The Genie in My Genes

morning

sandpaper lids open red, sharp as tacks

the Qareen, my evil Jinn peeks out of her bottle

through sly-slit, glassy eyes and waits

patient as a cancer cell

she picks at the threads of the memory reruns

that bind her straight-jacket tight

the stitches lock away our madness

we are slow and we are sad

we are a thousand broken promises as our knuckles grow white

pick by pick

lie by lie

drop by drop

we unravel

to rub the lamp, release the Shaytaan

born of phenol spatters and smolders from an ancient fire

she floats easy like oil on water to breathe the whiskey air

and a husk of me runs heedless black-out free

until morning

when salt drops quench my sandpaper lids open and

I run to hug the babies, sing silly wake-up songs, flip pancakes

and pray one day’s balm-sweet syrup can turn it all over

can one afternoon’s snow angels

soothe the burns

branded in the tender hearts

and wide eyes, wary and watching me

God, grant me one magic wish

let me speak heaven’s name

loud as a thunderclap slap

until it fills my empty core

let me seal the cave where she hides

let me kill the Genie in my genes

let me drown her whispered lies in yellow blooms

so at last I hear my children laugh in sunny rooms

amid the scent of daffodils

Gone Crazy - Back Soon?

I’ve nevermuch liked this carnival lot

in life the shrinks prescribe for me.

It’s not their fate to shiver and shake

when the iron gate swings every which way

and all the pins and loose screws in this nut fracture

as I become unhinged.

They can’t slip past the turnstile to my wonky world

or get lost in the madding crowd

when I break out foranother spin.

For it’s me; I am the clown who endures

with a free ticket to crazy town stamped on my DNA

a freak of nature by design

hell-bent to climb the clickety-clack

to ride the roller-coaster, mood-swing track –

the bipolar whirligig

up to heaven then hell and back

over and over and over again.

Spectacular MDs, they spectate

but they can’t clutch ticket stubs

for they play one game:

whack-a-mole, whack-a-me, whack my dopamine

epinephrine, serotonin and GABA.

These snakes in the grass

make me swish and swirl

to watch the crazy girl slither

through her leaky gray-matter soup.

They tailor the white cotton tight

to keep the sane in knots.

My silent vow?

Do not, do not, do not

tilt a whirl or loop de loop

or this ride may never stop.

It’s too late to flee the midway faces,

the ambulance smiles, one red eye flashing,

at me behind doors that frown inside, upside down.

“Set me free,” I plead through my keyhole mouth

but it’s no use.

Time to say, “bye-bye, free will,”

time to take my cotton-tongue, fuzzy, dead-head pills.

For when they lock your dreams in a bell jar

no one can hear you scream.

The Girl That Was Trilogy

Hunky Dunk Drunk

Did you know her?

Before. The girl that was …

there.

Perched atop the barstool with the

pink-on-gray, sprayed hair?

The silly little thing

in that black-and-white ribbon bra.

Our young Alysa, inside-out, entitled,

the girl that saw vast vistas

through jaded-green Gizo eyes

then slipped out of focus, rose-petal soft

for the cynical, wicked and wise.

Tripping high in her Louboutin knockoffs 

A rainbow feast made up for the jerk-off, hungry hunks.

Yes, the girl that was, was OMG so lit.

Thundering going nowhere she’d sit

blow through each lazy day.

blown-out,

a shimmering, spinner-bait lure. Shiny crazy, on the edge.

“Hey, cutie, what’s your sign?” she’d giggle, then demure.

“I’m Sagittarius A and you’re sublime.”

Do you recall?

How she wore that @i_am_kiko avatar chic

IRL, just a click-bait amulet?

Yet no one dared to call this baby on her bullshit.

Do you recall the girl that was?

One hair-twirl, giggle fit from losing it all?

Step by step to crazy town, we'd watch, she'd dazzle, no one dared bring her down

'cause the girl that was made our happy hours

and nights, high-noon bright, 

though we sniggered trash about her

when she was out of our spotlight.

Night after gnarly night

the girl that was held court, 

swatting barfly boys like a Samurai,

Onna Bugeisha, our nubile noble, cut them short.

Fresh-faced, on the countertop, dancing free-reign

or hunky dunk, off-the barstool, drunk.

She loved us all until last call, her get-lucky chime, that turned our

heads each and every time.

The Girl That Was Trilogy

On the Dive, Taken

One night six shots past stupid

the girl that was aimed her Geisha fan

at a freak of a faux-gangsta, viper man

who’d slithered through the ganja wisp,

playing chess not checkers

to make her action his.

