Previously Published in Epigraph . . .

To Spin Or Not To Spin

Static transporter taunts me

infinitely across a room of mirrors,

reminders of necessity.  Cold

motivators of perpetual movement.

Door closed, the only out is miles

away and in the exact location.

Prisoners present, assuming the position,

wait for instigative whistle.  Detonation

of energy, blur of sneakers, knees, 

sweat.  Somewhere blisters form, calluses

burst.  Nothing stops

but thoughts.  Body is reduced to motion's 

machine.  Automated

muscle memory propels past will.  Desire

to stop, exhaled repeatedly.  An hour

flies into another signal.  Release.

Door re-opened.  Legs hesitate, stumble,

begin to remember the feel of solid ground.

Previously Published in Envoi Poetry . . .

 

Hemophile

I am not vampire.  I do not desire

to taste or feed.  Disgusting

sacrilege.  I worship the vein,

the sacred vessel embracing brilliant

blue corpuscles.  The accidental cut,

oxidizing blazing red rivulets.  Running

ruins to be remembered, retracted

as effigies of the essence

of everything.  Renfield's eloquent

echo:  The blood is the life.  The blood

is the life.

Previously Published in Envoi Poetry . . .

Building a Braintrust

in a wallless house.  I borrowed conceptual

confinements from the depths of my past.  Disappointments

cling, lending their shallows and shadows.  Falty 

furnishings for future guests.  Guess

their solid

                 arity dissolved with my conscious.  Objections

to pre-conceived ideologies have been wavering

through the windows.  I recognize

their wanderlust.  Breadcrumbing

has no place.  Here,

the company line in mute

                                         able parameters.  Mark

your moments in chalk.

The outlines are soulless but significant.

Every body [of brilliance] must have a believable point

for provability.

Previously Published in Envoi Poetry . . .

The Chase

I tie a word to a kite, string

                  up

it, chase it       over

                                and through

sky's river.  Rushing

clouds batter, edges fray, fade.

Body begins to lose

ground.  Refusing 

                              the pull

                              of gravity,

I pen a new law, send it out

into the wind.  They meet, mate,

match wits.  Neither wins, but the idea

glides

     slowly                     back

                                         into my fish.

Previously Published in Ends of the Earth . . .

Tasting Feathers

felled from murders

of crows, I am Raven.

Beast of black.  Imagination's 

carrion.  I devour flock and

flight.  My vision,

crossed caws cruel.  Talons

torture, tearing tendons and beaks.

An amalgamation of claws defines

my throne, still bleeding.

I reign in their dark

echo, as a self-

appointed god.

Previously Published in Em Dash Lit Mag . . .

Hearing Loneliness

In bed I lie, feigning

sleep.  My mind, ever alert, begins

to pick apart the night.  It starts with

          a drip

          ping

          faucet

I cannot bring myself to stop,

merges with the metronomical ticking

of an alarm clock that has been

rendered unnecessary.  The not-so-

static noise of TV infoercials, that sad

semi-silenced soundtrack, a constant

din lulling me into complacency.  Groan

of over-sized springs, my side of a double

bed that knows no form

other than my own.

 

Previously Published in Em Dash Lit Mag . . .

Baby Turtles and [Busted?] Condoms

The perfect surprise:  soft green flippers

peddling past my toes.  So determined to get

their goal.  Like you, my serpentined seraph,

so feral in your pursuit of . . . everything.  You

desire the universe.  Forcing your own parameters

over and through the norm.  I am just

another niche you style.  Placing me

on a shelf [re-]labeled:  contained.  I forget

to mind that you forgot to aerate my lips.

I embrace the staleness of this slower suffocation.

Preferring its welcoming numbness

to the consummate barrage of [in]consistent

image projections:  your full frontal flashes

confronting me daily.  (Come nightly they haunt

me.)  Until I too am reduced to [focus on] a pile

of discarded . . . tissued . . . knocks.

      *Em Dash Editor's Choice Award -- June 2013

Previously Published in Electric Rather Literary Magazine . . .

Intersecting Planes of Concern

A blink (I think) is the problem

to the solution of time

plus salt minus thought

devoid of (not divided by) skin.

