind.

So I need you

to believe.

In the life

of my fist.

(https://sites.google.com/site/conceitmagazine/)

Previously Published on Amulet . . .

Gypsy Soul

Her favorite boots

matched her skirt.

Or what was left of it.

After she parted

with scarf after scarf.

For fun.

And funds.

To buy the twin coins

standing guard

at her breast.

(https://sites.google.com/site/conceitmagazine/)

Previously Published on Amulet . . .

A Keepsake of Her Sorrow*

He believes she is perfect.

When she crumbles,

with his smile,

into a picture.

Of misery.

Small enough

for him to carry

in his pocket.

And palm at will

whenever he feels the need

to show her.

The space

of a heart

she’ll never earn.

*July 2013 Editor's Choice for Supreme Poet of the Month


(https://sites.google.com/site/conceitmagazine/)

Previously Published on Amulet . . .

With Abecedarian

anxiety, I curl fingers around pen, press

panic through point, pray

muse is moved or angered enough

to guide bloodless ink into colloquial gold.

(https://sites.google.com/site/conceitmagazine/)

Previously Published on Amulet . . .

The Road to Stiletto Road

is shadowed in x-rays, misaligned

spines, deteriorated knee joints.  All

disregarded as breast to butt lines press

forward.  Aggressively shoving, never

stumbling, drooling over the latest

Choo’s, Monolo’s, and Louboutin’s flashing

under raging spotlight, sign beckoning

in beautiful 4-lettered neon aria:  SALE!

(https://sites.google.com/site/conceitmagazine/)

Previously Published in Amulet . . .

Saw the Fly

Flying space spiders spawn.  Round webs

of cosmic time hang:  suspension in/is nowhere.

What a magical construct

catching forecasts, feathers, and fey – all the fantastical

elements needed to focus this fictionalized reality.

The third eye closes.

From this distance, it is the globe that spans;

not the perspective that spins.  I worry

my fingers into wishes  (as if either actually exist),

and fill my basket with remnants

of stars.  They burn me,

myself, and I [think themselves too] out

until everything glows gray with [dis/mis]use.

Listen as the secular seconds float off

in a final[ized?] vision of the fluctuating orders

of phoenixed ash.

(https://sites.google.com/site/conceitmagazine/)

Previously Published in Ekphrastia Gone Wild (Ain't Got No Press) . . .

I Am Rhinoceros

     Inspired by The Persistence of Memory, Salvador Dali, 1931 and Rhinoceros Dressed in

     Lace, Salvador Dali, 1956

in lace dress, shredded, blowing

(it was a bitch to get it

over my horns).  In desperately dull

desert winds, I wander and wonder

What is the point?  This menial existence

rains existential chaos, holds no cosmic

meaning, only occasional comedic value.

Droll backroom chitters, the fire that fuels

me, I thrust forward, onward

over/under/through ever-

elongating hands

                             dripping time,

an interesting shade of disharmony, to paint

my toes.

(http://poetrysuperhighway.com/agnp/)

Previously Published in Our Day's Encounter . . .

            XVII

I shove chairs in my mouth.

For your comfort

and my convenience.

My knees are not meant

to support us both.

Relax.

Let me welcome you

in my own way.

My tongue

is made to conform

to your specific dimensions.

What’s the point?

It’s white darling.

Quick

and sharp.

And closing in on you.

No.

Don’t look up.

They are too many.

And too deeply

set

by my hunger.

To be swayed

by your pitiful pleas.

At least they are tonight.

(https://adaysencounter.wordpress.com/2013/02/20/xvll/)

Previously Published in Our Day's Encounter . . .

            VII

I buried myself

up to my chin.

In the hollow flesh

of men

who were all-too-happy

to sacrifice

for cause.

Then I colored my hair

with their eyes.

And my lips,

well, I believe they speak

for themselves.

Still I lacked the heat

to hold your attention.

So I left you my scars.

But I never realized

they formed a map.

Too late.

I followed you instead.

Deeper.

               Deeper.

Until I could not breathe.

For anything.

But the pulse

of your blood.

(https://adaysencounter.wordpress.com/2013/02/23/vll/)

Previously Published in Our Day's Encounter . . .

            V

I opened my eyes.

And I screamed.

I screamed so loud

I turned my skin

inside out.

Forcing the blood I had left

to the surface.

And once I was painted,

I was silent.

There was nothing else to say.

You could not ignore me any longer.

I was a spot.

A sore.

A scab.

You had to pick me.

You had to make me

your own.

(https://adaysencounter.wordpress.com/2013/03/03/v/)

Previously Published by Absinthe Anthology Project (Hyacinth Press) . . .

Ritual

Drip.

                                   Drip.

            Drip.  Drip.

Lonely aquatic tally taps

top of cube.  Sugar

                                silts through silver

slots.  Erupts (in seemingly slow

motion).  The louche begins, clouding

Peridotic hue.  Gemlike

                                       liquid densifies,

strengthens, a new body

                                         ready.  La fée verte

has grown wings, stands:  prepared

to fly

          along your tongue.

(http://hyacinthgirlpress.com/news/absinthe-anthology.html)

Previously Published in The 22 Magazine . . .

Portrait of a Woman as Her Purse

Red enameled alligator encases three

cloth sacks of unified survival.  Beneath zipper

#1 waits five nickels, bottle of glittered nail

polish, miniature journal, handful of pens, only

one still wearing cap.  Skip #2, it is stuck

shut and whatever is in there has been labeled

unnecessary and forgotten.  #3 never closes,

most-used, most-important, must remain

accessible, always.  Checkbook teeters

against tightly-capped Crazy

Glue, shades sunglasses from potential scuffs

from engraved silver cardholder, coupon folder, ring

of 37 keys, only 3 having known locks or ignitions

to turn.  Ringing requires perimeter check.  Pockets

bulge, aspirin and birth control semi-hidden

in tightly-snapped front pocket, portable

hard drive and note cards on Roman Architecture

threaten to spill out of left side pouch.  Right

must be the never-ending musical bleeping,

incessant blipping of latest high-tech, supposedly

miniaturized, iPhone, trying to pass itself

off as both computer and lifeline when it is really

more crutch and anvil.  Last stop, strap with photo

keyring dangling attachment.  Favorite snapshot

of herself smiling at the world, makes everyone wonder

who or what was making her laugh that hard.

(https://the22blog.com/2013/02/14/portrait-of-a-woman-as-her-purse-by-a-j-huffman/)

What to Expect Here . . .

I've never blogged before, but I've been told all authors should have one, so I'm going to give it a go. . .

So, what you should expect to see here on my blog?  Well, for starters, I will be posting all of my previously published poems.  Why?  Well, a couple of reasons -- 1.  I'm updating my publication resume and since I'll be revisiting them all, I thought I'd share them with you.  2.  I write to be read, and the only way to get them read is to publish and re-publish them.  3.  They may just speak to someone out there, and if they do, drop me a comment.  and finally, 4.  Because I can (and let's be honest, what else am I going to do with them. LOL)

From time to time I'll also be posting calls for submissions from my small press -- Kind of a Hurricane Press.  And, I'm not going to lie, sometimes I might just babble on about writing or poetry or something I've recently read.  I do that.  Hopefully, you'll find it fun and interesting.  That's the goal at least!