Earmuffs

My ears are so cold
I want to use your warm sweet

thighs as my earmuffs

Turn

Waiting at the red light
This is the turn
the right turn I took
so many nights
after the bars closed
after everyone went
somewhere
with someone

I, alone, in my car
waiting for the light to turn
but I hang a right on red
driving on instinct
on muscle memory
not sure if my eyes are open
at this after hours after hour
until I pull into your drive

And I don’t know how you knew
how you always knew
sitting on the porch
with two steaming hot cups of tea
on the small round table

Maybe its been a week
Maybe a month, two months, three months
Maybe yesterday
Since I pulled into your drive

You’re waiting for me
You open my door
fold me into you
I breathe you in

We stand
until I feel safe enough to sit
The tea has gone tepid
We drink anyway
We sit there, on your porch
the sky pinks
the stars disappear

 

The ice Floes

I’ve left my mates, dying, on tundra tracks

Opening the small tins of potted meat

Discover just sawdust inside to eat

I sledged, exhausted, past the icy cracks

Whether cold, scurvy, or evil attacks

Dragging myself, my tent, my stove for heat

Despair. I stagger on, with frozen feet

I dream my mates are dead, piled in stacks

Arctic summer flowers, it lasts a night

I press on, snow blind, wind howls, black toes

I press on, voices sing, strip off my clothes

Arctic winter sullen, it ends a life

Perhaps, they’ll find my smiling corpse one day

Perhaps, they’ll leave a marker where I lay.

Winner 1st Place 2019 FSPA Petrarchan Sonnet

Wool Jacket

You never said a word.

“What did you do in the war, Daddy?”

“I was in Italy.

Four years in Italy.

I came back, mostly in one piece.”

I button the heavy wool

suitable for mountains and trenches

but not the Florida sunshine.

Go outside to smoke a cigarette

blowing smoke rings

like you taught me.

The match glow highlights my bones

so I look like you.

Silent, too thin, lost in that hell

which left you with a limp

a long skinny scar

from midspine to thigh

and a Purple Heart

you kept in your sock drawer.

“Nothing to say, baby girl.

I went. I came home.”

I mash out the cigarette in a seashell

and bury my face in the musty wool of

Daddy’s war.

Winner 1st Place 2017 FSPA Lt George Birkner Memorial Award

The Quest for the Holy Grail

Hot

Juicy

Toothsome

Sliding down my throat

Gooey stringiness

Accented with texture

Spongy exterior with a

Solid interior

Just a tad salty

Now that’s what I call

A perfect mushroom-swiss burger

Checkers

99 cents

Arbor Wist

Arbor Wist

Spread wide, I drape the arbor

With scent and scattered petals

Shadow evocation of little girls with

Frill filled baskets.

Bored, alone, I gaze across the path,

Over the stone wall

To the St Johns

That now deserted waterway

Once a hotbed of commerce.

A sculler crew plies their craft

Stroke stroke stroke

The murmur of the drummaster beating galley time.

A child stands on the wall,

Her mother paralyzed with fear

Until a stranger throws an arm out,

Swings the child to safety

And carries her off to the sprawling banyon tree.

I hear him say, climb here. Mama, come, she’s fine.

The stranger approaches me

Takes a seat on my concrete bench

Dabbles his toes in lily pond

Staring out at the amber sky.

He turns to the woman,

The woman I hadn’t notices in my sculling revery.

She clasps an open copy of Virgil’s Aeneid.

The murmuring was her voice, slow Latin,

Rounding the words.

He turns to her, intent on her profile,

the curve of her nose

the length of her fingers on the page.

Leans over and brushes the scar on her shoulder with his lips.

I drop some petals on her book

And close my vines around them.

The Joy of Cleaning

There were few things she excelled at, few things she was even good at, but, by golly, she could clean.

Properly outfitted in headscarf, pinafore, heavy duty to the elbow rubber gloves, a bucket of hot, soapy water by her side, spray bottles of bleach, vinegar and foam cleaner clipped to her utility belt, steel wool scrubbies and polishing clothes in various pockets, bathroom grime was doomed.

Stripping towels, shower curtains and mats, she sprayed the shower enclosure with one of her magic concoctions and poured some vinegar into the toilet tank before tossing them into the wash, set on a hot/warm cycle. She returned to the bath, the aforementioned magic concoctions having already done a good deal of the work for her.  All the doodads that accumulated on the vanity were placed in shallow tray filled with warm water and a splash of bleach.  The toothbrushes and combs soaked in a mixture of boiling water and industrial strength peroxide.