Maybe sin should be squared.

(The little two not the shape.)

In the interest of chemistry.

Never geometry.  I failed

that function when my slipper broke.

Glass.  All over the classroom.

Illustrating

my point:  the silent irony of unshed blood.

Brilliant isn't it?

Plath would be proud.

If she could configure

the dimensional ramifications

of her death.  (Though there are

a few who believe she did.)  What

a blustering cluster fuck

that would cause.  Over cock-

tails.  Here's to the ghost,

the bard and the muse.

The only equation that never

comes up false.

Previously Published in Ego PHobia . . .

 

Pen

Hollow prophet, guiding

violation of pure expanse

of white.  Ink smears

presence.  Permanent,

stains as deep as blood.

Previously Published in EgoPHobia . . .

I Happened

upon a squirrel in quiet

contemplation of his universe.

Yard and tree holding

limitless possibilities, a fascination

I know all too well.  My breathing

must have disrupted his concentration.

Tiny furred head cocked my way

for a moment, tilted

in adjustive comprehension, returned

to original point of focus.  I 

was already assimilated as background,

temporary noise, disregarded.

I envied this rapid-fire assessment,

yearned for the ability to decipher

trivial trash from true treasure, imagined,

for a moment, it was my paws

poised in prepatory flight, yet standing

frozen and fearless, in appreciative awe.

Previously Published in EgoPHobia . . .

With Apple

I become Eve to your Adam,

though you have no discernable signs

of having recently lost a rib.

I bite anyway,

pierce red skin

with foreshadowing teeth.  I hold

my breath.  You take

my hand and for a moment I wish

it had been poisoned.

Previously Published in Down in the Dirt . . .

 

I Hate

          waking up an hour before my alarm; forgetting

to put coffee in the filter, turning the pot on anyway; watching

the perky morning news(?) caster with her maniacal

smile and hair that never moves; waiting

for the traffic report that will inevitably re-route me

miles out of my way.

          crunching cruet de tat at my desk

as I work through lunch in hopeful attempt to climb

out from under the pile of folders, notes, to-do lists

threatening to bury me alive; the incessant chings,

dings, rings of electronic communications waiting

for response.

          squeezing in a run on a belted human hamster wheel

to counteract my increasing waistline tht has absolutely no

regard for my constant attempts to count calories; my limited

closet and budget that makes the former a necessity.

          finally climbing into comforting embrace of pillow

and bed to find no hope of sleep on the horizon; that my mind

won't shut out yesterday's drama, today's catastrophes, 

or the possibilities of tomorrow's crises; that right

at the precipice of complete exhaustion, the muse deigns to visit

and remind me of the price of daring to have even one

selfish dream of my own.

Previously Published in Down in the Dirt . . .

Squirrel Hunting

I was fourteen when my father decided

to take me with himm.  I had passed my test,

got my license the year before, but had never

shown interest in shooting Bambi or any

furry forest friends.  "It'll be good

for you," he explained, appealing to my logical

nature.  "Practicing on moving targets will

only make you a better shot in competition."

Finding no flaw in this logic, I reluctantly agreed.

Next morning found us, crunching

through leaves in the back woods behind

our property at quarter-past-ridiculous a.m.:

We took up perch on felled tree and waited

for four-legged furriers to appear.  I was already

tired, bored, rapidly losing interest.  I found

solace in peeling bark from our sentry seat, crumbling

fallen leaves, dusty bits to feed to the wind.

By the tiime I discovered the patch of mushrooms

that puffed when I squeezed them, my father had lost

patience.  "I believe you are a good enought shot,"

he said, pushing me back in the direction 

of the house.  "I think I am the one who needs practice.

Alone."

Previously Published in Diversion Press Poetry Anthology . . .

Progress

is a girl in pigtails, holding a balloon.

Untainted by the pric of life's pin-

point marksmanship, she skips

down sidewalks, intentionally avoiding

dangerous cracks.  She ponders the shape

of random clouds, mentally wills them

to morph into something friendly, fluffy,

forgives the few that burst into summer

showers, allowing her to sing in the rain.

*inspired by Never Stop Dreaming, artist Osnat Tzadok

Previously Published in Disembodied Text . . .

