screaming kettle

come to me you stolen moments
those pseudonymous pleasures
walk the night with me for the day
as lovely as it was, hung very chill
your touches and glances, never
will I forget how they sank to bone
even when I was content
I felt more or less alone, without
the comfortable stroke of fingers
down my naked thigh, their magic
part of me at the cellular level
your lips in my ear calling me ‘petal’
ignoring the screaming kettle
intermittently making me sigh


yesterday, we

wind chimes tangled with the drapes
the phone rang

an unexpected flood
(the ending did not come fast)
of memory

your blue ribbon
for tenderness after the storm
mine ripped off me–
for fear of

forgive me–the
edge reminded me
of slides and roller coasters

should I say sorry
the bite mark

Red heart in black


I drank my wine
watching you rip the petals from my roses
beckoning me like some hot movie
shaking my head no

you dropped them in a path
begging me to follow you
I poured another
watching Bruce Willis on television
taking off my stockings

I heard you in the doorway
watching quietly
so I did not stop, then
slipping down to the rug
I rolled over
remembering Spring
in the grass

I said
if I am very still
while you drop petals over me
will you tell me again
the story
how you felt that first time
still you remember

the lights went out
our red hearts in darkness
the sound of a match
filled my ears
a candle
casting shadows
as you dropped
to your knees

Her cheeks


I approached her with some delicacy
pastel cheeks straight from Rodin’s canvas
and she approached me as if I were a meal

had I caught that falling star?
every notion of what we were to become
wrapped up in that streak in the sky

one more time around the bend
the train that goes through
remembering her, again

eating up the nights until
there were no more left to spare
our stars let us down back there

“For a little while I felt pretty,”
she said and I touched her cheek
just before she bit my finger

watercolor by Auguste Rodin

32 flavours

My face is pale, one could say vanilla
My neck like lavender, and fresh strawberry
Lower boasts of ripe muskmelons
My heart is dark: chocolate and cherry

Soft gelato, like mulled wine
I have no stomach for milquetoast
Coffee keeping straight my spine
Espresso or, in a pinch, French Roast

Roast chicken is a tasty dish
Occasionally broiled fish
In a pan with rosemary and thyme
Olive oil and a squeeze of lime

Some days I can be sour
Marinated in vinegar and lemon
Don’t be afraid-the mood will pass-and
Delight like sweet apples and cinnamon

Do you suppose a touch of rose
Would be tasty in a dish so sweet
A smattering of blueberry, memory of home
In the air, the scent of grilling meat

Yesterday I took the powder
Ran home and stewed some creamy chowder
I sat with salty tears in my eyes
The music was loud, I turned it louder

What flavour are you, on days like this
Your sweet embrace, your salty kiss
Endless french fries and midnight omelet
So wonderful, I will never forget

Mornings tasted like fresh mown grass
Evenings were slow and caramel
I imagine the winters were peppermint
Spring came stormy, with deep lament

Dipping our dreams in rich fondue
Shall we dance once more
smelling the smoky Gouda, and
Armani on you

Then have our coffee and cake
With icing
Red, white, and blue


Have I become your sofa
am I useful as your footstool
As you walk past the ants in the streets
your props

Long winter nights are hot or cold for you
the rest of us
the huddled masses
we wait for our cue to go on stage

And I–merely an understudy
from the underbelly of the populace
applaud your efforts
to keep your world–kept

Posant pour vous chéri
your antagonist–on the ready
ever steady with your lines
to fuel your justifications

Sitting at the table with you
I am no more to you
than the vegetables in your soup
if you ate me would you mourn me

Daydreaming about connections
making love like a bandit
listening to Body and Soul
on the Victrola

outside of my body
I watch us as we roll



She woke
after an evening of Moët & Chandon
her clothing askew
ridiculous hat with the ostrich feather
flung over the lamp

She took her cues from
reciting Bukowski
as if he had known him, one
hand under her back
turning over
to slide back into ecstasy

One way or the other

I shiver
despite the breeze
unable to penetrate
the layers
under my jacket
is it a memory passing through me?
or is it desire

the core of me
the part that the world
only cops a feel of
is warm and reactive
ready and attentive
until I open my mouth

and this is joy I get
from you watching me
and my daily doing
one step at a time
until the task is done
no matter what they say
I am capable of

when you leave
and my room is empty
I open the deepest part of me
oozing onto the floor
and then
I write it down

so my darling
when you hear me say
I cannot live,function, or breathe
with you silent

believe, that passion burns
but I hoard it for myself