She scrubbed from top to bottom, rinsed the walls, then sprayed the walls with hot water to remove any soap residue. Next, she wrapped the shower nozzle in a plastic bag with a few tablespoons of vinegar to dissolve the mineral deposits that accumulated in the spray holes.  An old towel made the toilet sparkle, after a good scrubbing with foam cleaner and disinfection with bleach. She switched to a non-abrasive polishing cloth for the granite counter.  The drawer faces and pulls, the towel bars, light switch plate, door knobs, even the door hinges were subject to her attention.

The timer clipped to her collar beeped, indicating it was time to put the shower curtains into an extra hot dryer just long enough to release the wrinkles. She hung the curtain, now dry and algae free, then reset the dryer for an hour to dry the towels and mats. She went over the floor again, wiping down the coving and using a cotton swab in the corners. 

The timer beeped again for the towels.  She enjoyed folding the warm towels into thirds, hanging them so the seams faced the same way, aligning the hand towels on top of the bath sheets, folding and stacking the washcloths and placing them on the wrought iron towel rack.

The bathroom didn’t just smell clean, it smelled hygienic. 

Everything was neat and shiny.  The towels were crisp, the shower curtain draped just so, the doodads replaced, the combs were back in the hair accessory holder. Soap slivers had been removed and replaced with a new bar of soap. The antibacterial liquid soap container had been replaced with a new one, appropriate to the season. The artificial flowers in the corner vase had been vacuumed. The toothbrushes, floss and dental pics were in the toothbrush tray and all four tubes of toothpaste were in a row, the ends neatly rolled up.

She smiled, surveying her morning’s work.

The Missus walked in, gave her a cold nod, picked up one of the toothpaste tubes and squeezed it, right in the middle. 

Black Thing

im going to stay here until they go away

im going to stay right here in the closet

oh stop smirking not that kind of closet

no one in this family is in that kind of closet

im in a for real closet                                                                                                            

my favorite closet way up on the top shelf sprawled across the hatboxes of military helmets collapsible toppers berets fedoras souwesters and bowlers where i can inhale the leather scent of the mans jackets  

its quiet up here with the good smell of leather and man sweat

i dont like the hubbub the crowds in the living room kitchen bedrooms

even the bathroom where the man keeps my box

the apartment is full of people

the mans sister

his friend

his friends siamese bitch

yes i know a bitch is a dog but i am using the other meaning of the word

you dont insult my intelligence and i wont insult yours

at least ill try not to insult yours whatever intelligence you have anyway

so many other people that i am dizzy with the smells

i am too old and fat to avoid their legs

keep their heels off my tail and their hands off me

i dont like when they touch me 

i dont like strange people touching me

i belong to the man

 

im not even sure how i managed to get up here

its been years since i climbed the coats but now i am here

up on top of the hatboxes in the warm quiet

so quiet up here away from everything everyone all over

im going to stay up here until they go away and the man helps me down

i hope he comes soon

he should be looking for me i think 

such a long time since he fed me

since anyone fed me even the mans friend or the mans sister

they give me dry food but the man shares real food with me and I bring him presents

okay I used to bring him presents when I was younger

he even made a poster for the door with a scorecard because he is proud of my hunting

ill just take another little nap while i wait

its late

its so very late

i know its late because im very hungry and i want down

when the man gets me ill pretend to be annoyed and hiss but i hope he comes soon

maybe when he gets me down he will be sorry for forgetting me and he will hold me and give me treats and stroke my fur and play make believe and put me in the hats and take pictures of me like we used to do before when we were young and sleek and not grey anywhere

hes gotten so thin

i wish i could give him some of my fatness

i wish i could

im so fat now i take up his whole lap and the rest of the sofa too 

he pushes me off because his stomach hurts all the time so I go up on the back of the sofa to nuzzle his neck and watch the fireplace with him

i know what ill do

ill call him and he will come and reach way up and say come here black thing you silly old black thing what are you doing up there all alone and pull me down and hold me and take me to sit on the sofa with him

im going to call him now

man

maaaaaannnn

oh man come get me man

if you get me down we can sit in the living room and i will do the firefly dance on the windowsill and play peekaboo with the curtains to make you laugh and i will bring you a present

oh maaaaaannnn my man come get me please

i wish he'd come get me

im lonely up here

i dont want to be up here anymore

why doesnt he come

he always comes when i call

where is he            

where is my man

i wish everyone would just go away already so the man can get me and sit on the sofa with me and watch the fireplace and eat sardines right out of the can and itll be me and him and everything will be okay like before

First, Last

"Alright, but this is the last time." There is never a last time, not with him, not with her. Every time is a first time or an again time or perhaps a last time for today, but never ever a last last time.
I love my disciples.