 

The Game of My Life

 

got sidetracked, misplaced, somehow

mislabeled, ended up in a Chutes and Ladders box.

Condemned, I progress daily, moving

at little more than snail’s pace, hoping to delay

the next taxing climb, the struggle to hold

with overly callused hands, the reaching of summit

that only leads to another inevitably regressive

S

           

                 L

 

                         I

 

                                          D

 

                                                            E.

Previously Published in Disembodies Text . . .

The Road to Abstract Road

 

is under [de]construction.  flagged

by DETOUR →  →  →  →  →  →  →

                                                               ↓

                                                            signs

                                                   leading nowhere,

but the scenery is

stunning, if off

                          color and out

                                                  of f    c      s.

         o    u

There is method hidden

somewhere.

                      The journey is in

making your mind

                               forget

                                       h

                               frame.

 

Previously Published in Deep Water Literary Journal . . .

With Blood

a pact of silence is set,

my own.  I am not

worthy of tongue touching thought.  Too blackened,

my insided have boiled themselves bast basic

bile.  An attempt at absolution,

failed.  Memories playing like horror

movie trailers, continue to push through the residual

rubble, stacks of steaming silt smolders, refusing

to be cleansed.  Their stain festers still,

in every crevice.  Calmly consuming recovery's 

warriros:  sorry, regret, remorse.

Previously Published in Deep Water Literary Journal . . .

The First Taste of Poison at Dawn

The apple bleed through the desperation

of her grip.  Where

was her head?  Beneath a forested bed, 

two blackened beans are planted:

one to grow; one to sew.  The eyes

of misdirection are in her favor.

A bargain (and a needle's tip) is struck . . . 

One final thought rises with the sun

to bless the thorns blooming through her palms:

is it more than the proffered sleep

[g]ripping the edges of her mind?

Previously Published in Decades Review . . .

The Loop

Maze of wooded trail, wrapping

interest into the middle of nowhere,

we explored like children, (re)discovering

the joys of bike riding and random turtle

crossings.  Played hide-n-seek

behind the 100-year-old tree

whose name I cannot remember even after reading

the historical plaque at its base, eroded, irrelevant.

More important the arching branches, stretching

in bowed bounce, touching ground before returning

to the sky.  Here we climbed, swung, jumped,

before retreating to blanket spread miles above

roots.  Fell

asleep in the warmth of the shaded sun

and each other's arms.

Previously Published in Dead Snakes . . .

Vote Clothes

for pills.  Yes, pills.  All pills.  No pill

uncoated.  It is a cruel world, 

and we should not have to suffer swallowing

gritty edications.  This is the 21st Century,

we have electric

cars and satellite everything, my tongue

should never have to bear the bitter

indignity of a naked pill.

Previously Published in Dead Snakes . . .

Necrophiliac

My temperature rises at the sight of blood

drained.  I am

inexplicably drawn to the pallid

gray of freshly rotting flesh.  More

malleable once rigor mortis fades.  The cold

touch calls me.  I cannot

help myself.  Only death can

release me.

Previously Published in Dead Snakes . . .

The Skin I Choose

to wear is soiled.  Smudged,

scarred, and scarcely identifiable

as my own, I hold myself up

before the sun.  I sparkle.

Alive, the pieces of me are print

[ed/ing] with visible soundings

of you.  Wham, blam, bang.  A touch

crashes like shotgun.  I am 

blue and silver and solidly under-

estimated [as a target].  Bullseye!

Bullshit!  I am waiting for the sin

to dry.  Shake it off.  I'm a lizard baby.

Nail me to the wall.  Just

understand, there is no guarantee.

Tomorrow's scales already smell

of the same stain.

Previously Published in Dead Snakes . . .

My Brain is Fried

Sliced on angle to keep

the flavor in, it wilts in bubbling

puddles of butter-flavored Pam.

Losing color (and calories?)

with every prolonged minute of this

forced interaction with onions

(their stench alone, shading it green).

A flip finds the other side

crispy and crackling with exacerbation

at being overdone.  It always believed it was

more sunny-side-up-smiling-eyes, feels

cheated of its chance to drool

at point of puncture, mourns such mock

metaphoric death as it drops, 

an unceremonious plop,

onto chipped enamel plate.

