BEDSIDE MANNER

I’m glad I’m not a doctor
because my bedside manner
consists of saying,
“You be careful now,
I hear that can kill.”

THE FROG PRINCE

The Frog Prince

Princess by a lily pond
like a pearl in its bed
of soft oyster flesh.
Sitting with her chastity
tight with pride.

Toss her golden ball,
bright as maiden teeth,
heavy as an ovary
flushed with life.
Into the pool,
kerplunk.

Frog by a princess;
pretty as a tumor,
handsome as a scrotum.
Whispers, long sticky tongue
in her small scalloped ear.
Throat stretched to bellow
a contract, a bargain,
an exchange.

What does any girl have
that every toad lacks?
Rarer than diamonds,
sweeter than gold.
The caress of young love
on the ugly, the clammy,
the forgotten.

The oldest exchange
of goods for rewards.
Her toy returned
for his pleasure granted;
home to meet father
and talk of his daughter,
home to eat dinner
supped from her lips.

Home to her bed
to lie down beside her.
Green skin to white flesh
rolling in silk sheets,
slick with affection
and warty desires.

Loathing her self
as much as her suitor
she hurls the green spoiler
against a wall ,
kersplat.

The gore transforms
into a prince.
But elderly,
with bulging eyes,
and liver spots,
and sagging skin
beneath his neck.

He smiles the grin
of the dispossessed
who find themselves
in control, at last.
And has a chain made
for the golden ball
to wear in his pocket
like a lump of sugar.
To always tempt her
for his pleasure.
To bind her close
to his moist skin.

What bauble fetches
youth into folly?
Who gives the attention?
Who gets the reward?
Give back my youth
in a shower of kisses.
Give me your promise
and I’ll take you to bed.



- From Eating the Child Within,

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ASHENPUTTLE

Ashenputtle

Here is quiet
locked in the body by the hearth.
Resolve a fine lace
worn thin around her heart.
Where is pride
when shoes are rags,
when clothes are as patched
as freedom?

Here is spite,
the stepmother archetype,
her brood of jealousy.
Worked into the frenzied cruelty
of the well dressed,
the well heeled,
the socially ambitious.
Who dares to travel
to the Prince’s Ball?
Here is pride
as tart as vinegar.

Here is vanity, genie bottle,
maternal substitute,
beauty makeover.
The great mirror
in which dark is light,
gourds are carriages,
mice are stallions,
rags are haute couture.
Where is modesty
when you’re better accessorized
than Barbie?

Here is gaiety
for the King’s best son;
the whirligig,
the swooning girls,
a real gas.
Fetching as a pumpkin pie,
succulent partner
with the fireplace eyes.
Dream date romance,
truer than Harlequin’s,
dry as ash.

Here is modesty-
Midnight bell,
the virgin’s best friend.
Chastely, quickly,
fleeing into poverty.
Carriage rots,
stallions squeak.
Her only trace
Chanel number 5
and the best looking shoe
in the world.

Here is obsession
for the riches and glory
of the perfect foot
for the perfect shoe.
So pretty it hurts.
A brutal rite,
a fainting bind,
a bloody stump.
Here is obsession
as clear as glass.

Here is happiness
like a sieve.
Foot fetish marries
the cleaning compulsive.
What love lasts when beauty fades?
The sullen remorse,
the childless castle,
the hateful family.
Perfect.
To bed by midnight
in glass slippers.

What price a dream
without practicality?
Who cares for cake
without a meal?
Here is hope
a dusty treasure
murmured softly,
longingly,
by the fire.
Crystal clear.

From EATING THE CHILD WITHIN

Eating the Child Within Kindle Version
 
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EATING THE CHILD WITHIN

Eating the Child Within
New poetry collection now published!
A dark collection of poetry based on classic children's fairy tales,
reworked into adult stories of violence, lust, and betrayal.

Come under these wings and listen,
to voices that sing from our bones.
The young ravens full of innocence
as they tear at Prometheus’ gut.