That astral spider spun his whirligig web

full of roses, kisses, sweet gin fizzes.

He locked the girl that was in a glass-pipe haze,

until she crumbled in a spliff-laced blaze.

Hand in hand they walked away.

Caught, bought and sold, the girl that was did as she was told.

In the no-tell motel that Romeo razed her hard as hell.

His drag-silk spinnerets spun the girl that was, dizzy down

then he tattooed his brand as her ascension crown.

The girl that was answered to her street-regal name

all tricked out to play his game.

Pumped up with cherry Chapstick lips

cuffed tight in pimp-slap bracelets

and a Chiclet choker

from the man who broke her.

The Girl That Was Trilogy

Going Down, She’s Out

Bouncy in a halter top and spandex mini-skirt

the girl that was zig-zagged the stroll

fingernails chipped, edged with dirt

smiling wide until it hurt.

How she rolled, rubber-souling, stinking of sweat,

smoke, and greasy dub-wads stashed beneath her floor.

Spinning round-and-round, a wound-up trick top.

Do you recall how we spilled the tea watching the girl that was

peek through Amy Winehouse rims

from her spot on the lizard lot, lost without him?

The girl that was, aching to hear his spider, ring-tone chime,

longing for her man to call her tune

one last time.

From the window, we watched the girl that was

pace the five-corner devil trap.

Where her tears can’t trickle.

Her nods don’t nap.

But don’t hang those pinprick scars on her fickle bar friends.

We’d long seen her direction - Zugzwang - the girl that was, was doomed to end.

Me? I still see her soft eyes turned green coralline algae.

And think of her flying through some never-ever-after dream

where a lilt of the girl that was, lives fast, fetching and free.

But that’s just me.

I’m not the girl that was.

I’m the girl she was meant to be.

Fly Bye-Bye, Mean Girls

hear the chit-chat, chatter of the mean girls

the ones-who-matter-most-on-the-scene, girls

the ones-who-always-gotta-be-seen girls

who-suck-up-so-much-air- it’s-obscene, girls

looking down from their designer lives

strutting their hottie-tot, hot stuff

so sleek, so chill

always ready and dressed to kill

logos, labels and neon-pink hair ties,

the mean girls turned whisper-gossip into giggle-gospel lies

throwing shade and shilling shame

laying waste to all the fresh and new

in an age-old, ugly girl game

hear the hanging-out-tight-in-a-pack girls

the ones-who-know-they-always-got-the-knack girls

the ones-who-always-stab-you-in-the-back girls

tripping so fine along the gauntlet, locker line

just in time for the dismissal chime

until one freak-of-nature girl

broke the chains and the pain of their mean-girl world

a geek with a brain who took a stand

grabbed the upper hand from the meanest of the mean

the mean-girl, queen bee - how she cut her down to size

so every girl could see the lies

on that geek-girl day of victory

all the geek-girl, hand-me-down, four-eyes

shone a laser light, geek-girl, eye-bright stare

free at last from the mean-girl cage

no more mascara in a trickle trace

with all them mean girls in their place

she slapped them down and burned away

all that salty, mean-girl,

lit-dope, Gucci rage

My Mom-Bomb, Zombie Shell

Like mercury, she rose and fell

her wrath burned

a sun-stricken child

entombed in icy sorrow

and touched by an evil fire.

My mom-bomb, zombie shell

carries me inside

a cutch bag of crazy.

I still measure memories

in the temperature of a life run off the rails.

My mom-bomb, zombie shell, she kindles with each season

there ain’t no rhyme or reason to my mom-bomb, zombie shell.

Under a bright-as-the-light-before-a-mushroom-cloud sky my mom-bomb, zombie shell and I

stroll through waves of wilting heat.

She struts with wings beneath her feet.

as saucy hips swell and swing

for all the daddies cat calling

across the street.

As she shimmies, each stiletto step

brands the steamy concrete, wet with willow flesh that sweats and swelters.

How I long to build a mom-bomb, zombie-shell, fallout shelter.

When red leaves fall the time is near

she’s reached the end of days, I fear.

My mom-bomb, zombie shell too soon,

too late, lost at twilight’s gate in hell.

Drip, drip cheeks, a flood of tears.

The sound of madness growing near.

Hush her hurt, please stop that sound

or she’ll drag the whole world down.

She moves like molasses, leaks a gray-robed, ratty cry

and for the season, a blessed burn-out bids goodbye.

When snow blankets the gray grass

my mom-bomb, zombie shell sleeps

a pillar of ash.

I wait lonely until spring when, once again, the coffin bell will ring

and my mom-bomb, zombie shell, she’ll grow wings.