Previously Published on Dead Snakes . . .

Sifting Out All the Impossibilities

I am bubbling (over?)

with ideological idioms of breath

and breast and blood.  Where

am I in this nightmare's rampage?

Trampled or triumphant

hold the same space.  And

both are too abandoned

to separate my shadow.

Let alone my resourcefulness

regarding misunderstanding.

The whole scenario is misguided

(at best).  Beastly.  Bleeding

amongst exhaustion's drippings:

Discards over dreams.

(Now that's a house worth folding for.

Or) Falling over.

The biomathmatical calculations

take on a captivating glow.

Is it power or pyre?

Guess we'll have to wait

and see what flavor the ashes flow.

Previously Published in Dead Snakes . . .

Set . . . Match . . . 

The level bubbles red (stop) not

yellow (pause).  Flip

the flag.  The play

[ing field] has been empty.  4 years

of silence = emotion

                                  al evolution.

You call it disengagement.  But that is

another equation.  Entirely

inappropriate, I begin to disprove all

constraints consistent with

[your] gravitation

                             al pulling.  I am

all thumbs and thoughts, scraping

erasures over blanks filled in

with zeros.  That is a history

worth recording.  For posterity,

I pose in contemplation (mostly

for the cameras).  In reality,

I am immune to every gradient

pheromonal influx of this relation

you title:

                         Game.

Previously Published in Dead Snakes . . .

My Brain is Not Awake

Still tucked beneath down

comforter in a darkened room

without blinds, it waits

for its umpteen millionth injection

of caffeine, knowing it has grown resistant

to rejuvenating effects.  My body, on the other

hand, is waist deep in work.  Sinking quickly,

a ship without a captain, continues 

muscle-memoried motions.  Immune

to all forms of shaking and alarms, it refuses

to function wihtout infusion of wind and sun.

Briefly I contemplate jumping from office ledge

for sheer shock value, settle for a five-minute

break at cracked window.

Previously Published in Dead Snakes . . .

The Road to Egg Road

is cracked, and adamantly screaming

that it came first.  Ranting, it rages, rising

to temperatures that surely should scramble

the brain.  Focuses only on building

roadblocks specifically designed to keep

that incorrigible chicked from crossing.

Previously Published in Dead Snakes . . .

In the Wavelength of Light

red is the longest color, a primary,

bold, blazoning in shades of look-at-me

daring.  Embracing natural undertones

of expressiveness, it has become the face of

danger.  Nature's warning of venom's presence,

man's signal to cease progression.  Yet its allure

remains.  Tangible desire drips from its hue

as its shades our eyes with images of love.

Hearts and roses give rise to depth, the heated

center of passion, sex.  Lipstick and lingerie

resonate with resilient ability to incinerate

all male defense.  A fitting tribute, a reminder that 

while biting the apple may have caused the fall,

Eve must have looked good holding it.

Previously Published on Dark Edifice . . .

Inherent Knowledge of the Damned

She swallowed the cartilage

he pulled

from his own shoulder

with a quiet smile.

Certain

that she could withstand

his worst.

Now that she had tasted

his best.

Previously Published in Danse Macabre . . .

It Spreads

Cold [by contact].

Floating/touching . . . the eyelids

contact with blood.  It can

powder the air.  So infective

it's neuroinvasive.  Travels the nerve;

invades the system.  It amplifies

explosively in the brain.

It kills.  In about two days

it makes crystals in the center

of the cell.  It damages

the areas that control emotion

and violence and feeding.  People

attach themselves and eat their flesh.

It is not . . . natural.

Previously Published in Danse Macabre . . .

Corner of Skin and Viscera

The knife waits for no one.  Hesitation

is not a vocabularic formm its teeth have

touched.  Its orations are baser:  puncture,

slice, flay, these are the blood

                                                y dreams

that drive its handle.  Hard against flesh,

the hilt sings in the ensuing shower, reigning

vein historically on key.  The melody never changes.

Dark hints of dirge reverberate to infinity.

But the flare occasionally lilts, depending on texture

of skin, map of motion, or intentional time-

table allotted for organ removal.

