December 31st, 2009

it's snowing in the
park and small yellow patches
appear as pups play.

an uptight lezzie-
type gets up-in-arms as her
hound chews up some sticks.

'if sticks were bad for
dogs, then they'd be extinct' is
what i always say.

an old man plops down
next to me, announcing his
laundry list of health

conditions, rambling
about the importance of
D-3 and whatnot.

i keep quiet now,
watching as folks come and go
through the veil of white.

tonight in Baltimore

this snow falls quiet,
accumulating on your
black poodle until

she shakes her pristine
body, tail, curls in a sine
wave under a lone

street lamp narrated
only by the low hum of
electricity

from a neighbors Christmas
lights, and the scrape of a snow
plow so far away.

in today's news

two pigeons fight for
buffalo wings disturbing
nature's order, me

status update, 8:05 EST

currently humbled
by crippling garlic breath
and empty wallet.

how we hug in our land.

we do not cuddle

here in our bed, cause it is

too darn hot and the

covers get twisted

and we feel trapped. yet in

the quiet of the night

our hungry fingers

scuttle across boundaries

to nuzzle and knot;

clandestine meetings

unbeknownst to our bodies

still stiff with slumber.

for my cat

you, cat, you! madam!
jealous of diurnal beasts
that bask in sunshine!

you! with your tiny
feet that gleefully pierce the
flesh they dance upon!

in these wee hours
as you sneak and spy and all
but steal our last breaths!

rainy day at 14 B

today the cat sleeps
in loaf pose and my boyfriend
shares his candy bar

as the rain patters
in perfect mandelbrot sets
in puddles below

whoopsies.

sorry momma. i
just done spent all my youth and
beauty in one place.

is heaven any sweeter than Blue Jean?

new denim swallows
each leg; blue pythons making
my ass worth slapping.

party like it's 0037

on this day i drank
the blood of christ before noon
and took a load off.

all wet.

early morning storm
homeless man in garbage bag
taxicab asshole.

today I was a teacher.

her breath is stinky,
sweet, and sour. it worms through
my nostrils, alive.

knotty flax flosses
cling to the lunch still in the
corners of her lips.

i am angry, but
suddenly granted relief,
tenderness, humor

by this funny child
with dirty, jagged nails that
beg to snag the silk

of my new blouse as
she wraps her arms around my
middle and thanks me.

around the neighborhood

pigeon on ice block
ivy choking seatless bike
frothy pee puddle

1987

had no idea what
virginity was, but knew
you should have mine, too.

tomato poem

fingers slide within
each atrium expressing
a bounty of seeds,

gelatinous and
protected, gifts for the soil,
now ooze down the drain

the blond

wincing, she weeps tears
of milk beneath my filed nails
as they dig deeper

between her tight, shiny,
tender kernels. i'm ripping
out her yellow hair,

tearing her limb from
limb. when i'm through, i place her
in a crowded bowl.

she lies naked with
her friends, waiting for a bath--
hot, cleansing, salted.

naughty boy

my cat, Karate,
sits in a basket. his eyes,
flickering flashlights.

red fruit.

had a plum today.
not some cheap, bull shit one from
the grocery store,

but a real, good plum.
with red bejeweled flesh
and tart, tender skin.

i sucked it til
the fruit was no more, clenching
the pit in my teeth.

at this moment.

they're shreiking, screaming,

the children nextdoor; their squeals

disturb and torment.

mad captive monkeys,

nimble fingers picking locks,

ready for mayhem.

15 $

'her name's Miracle'

the old woman says. she's large

and panting beneath

a bright beating sun.

Miracle traces her tiny thumb

across my thigh while

she hugs me, smiling.

