animal(s) will

i am not forgetting
my extremely old components
when i sleep
i house a mr. cellophane
man beneath my lids
he’s there on a cliff, —
i’ll call it a nude bluff
full of (at)tension
&i can see him/me
&it’s not as dissociated
as you’d think; hey,
i’ve often perceived
tender lady fingers
bringing me
to the threshold before,
so this is normal
that he/me/we are
there for bread
as i wait in a car
with a bird’s eye view
with my daughters around me
collectively (they are me
also of course) 10 eyes
eye-balling the masculine
to steal what we need, —
a loaf of bread’s our limit
&does he/she/we succeed?
of course not, though it’s
in our hands! he’s caught,
dammit, so now the we/she
must control our impulse
to simply drive off
over the cliff instead
of to the police station
like we intend to do to
be law-abiding animals,
the non-evasive type
right now, — until
i pull it together
in the morning, put feet
to floor and trace foot-
steps to the bathroom
not convicted of anything


for Real Toads and
playing it again with
Carl Jung dream type
work for Hedge


take your medicine

where did i leave off yesterday?

probabilities & scientific roots,
alternate pro-nunciations,
marocain fabric pieces only
one twelve-year-old can spell

(don’t disillusion me)

i need my
autonomous medicine dispensed (here)
in between eroding civil liberties
& privacy

why can’t we have more
human conversations & a no-asshole

& can we keep radio alive
for the illiterate, & the illegible
like me, please?

i’m tired of the
insanely ambitious paper moons
& tin cans anyway

i want to go
to the city of Elon Musk accessible
(only) by way of electronic frontier
& say, maybe once we find it, we’ll know
how to get there

be there together
alive in our precarious lifeline
of consonants & vowels like o’s & a’s
in our medicinal cabinet
of marocain,

our piece of
whole cloth jazzed up
with positivity only
& huge bets on forward momentum

but that’s kind of
exactly what
i said yesterday
isn’t it?


for Real Toads

Accurate : Jan. 12

The Christmas tree the trash man refuses
to pick up is really starting to piss me off!
As is one of my broken kitchen drawers.

Harold, my former casting director, is drunk
or at least tipsy … his blurry eyes size me
up for the contemptible role of Cinderella.

Harold and his Duchess Barbara may take up
residency in the house at the end of my
cul-de-sac, which just went up on the market.

I’ve trespassed undetected in the living area
to have a look-see at the gorgeous rock work,
the vaulted ceilings, beams, and lamp lights.

The dreamy landscaped backyard, Barbara can’t
even put into words for me as we talk on the porch.
Trash items are tucked beneath my crossed arms.

I act … as if it’s perfectly normal to conceal
detritus … to wear liberated short-shorts
and Converse shoes which help me hop away

In ten feet high bounds in the hopes of landing
in the eruption of one of their yard sprinklers …
But! Buoyed is not written in the script for me,

So I schlepp off two houses … down … down
to my own, only to find that the old dream house
owners strew their throw-aways all over my lawn.

Old soiled carpet, a broken-down baby
crib, and other psychological shrapnel
now block me from leaving my track home.

In the corner of my drive is that despicable
tree still standing a little too indecently
in the can. I look for a prince or a hacksaw.

[a Dream Poem for PAD & submitted to Real Toads]

Between 6:15 & 6:45am

art by Jill Greenberg

art by Jill Greenberg

This poem is
under water.
At the surface
there’s a flat kiss
like a final baptism
begging me to
take it like bread
held back from supper
for a lost dog.
This poem could save me.
I can feel it trying.
But my lips
are drowning
while you lie
beside me
don’t I know
how all

 For Margo’s Dream Symbols


I wake up feeling a long way from home.
Chiding the good-natured old lady for
worrying so god awful about that dark-
haired child because it will come to pass
that youth will outlive her by a long shot.
And the old woman carries a clear plastic
bag filled with hundreds of pill bottles
slung over her shoulder like Santa Claus,
only she’s not happy. And I’m not happy
with the doctor because he’s a real dick.
Insisting “this time” you’ll have to pay
more than your co-pay. And I’m wearing
shorts in public that show too much leg,
still steaming over the twenty dollars
that dick demanded. And all (of this)
has detoured me from going shopping
with you at American Eagle Outfitters where
today we could take an additional 60% off
leggings made to wear any / where. And
now I get it.  I’m a long way from home,
where even ‘there’ was never a hiding place
for too much leg, and not enough youth,
for too many pills, and not enough cash.
This is what I know when I wake at 5am.

Written for OpenLinkNight at dVerse Poets

Punching Dragons

after they said mom was in the hospital, i hung up, watched the sun sink into the sea.  at 2:45 in the morning i got up, ate some cereal, read some words, thought about joseph’s coat of many colors and went back to sleep. around 8am i woke up from

the sweetest of dreams ~
punching dragons in the gut
sharks in the noses


in heaven’s
waiting room there’s silver

chairs with spinning wheels
footrests, armrests
and a music hour

one piano
with foot pedals and ivory keys
hard maple and sweet songs

lame man moves
his lips in a dream~
the calf strap binds



the dawn breaks

my head full of dreams.

i get up.

[A lune is an English form of haiku broken into word, not syllable count, for a three lined stanza: 3-5-3]

This Year’s Christmas Star

this year’s Christmas star
atop the store-bought pine tree
hooked on hopes and dreams

Beautiful Dreams

fair-colored windows~
the barren break forth in song
better than words

Linked to Carpe Diem