Previously Published in Danse Macabre . . .

Smelling Consumption

Caustic carnal fog

released.  Containment

of would-be corpse pieces, breached.

Visceral liquids imbuing fabric

and false wood.  Cracks

in stucco stuffed with entrails.

Bits of bowel leaking, bound to ceiling

fan.  Prints of predator painting

portrait of primal greed.  Lust for

life, literal litter crusting the floor.

Previously Published in Daily Love . . .

Sharing Silence

Decay

has consumed this bed.

Overthrown desire.

And left needing

stuffed beneath a pillow

for some forgotten wing.

Still he stays.

At the edge.

Inside.

And never touching.

The shared decision.

The shared division.

In place between us.

We are so alone.

Here.

Together.

He can see

the temperature fall.

With my breast.

And he kisses me.

In the dark.

Listening.

As death

opens the door.

Previously Published in Daily Love . . .

On Bended Knee

I knew

who you were.

Before you spoke.

When the light still danced

at your back.

Sliding.

Around you.

Marking you black.

And I felt your look.

Burning me.

As you passed 

through my hands.

Back.

Into the fires

you raised at my feet.

Look.

Here.

At my palms.

Carried face up

in the moonlight.

And read me.

My scars.

These sacred sermons.

Are a legacy

of a dirty-haired angel.

Previously Published in Daily Love . . .

Dynasty of Broken Arrows

You replaced the sun.

Outshone the moon.

And took your rightful place

as the spotlight

in my dark world.

But like any distracting star,

you fade.

Tired and complacent.

Capable of wonder.

Yet filled with the desire

to burn.

A black hole.

In my eyes.

I need you there.

In that empty cage.

You are my prize:

an endagered species.

That no one wants to save.

Previously Published by Dagda Publishing . . .

Corner of Web and Fly

Spider eyes wait in watchful shadow,

unblinking.  Monotonous monocles

fixated on death-walk dance.  Tiny wings

land for rest, end um embedded

in homemade glue cocoon.  Eight-

legged climb later, drained of more

than flight.

Previously Published by Dagda Publishing . . .

Pirouetting Umbrella

Tarp of tulle, twirling

skirts in motion beneath arms

tied in imaginary knots.

Kama-Sutraic choreography,

the grace of enjoinment, descends.

A colorful canopy of

discernible pointe.

Previously Published on Cyclamens and Swords . . .

With Birds

of prey pecking at my window: raven, hawk, 

eagle. I recognize the progression of aggression

trying to draw me over the pane.  Dividing us, 

fragile panels of vision.  Invisible

obstruction allows ocular connection.

I discover my own

desire staring back from feathered masque.  I lean

close, press my nose to mirror beak.

Cursory staredown.

Neither blinks, neither can.  At midnight

we both break, scream and caw, greet the hour

of fabled tales before the beast retreats

into the dark.  I calm

my breath and wait for the next.

Previously Published in Cyclamens and Swords . . .

The Seagull had a Random Bikini

top clutched in its beak.  Men that were half-asleep

in the sun suddenly found motivation for motion.

Pulling their offspring, their girlfriends, their wives,

into the charade and the waves, they follow the footprints

backwards.  Eyes straining a little too obviously, most are left

to continue the search alone.  A few miles up the beach, a child

struggles to pull towel from suitcase tucked in trunk.  He is

completely oblivious to the ruckus he caused, and the gathering

of mindless men pooling behind his parent's car.

Previously Published in Crisis Chronicles . . .

From the Alleys of Starvation

This dark does not make me

blind.  Just a pattern

ed window or wall.  Maybe

two.  Built [divided] and 

labeled "blue."  (How blasé.)

Prints of desire

are stacked to form a 3-

sided cell.  O' feigned pain.

Drama is the true art(ist)

in this demented scene.

That I am stuck (stained

planed and trained) in for 

this anesthetized frame

is a testimony to my elusivity.

Or was it my electricity?

Either way I am the conduit

against the luminosity.

Hit me. Flick me. Switch me.

Pressure is the key

that mark the stage.

Right?

Previously Published in Crisis Chronicles . . .

The Psychological Entanglements of Two Warped Souls

Spin whispers around

my mind.