Memory’s shrouded in stories,
a birthright that swaddles our view.
A three-headed dog in ecstasy laps
his master’s handful of dust.

Childhood’s woven from fictions,
a history changed into stone.
A snake writhes in joy in a garden,
devours the child within.

Come under this cloak of protection,
myths of our past made anew,
heroes that murder in kindness,
beasts that step out of their skins.

Come into these woods and listen,
our primal emotions transformed,
those old gods into new royalty,
our fears into slippers and wolves.


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Hansel & Gretal

Hansel and Gretal

Hunger breeds infanticide -
cast off children, lack of bread.
Bellies empty, strew a path -
Brother Grim and Sister Dread.

Winged angels devour the crumbs -
Poverty, a forest dense.
Paradise in a sweetbread house -
sugarsnare and baked men fence.

Flesh eater, the evil witch -
death head with a crooked nose.
Fattens boy like a suckling pig;
just a man, his belly grows.

Duplicity, the girl plays dumb;
makes witch act out the wrong from right.
Revenging pasts, she cooks the hag -
German ovens burn so bright.


- From Eating the Child Within,

Eating the Child Within Kindle Version

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Hmmmm

Hmmm

There is a moment
in the life
of a hummingbird
where it feels that it’s heart
can beat no more.
His wings pinned back
in endless speed,
the swing again,
again,
again.

An endless flow of susurration,
close and to the shoulder.
That moment of submission,
when will expires
before the need,
when life conspires
to self-destruct.

But on it beats,
that devil heart,
to live
and live
and live.

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STORYTELLING

Storytelling

Oh father,
what glib stories you did tell -
The Man Who Farted Songs!
The Penny Through a Skull
when dropped from the top
of Empire State -
where once you hung suspended
afraid to fall
from your father's grasp.

When I was your small child
there was
no pretense of the large mysteries -
no Santa Claus,
no Jesus Christ,
but smaller miracles:
The Birthday Puppies!
Green Lantern's Dashlight!
The Psychic Bullets!

The Rats Who Ate the Paint
and left bright turds
of rainbow hues -
viridian footballs,
alizarin crimson,
ultramarine.

The Garden Which Grew
On Its Own Accord!
Baby corn, sugar peas,
honeydews.
Those childhood illusions
more cherished than
the Easter Bunny,
more precious than
the Burning Bush.

Twelve years until I realized
you planted those seeds -
the furrowed earth,
my mother's womb,
my own imagination.

Some gifts I would return:
the awkward gait,
the squinting eyes,
that gene for sloth,
but one I've kept
close.

I hang suspended
from my father's grasp,
about to float free.
Unfettered by truth.
Open to
the world's illusions.

From STORYTELLING

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LINES

Lines

I worried the bridges
over my brows,
creased into darkness.
Does the crease have a name?
The valley of flesh
where shadow cleaves skin?

Here in my navel
three little wrinkles,
pinched balloon end.
Do the wrinkles have names?
The track of descent
where union's mark ends?

Across my palm there
lies a map of trails,
of tiny roads.
Are the path's names unknown?
A glimpse of our fate,
the shape of our prints?

My cheek gets furrowed,
is banded in sleep
from pillows and fist.
What do you call those
angry traces?
The name of that
painful kiss?

AND I AM WOUND

And I am wound

And I am wound
like turpentine
for stripping down veneers.
And we are bound
like fiberglass,
hearts swaddling our fears.

In this house
of love rebuilt
the hammer strokes the nail.
The blueprint calls
for wooden joists
but I am made of steel.

And you are shingled
to the past,
the roof for our renewal.
While I am walled away
from loss
by bricks of seed and suet.

And you can peck
at my front door
with rainspouts full of tears.
But I will glaze the windows shut
with paint over the sills.

For I am wound
of memories
that wrap around
the things unsaid,
and ivy-choke the years.