I wake from my reverie,

sun-drunk and drunk-drunk

and watch as they drift

away from me, down the beach,

my money in hand.

boys and horses

beautiful boys

ride beautiful horses

the sea laps the shore

filthy animal.

my dog siouxsie sioux
cocks her head at the grey rat
deflated roadside.

for the little ones.

one, two, pile of poo
three, four, syringe wash'd ashore
five, six, piles of bricks

sev'n, eight, paper plate
nine and ten, the garbage men
wave and say hello.

eager beaver

husky woman in

bikini passionately

deep throats foot-long sub.

es ist ein wiener!

emboldened lad

unzips and whizzes in bush,

nosy krauts look on.

good morning

he glistens like a

porpoise, the man bathing in

the drinking fountain

pita

whilest on my mid late
afternoon trot i happen
upon an open

door. inside is a
magical world of ovens
and conveyor belts.

trains of flat breads zip
by, monorails and skyways.
i stop, stare, and smell.

a man in white wipes
his brow, adjusts his hairnet,
and sighs, 'damn its hot.'

somehow i manage
to ignore the layer of
bird droppings that coat

the exterior
walls and dumpsters of dough and
say, 'but it smells good.'

grapesque

woman with wiener
dogs exits elevator,
smells of purple gum.

sidewalk treasures

ice cream cone (melted).
single child-sized croc (torquoise).
pigeon (grey, headless).

pathetic at 6:37 EST

risked life and limb
to retrieve hard boiled
egg from dispose-all.

poem in my pocket day

poem in my pocket day, or some gifts for you

and here is the part
where i confess that i'm a
complete, shameless fraud

in the attic

in the attic, or the suspended wire

talking over wine
he says that memory is
a delicate web;

infinitely thin
silken threads linking all our
dreams, shames, and knowledge.

as time slips through the
waist of the hour glass, the
web evolves, rebuilds.

once supported by
the magical structure of
our mind, riches and

shiney treasures rot,
becoming ancient relics,
attained only by

a single quaking
tendril, a clothes line clinging
among the ruins.

dream # 24

all my teeth fall out.
in their wake? warm sockets, rich
like buttery beef.

what i learned today on NPR (or, in afghanistan)

7 year old babe
says mommie my head hurts and
so she gives him smack.

for people that don't know what it feels like to be an asshole, or

Grace

the heavy woman
meanders in front of me,
wildly blemishing

the glorious
hypotenuse that i've mapped
out as my course home.

i kick some crumpled
paper in passive protest;
she pauses, then turns around

slowly, like a globe.
'i'm sorry' she sighs sadly
and then steps aside.

for sarah

my dear chace crawford:
run a comb through that rat's nest
A S A P, son.

because you put on show tunes

tears dry from my cheeks
as tequila drips from the
lip of a cool glass

forming a ring that
gnaws through the varnish of our
antique teak table

yesterday, 10:24 a.m.

uber thin colleague
combines water, milk, splenda,
consumes with gusto

1/4 moisturizer

thug dudes that smell of
dove soap must have ladies at
home to keep them clean

ahoy, old man

perfectly creased pants
sneezes into white hankies
old timey wrist watch

goddess of the moon

i need you now for
chatting and mayhem; we'll shake
asses, tits, cocktails

until the sun's up
and our livers are strung up
and hung out to dry

for my cats and Sarah's dog

hear ye, hear ye, my
domesticated friends! while
your observance of

cleanliness is in
earnest, i beg you, please stop
licking my blisters!

now sit down and shut up (ode to jeff)

you need fractions to
be a neurologist, kid.
this is three-quarters:

worms tunnel through an
entire hemisphere and
half of the other.

we all look a little worse for wear

beneath the scowl of
fluorescent lights, you try on
wedding gowns, grayed and

frayed at their hems, while
i audition face lifts and
feign glee, interest.

they don't pay me enough to care (ode to teaching)

i know the sun shines
out your ass, but i forgot
my vintage ray-bans

and you forgot that
i don't give a fucking fuck
about what you think.

even numbers

it's ten past eight and
six drinks in, and four eyes watch
indifferent while

two fingers take a
hasty plunge, busy until
the door clicks open

jesus and christ!

'guess what today is?'
'thursday! almost the weekend--
thank god!' 'hmm. not quite.'

i'll carry this guilt
til next year, when i manage
to forget again.

when the cat sleeps on your dress shirts

she wanders out of
the bedroom, lazy, lusty,
langorous, glancing

at me askew while
she stretches, knowing she can
do poses i can't

or won't; but the worst
is the smell on her bosom
green, briney, complex

gin, cologne, dunhills
deals, desire and intrigue
that i'll never know

fuck cooking.

a flaccid carrot
beats a flaccid penis, though
both are such a waste.

DONE!

'i see you've made a
face with your food.' 'it's what the
civilized folks do.'