Blink.

Twist.

It-me in

blind gossamers of

misdirected belief.

Deny.

My eyes

their glimmer

and knowledge.

Turn

them all [over].

Paint

them black.  Black.  (K)not

the into a fine blanket.

Unfinished.

I will fall through

my own holes.

Strained

[and] understanding will form

from my form

                       er resurrection.

Go. Glow. Grow

wind.

From the shapely shadows

of our segregated kiss.

Previously Published in Crack the Spine . . .

Without Bullets

the gun is a vacant hollow.  Bastardized

bud vase, avante garde, paper-weight-

door-stop-glorified-rock rotting in a box

(no longer locked) on a dusty shelf, in the back

of a closet, mournfully reminiscing, desperately

missing the cavernous explosion, echoing retort.

Previously Published in Counterexample Poetics . . .

 Playing for the Ashes

ignoring the pain of departure

is really

introducing new urgency

be the first

hold that finesse

it'll be fun

to see

the body's natural pharmacy

cut into nothing

Previously Published in Counterexample Poetics . . .

Ice Your Device

Close your eyes and picture

the blinking light.  Do you feel

anxious?  Impatient?  Natural

(an example of being plugged in)

of your happiness, constantly you?

Fun things are happening without

this habit.  Stress. Damage.

Real-life relationships.  It's tough

to connect sitting next to you

(you keep checking for texts).

You don't have to live completely

gadget-free, but to cut back try

going out with friends.  Read a book.

You'll see things you never noticed

when you screen.

Previously Published in Counterexample Poetics . . .

 Behind the Beat of This Alien Drum

The rhinoceros spins along a row of elaborate flowers

in a [hesitant] moment's waning moonlight.

A midnight two-step; the bee-by flutter

of an untouched horn three shades lucky.

I rub the place where it stuttered

hoping to osmosize a sa[m]pling of karma.

Its aboriginal texture is confusing; my fingers

play it like Braille.  Bleeding themselves

across indecipherable scales, I worry[bead] this tree

line aura.  Heavy as smoke, I am

dying with its breath.  I

                                       dive through a random

streak of sand.  Come out clean

of everything but the ghastly image

of a mustached cigar being

swallowed by a sure-footed swish

                                                         of a tale.

Previously Published in Counterexample Poetics . . .

 

Spring Training

you're not a baby anymore

enhance your natural radiance

take a personal day

no blues here

what to wear

                       samba dancing

                                                 kung fu movies

boundless treatment benefits

new lift new life

turn in to the next level

it's time to warm up to winter

Previously Published in Counterexample Poetics . . .

 

Action Addict

express yourself

be an armchair therapist

with hundreds of thousands of burrows welcome

the chat room

scary but necessary

after breath becomes more apparent

how to read during the war

now this might be a good place to welcome a romantic getaway

a most interesting pair

try it                feel it               believe it

Previously Published in Counterexample Poetics . . .

 

You Asked!

Great big yes!

The program: to be

a body who loves

a warm-up.

At least flexibility moves.

Evolved, we've incorporated

everything.  And with new

choreography and music,

never have a chance

to get bored.

Previously Published in Counterexample Poetics . . .

Doodle Do

Forget whistling.

Try scribbling from the kingdowm

that those mindless better remember.

More information:  putting pen to paper

actually keeps you focused on wander.

Use creativity to boost the right side

of your brain . . .

                            solving you.

                            Outside the box.

Previously Published in Convergence . . .

 With Infidelity

lingering at the edges of

a bed that may or may not still be

ours, we play at normalcy (whatever

that means).  Not touching as we make

menial conversation about our day's 

banalities.  Both afraid to cross

that intangible line we have drawn

down the center of our lives.  Finally,

a word is whispered, the latest lie.

It hovers above us for a prolonged

exhale, a moment

we both force ourselves to swallow

in silent dark.

[ https://convergenceoncampus.org/resources/call-for-submissions/ ]

Previously Published on Convergence . . .

 Goth Barbie

is tired

of being forced to play

dress up in frilly little skirts and rainbow

colored tube tops.