Adjusting the clinchers, I made a mental note to refurbish the linings. The padding was thinning out and that could be, if not dangerous, certainly uncomfortable. The zippers, too, needed a quick spray with WD-40, and the safety locks. They weren't as smooth as they should be.

I like my zippers quiet.

They look so pretty hanging there, nude except for their matching cuffs, hoods and those heavy, heart-shaped lockets attached to their collars, sweat running the formal lacework design I'd painted on earlier, a touch of whimsy provided by horsehair and Trimtex acrylic paint. I'd considered doing a sharpy design a la Jigglypuff, but removing sharpy from flesh is tedious.

Leaning back in the swing, I kicked until I could grab the handle by the switch-pad and flick it.. It would have been easier to walk, but the swing, a cutaway tire, amused me. It was so iconoclastic, so irreverant, to have an old tire swing here. I'd picked up a rotating clothes rack at a dry cleaner's going-out-of-business sale and it had proven to be one of the best investments I'd made in terms of furnishing my studio: inexpensive, unique, multipurpose. They swayed as the rack rotated through and around the room, toes a few inches from the floor.

Then Clara sagged and her foot caught against a sawhorse and broke off.
Oh, dear. That will never do.

I stopped the conveyor and picked up the foot. A clean break, quite dried out. I poked Wilhelm's limbs and torso. He was dried out, too. Were they that dried out when I painted them the other day? I'm not sure.

I released the clamps and removed the hoods. Yes, those zippers definitely needed a spray of WD-40. Folded them neatly into a barrel and threw Clara's foot in after her.

No more play time for them after all.

When we got to the dump, I rolled the barrel to the edge of the sludge pond. Gave it a gentle nudge. "Ready for a ride, children? Alright, but this really is the last time."

Anywhere But Here

"Not everything is an omen. You don't have to ascribe meaning. Let it be what it is." He reached out-oh, that's a symbolic choice of words, maybe I can use it somewhere- and pressed me against him. I was limp. "You have to stop this. You're going to make yourself sick again. Why won't you let me help you? Why can't you trust me?"

Eyes closed, I breathe short, shallow breaths, willing myself away, anywhere but here, anywhere but with him and his ardor. I am afraid. His intensity makes me afraid. It is easier to go back to what I was, to the evil familiar than to believe. He pulls me onto his lap and rocks me, face buried in my hair. I can feel the heat from his palms against my thigh, against the slope of my hip.

"Do I need to get a mirror? You are the only person I know who can lower their temperature at will, still their heartbeat to almost... Don't do this to me. Don't stop your heart beating. Don't go away. Baby, please, you're my joy, you're what I never dreamed of, you're my fantasy girl in every way I know and in ways I didn't eve know were possible."

I feel the wetness on my cheek, where his face touches mine. I used to cry all the time but he doesn't know that. He cries more than I do, at least, more than I do now. Hell, he does everything more than I do. Intense, plunging with his whole self, an adrenaline junky, tempting me with caves full of bats and fool's gold and diamond dust, hairpin turns and double parachutes, while I hang back, hover at the ocean's edge, salt to my ankles and no more.

Until the hurricane force of him drenches me, flays my flesh and leaves me clean, raw, new.

"I can't. I'm afraid."

"You've been afraid your whole life. Me, too. Now, with you, I feel right. Please, baby, I am yours, I am so yours, all of me, anything you want, anything I can give you. Let me be yours. Let me give you an iota of what you've given me."
He is so hot against me, hands searing my open wounds. The cynic is back and tells me, "Its hormones and madness, hot flashes and confusion," while the child crawls under the blanket of his heat and falls asleep, safe in his arms. I open my mouth and he salts the cinders on my tongue.

Chef Salad

Hunger spills over, wraps around strangers, eager to respond.
Waiting to take a bite, taste, chew, press against the upper palate,
smooth or gritty on the teeth, thin as water, thick as an oil slick, bubbly,
sweeping up to shore, covering random pelicans and otters.


Sauces, meats and tofu and vegetables all diced into interchangeable cubes,
heated surface a rumpled, now-neglected bed wondering who'll be next,
so ready I can see the waves rise up to me, beckoning.