We’ll fly into the firestorm rain.

And my mom-bomb, zombie shell?

She’ll rise again.

Daddy

Daddy, once you were a mountain

I could not move

yet had no desire to climb.

Even volcanoes crumble

with time.

Daddy, you turned my bedrock to ash,

laughed at my tears lost in your quicksand.

You left this woman with a tiny heart

marred by your turtle-back brand –

the imprint of your hand.

I think I was born shell-shocked

locked in a war with you.

Time to lay my weapons down

though there are fossils of you

embedded in my heels.

So watch me, watch me, Daddy,

watch your little girl stomp your memory down to purgatory.

I'll fire-walk a bed of coals

to burn the skin smooth

and heal all I cannot forget.

Sweet Babe Lost

I know she wasn’t broken born 

those coal-black warrior eyes 

could always pierce my green-greed perjuries 

and now I’ve awoken, weary, worn 

her truth trumps all my lies and in

all ways she can’t love me 

she drank from a sippy cup 

laced with ghosts that I set free

my fight to lock my poisons up 

still screams across her memories 

do her demons ever sleep? 

the ones I tried to bury deep 

inside but could not hide?

or is she lost adrift 

in nightmare nights 

when the wicked witch took flight? 

wielding promises like broken shards 

a mommy-sweet turned latch-key guard  

who locked her babe in a twisted land 

where up was down, and easy 

so damned hard 

it may take years to stem her fears 

maybe one day, maybe never  

for now, my wish 

is her command 

my sweet babe, lost forever 

forever, my sweet babe, lost

lost forever, my sweet babe?

 Little Red Riding’s Tears

I am

a poet, a liar, a slut, a nun, a soothsaying seer

who no longer comes undone

reared in a body with a mutton-penned mind

looped in an endless glitch in time

my little-lamb ears, stained and sheared

by the tint of pictures from yesteryear.

I was

a woman who rocked babies in a lambskin, leather coat of arms

safe in sugar-spice layers from little-girl harms

until I gobbled up all the big-bad-wolf nights.

Ate the jutting jaw

and spit out the fist that warped

all reason and insight.

Now I sing a new lullaby at night.

Goodbye, baby bunting,

let Daddy come a-hunting

to fetch his little rabbit skin –

I’ll unwrap his baby bunting sins.

Sisters

Secrets locked up tight.

Dark whispers under covers.

Two souls fight for light.

How the Bough Breaks

above the bedroom door, the black strip slips

to show

the leather he will pitch in a fit

of fire out the corner of his evil eye

two ladybug runaways

fly away from home

to flee the

“Don’t you worry, there’s more where that came from.”

winsome shoots pump

chubby knees push precious pistons hard

on a rusty green trike’s race to be                                  home free

from the lusty looks

that hide undercover in tales from nursery picture books

apple cheeks, wet

sweat runs down ribbons of regret

and drips in dirty drops

on the run from whap-slap welts

and the red-rim rings around

the black-hole eyes

from the night before

three prisoners

captives in a secret war where Mommies bleed and cry

breaking, brave hearts

such tender sweet peas

breaking brittle, fresh

flash-frozen in time

breaking brittle

waiting, ripe for the day

they’ll slip the leather vines

and fly away past

his punish line

The Chair

that day lanky, long-limbed you

broke through my back door

in smeared jeans, caked with streaks of red

and blue

like a king, unaware your world

was hanging by a string

to pitch a patchwork on my floor –

your quilt of guilt squares from a scattered,

shattered mind

a murky green raven, a zombie bare-bones skull, shimmering white

with fangs that dripped blood from one last bite

the broken eyes of a long-departed soul

who peered through a black-pitched haze, unholy, yet still whole

a slip of a dusty-rose, skin-blistered dancer

lost in lunatic desire

her will, chaotic within a widening gyre

the squares you tossed on my floor shook me

to the core

your far-too-nimble mind was lost, locked in an inner joust,

an endless race, in a world defined

by painted lines

I knew you thought your steps to hell were paved with sane intentions

no mother’s love, I knew, could stem the tide of delusion and deception

that gripped my two-hundred-pound, too-quick-to-bruise bruit

caught in the curse of a maddened mind

in the grip of its gale

I knew

you’d long left me behind

that day I made my no-win choice

a bite-plate, seventy to one hundred

and twenty volts, in unilateral zaps

to fry the crazy moot

Shall I wear a crown of thorns or doctored devil horns?

Sophie's or Hobson's? The choice still haunts

when the eyes

of my part-zombie man taunt.

The question.

Did I trade a spirit for a life

to end my torment

or to ease your strife?