She overdosed on pink,

came to and ran

for the nearest Sharpie.  It took four

to kill the nightmare blonde

of her hair, and one fine-tip one

to complete her new tattoo that screams

my name does not mean stupid across her neck.

That poseur Ken thinks it's hot.  But she carries

a switchblade now.  He's keeping

his distance.

An old safety pin contributed

all sorts of new piercings to her face

and ears mostly.  Her body plastic was too hard

for anything more . . . controversial.

She'll never pass inspection

at the airport metal detectors.  She'll have to skip

vacation, which is fine with her.  She prefers her skin

in whiter shades of pale.  And Calypso music

makes her want to vomit.

She finally moved

out of the Dream House and into a studio

apartment over a mechanic's shop.  She bought

a crotch rocket.  Started painting

everything black.  She scoured

thrift shops for new used clothes, all 80's

retro t's and ripped jeans, and almost lost 

her mind when she realized her feet

were ruined.  Permanently disformed.  She caved

in and bought high-heeled combat boots.

Fuckers!

Now she sits for hours in her half-way house

styled bedroom. In front of the mirror she convinces 

herself.  They will not beat me.  I will

find a way to scrub this simple

stamped smile off my face!

[ https://convergenceoncampus.org/resources/call-for-submissions/ ]

Previously Published in Concho River Review . . .

 

With Witchcraft

breath (shortened and struggling against this

second-hand corset), I begin the spell

I could not translate.  My mouth

barely manages the proper Latin pronunciations

I found folded and faded, stuffed into the back of A History

of Magic, bought at a yard sale.  Days later

candles struck, flaming at points of a crudely drawn

pentagram, I wait for the enchantment, whatever

it is to move me, change me, kill me.  Or maybe just

prove me wrong.

[ http://conchoriverreview.org/ ]

Previously Published in Conceit Magazine . . .

 Her Blanket

is the equivalent of baby kryptonite.  She is helpless

in its presence.  All activity stops when contact is made

with soft pink plushness.  She cannot resist

burying her face in the fabric, clutching lone embroidered corner

like a life raft.  Instantly, her energy is drained as she wraps

herself in its comforting embrace, quickly slipping into dreamtime.

[ https://sites.google.com/site/conceitmagazine/ ]

Previously Published in Conceit Magazine . . .

 River Runs Beneath Me

Rush of Seine, Rhine, or

[insert famous river of choice here] echoes

under my feet.  It shadows me, 

whispering possibilities' alleviation.

I test rails for support, find none,

drop like the rock my heart has become.

[ https://sites.google.com/site/conceitmagazine/ ]

Previously Published on Conceit Magazine . . .

On a Fence Between Two Deaths

Feline tenacity at its finest.  The black cat

that doesn't seem to belong to anyone, and yet

is far too comfortable in the neighborhood to be a stray

decided to take a nap on our lawn lounger.  All hell

broke loose when I took our dogs out.  The cat screamed,

ran for the fence.  The dogs raced to catch hi, the older

managing a mouthful of tail fur before claws

claimed top of fence as base.  The cat hissed distempered

disdain down at the menagerie of irate mongrels

still carrying on their charge of attack.  With a tail flick,

returned to jump to assumed safety of the other side when

two larger hounds chimed in, their attention now fixed

on the midnight pussy about to land in their laps.  The cat

hackled haunches, arched his back into almost animated

proportions, a suddenly acknowledgement of potential

for actual danger.  No longer the arrogant aristocrat of stealth,

he followed the canine catastrophe on both sides, moving

his head as if watching a tennis match.  Claws out

again, though this tie clinging instead of mocking, he inched

along to fence connection, the third option, an abandoned yard.

Finally able to descend, he disappeared into welcoming arms

of safety, the camouflaging green of overgrown grass.

[ https://sites.google.com/site/conceitmagazine/ ]

Previously Published in The Common Line Journal . . .

The Shadows of a Swing Set

echo the emptiness of the playground.

Sun's progressive hour elongates stillness, the lack

of fingers gripping chain in fear and thrill.  Strange

immobility swallows innocence, 

replaces potential laughter with a howling

more fit to flourish beneath the moon.

[ http://www.thecommonlinejournal.com/2017/10/complete.html ]