Nursing my drink, I watch the chef, thinking,
He doesn't have to do that. Not for me, anyway.
All I need to feed my hunger is already here.

Foibles of Youth

My daughter, joyous in the newness of love,
rifles through my closet,
evaluating shoes and doodads
taking into her room this that the other.
I smile and pass the baton.

Somewhere Over the Rainbow

They banned kites.
‘Too distracting to vehicular traffic' as it careens down onto the Belt Parkway.
But once upon, the sky was a crayola pastiche.
Laying here, at the end of nowhere, two Japanese box kites dance,
the cherry blossoms framing their tails, sky so close.
Smaller here, at the Gardens, bits and pieces of scent hover, gardenia, roses, rot, heavy.
How do the kites stay up in the hevy air?
Before they had an ocean. Swallows, diamonds and yes the ubiquitous Japanese box kites,
elaborate flying machines lost in a blue so big the steamers passing underneath were toys.
Curlicue tails tickle me, wrap around my big toe and sink their teeth in.
I hold the tendrils, up here, where I can touch the roof of the world and mourn the finite space below

We're Not in Kansas Anymore

Ellis Amber-Eyes stares out,
little girl lost in a bed of poppies
perchance to sleep, perchance to dream.
The Scarecrow and the Tinman
Brainless and Heartless, leave her there.

How could anyone be so stupid, leaving a child alone, unprotected
in a world of backed up sewage and mold encrusted corners?
How could anyone be so cruel, leaving a child alone, unprotected
trails of candy and lost kitties to be found?

But Ellis Amber-Eyes, smooths the grassy knoll, lays herself down in the poppies,
thick scent cozy tucked up to her chin.
She won't remember her dreams.

If she's lucky.

That Smell

The shirt smells.
Clean, from the drawer, but it smells.
Chemicals, sweat, sulphur, decomposition.
Is it the water? The detergent?
Or the pack of animals with full time run of the house?
I slip it on and choke back bile.
Cigarette soaked hair smells better than this,
this not-scent of wet fur but something worse, far worse.
I scrub with bleach, but the damned smell won’t come out.

Candle Lighting

She lights one candle, then another
A whole row of candles, the first melted away before she's lit the last.
Turns to me, looking for approval, looking for a sign.
A sign that I love her, that I'll always love her, that I won't leave anymore.
It kills me, the leaving, the constant leaving.
Leaving is being.
Unless I stay
and another part of me leaves, so I can breath.
The candles burn, use up the oxygen.
Where does the fire go, after?
My fingers climb the smoke wisp, looking for a way out.

Empty Station

The train is gone.
The ducks, too.
Night is silent.
Sucks the sound from me.
Hornets sleep, long sleep.
Dark cradles the hive, just enough to encourage sleep.
Standing here, listening to nothing,
missing the buzz under my skin.
When they wake, fear nausea reaches down and pulls my guts out.
Pulls them right out, piles them on the floor and puts a candle on top.
Happy birthday to the end of the world as we know it.

Echoes

Falling off the frozen wasteland
like the bad old days
but tonight
on your side of the bed.
Inhale dreams you left here

Where?

Roll over. Alone. Pillows confuse me,
pile pushed up against my back mimic you,
somewhere else tonight.

Palms dance on papyrus flesh, serifs and punctuation marks.
We savor the sentences we write.
Quotation marks fighting sleep, searching the other.

Drink it black, regular, sucralose, decaf. Coffee whore.
Anything goes in my mouth,
indifferent to the taste.

But tea? Sultan of this harem,
clarity, aroma, texture, taste.
It is another facet of a diamond in the making.

Skim Milk and Cream

It hurts to drive away. And I know it hurts you.
You tell me that, often enough. No comfort, hearing, saying it.
No comfort stating facts.

If it were a relief-
not-so-sweet parting, looked forward to relief
-like all the others, ones, tens, dozens of others,
I'd be sad.
But it would be a relief. And I'd have me, my time.

It's not.

Living on skim milk, crumbs, a prisoner in solitary,
You feed me cream, chunks of cake, coat my palate with richness.
With you.
Stuffing ourselves for hibernation, gaunt again after a few days.
A few hours. Minutes. Seconds.


I am awake, conscious. Wishing I still slept.
Can't sleep anymore, too cold to sleep, too hungry to sleep.
The little match girl sits; her belly growls in the icy rain.
Fantasy in smoke warms her but that only for a match flare.
She has boxes of matches and will use them all, trying to stay warm.
Trying.