they say she
leaks moonbeam blood
but i saw the space within
i saw a new ocean
unnamed, uncharted
lying dormant in the
green of her eyes
they say they’ll
conquer Heaven and earth
without love
there’s only war
but war is why we fuck
so the fighting never
ceases.
her beauty
is in the shape
of night
hips and cosmos
bend around the
light of stars
burning sentinels,
bearing this bridegroom
to her, unblemished.
it was a
passionate
display.
ribald
convolutions
etched in
the shadowy
midnight
atmosphere
of the room.
images stained
against comely
walls, penumbras
that Time
won’t soon
forget.
and arrested
by your apt
attention, i’ll
lie in a sordid
solitude
for.
unlawful.
carnal.
knowledge.
i ain’t some
psychopathic
Cambodian warlord.
i’m just a
pair o’ boots
lookin’ to
slide a little
closer to a
pair o’ pumps.
we are cruisin’ fast
and your skirt is
ridin’ high against
your soft, American thighs
i ease back into
the red leather
passenger seat and
take a big hit,
you purse your lips
and straighten your
glasses; you’re runnin
late and you never
run late-
i glance at your feet
and smirk as your
red stiletto heels
dig into the floor
mat. toes locked
and loaded against
the klutch.
i hear you mumble, “fuck”
at a slow mass of cars;
you ram your heels against
the pedal, drop us into
third and scream past
on the shoulder. an old
redneck in a truck honks
as you flick your ashes
out the cracked window,
your glasses never stop starin’
in the rear view mirror.
the low ridin’ sun is glarin’
against a west side furor.
lover,
your skin
is the soft
fuzz of a
July peach
with the
sweetest of
juice oozing
from every
broken pore
were i to wave
my dowsing rod
over your succulent
Summer gown,
would it
lead me
to water?
to some Yanks
your sweet
Georgian drawl
might be like
salt on a
wound; but
to me, it’s
more akin to
droplets of honey
on my cock-
cascading sweetness
ne’er you mind
them catcalls,
you just keep talkin’
gay little flower,
honeycomb bulb
once closed tight,
now spread wide
for me. my gaze
has sprung from Winter
and broken your heart.
with a pinch i
pull you from the
limb and slide your
stem through the
crystal sticky sweet
of your yellow innards.
my prize; one dewy droplet
clinging to the last
tip of you, until released
against the width of
my tongue, and
taken inside.
nectar feeding the Spring in me.
April has seized
us by the throat.
Her grip, ruthless
and unyielding.
Her gaze, comely
and exquisite.
and somewhere twixt
death and zeal
she resurrects the fringes
of Love that lay dormant,
(or dead, or decomposed,
or lost, or failed, or forgotten) -
under Winter’s joyless mantle.
Embalmed
among the dead,
ah, yet wholly aroused by
the softest tongue tickles
of sunlight.
life, at first teased,
then taken, whole.
blood turns to honey
as my body writhes
under the tickling
stings of a million
honeybees. swarming
in spaces between
my flesh and my soul.
gnawing at the rough
edges in me, smoothing
them down until I
sink beneath the waves
of covers; a statue
of glass and honey.
motionless and unaware
of an impending dawn.
Some fallen
Some ripe
Some sweet
To bite
I have very few
Solid childhood
Memories.
Somethin’ like from age
Four to ten
Seems completely
Void.
I know it happened;
The license says so.
Somedays I
Smoke up
(because it’s green &
Grows from the belly
Of the Earth & because
Nixon said we couldn’t
Because it fueled the
Youth of his day – the
Ones not being blown
Up in the jungle – so
Fuck Nixon – I’ll
Do what I want on
My family’s land. Land
We had long before me
And long before that
Sumbitch Nixon!)
So somedays I
Smoke up and
Strain my brain,
Searching for
Nuggets of those
Lost years.
A nugget can grow
Into what? A lifetime.
I have gone far enough
Back and seen
My tiny fingers
Playing with the
Beaded rods of
The crib in my
Nanny’s house while
Shows like Let’s Make
A Deal and Three’s Company
Blared from the
Other room. Goddamn
If Linda Carter as Wonder
Woman didn’t prove that
I was a man, at age two.
When I was four or five
I was fascinated by fire.
I watched every time
My daddy
Struck a match at the grill.
He kept the book of
Matches in end
Of the hollow,
Horizontal bar of the backyard,
Swing set. I loved the power
Of the match, the smell
Of the burning sulphur or
Whatever it was, and of course
I loved the
The fire.
One afternoon
There I was, alone and swinging
In the back yard, when I
Remembered the matches.
I climbed up the pole and
Grabbed them and stuffed
Them in my pants. The
Thrill it gave me
Brought me what
Must’ve been my very
first erection.
I remember the sick butterflies
Hatching from a hidden caccoon
Deep in my tummy. I ripped the
Box open, like I’d rip skirts
Open decades later, same
Butterflies. Same boners.
I held the match in my little
Fingers and struck it just
Like daddy did.
The flame sprung
To life
And fear devoured me.
I frantically tossed
The burning match against
A tree and it fell to the ground,
Instantly igniting the dried
Pine needles. My hard on grew
As fast as the flames as I
Stared in holy fear and
Wonderful wonder.
Much like Moses stood at his
Burning bush. Did he have an
Erection? Doubtful.
God said, “Go get water Michael!”
Which is not what He said
To Moses.
But God spoke to me clearly
Then. When I was young,
And devilishly pure.
I ran to the house,
Hand clutching my crotch and
Didn’t let go until I grabbed a green
Glass from the laundry room,
Which I filled at the sink.
Trembling, I ran back outside,
Water splashing all over
My hands and clothes.
I remember telling myself
To slow down. But didn’t.
A pattern I’d repeat for decades
To come.
The trunk of the tree was
Hungry for fire, and the flames
Obliged.
I tossed the empty glass at the
Tree just as my dad sprang from
The house. He pushed me aside
And put out the fire
With the hose.
I just stood there,
Admiring a hero, terrified of
My impending whippin’,
And limp as a wet noodle.
Orgasm-less. Another
Pattern I’d sadly repeat.
When I’m finally dead
And gone, every experience
I’ve ever lived will
Supernova in death
And shrink, like spent dick
Into the tiniest
Of nuggets.
And my biggest
Pipe dream is to
Think that some
Stoned fool in
The bath tub
Will remember
Any of it.
Just like no
One really
Remembers Nixon,
Or matchbooks from
Restaurants,
Or Moses,
Or Three’s Company,
Or sweet, fat nannies,
Or God help me
Linda Carter’s ass
In that leotard.
some times
my heart turns
to you
(and my body)
in the deep
watches of
the night
when your
lights are turned
low
and the liquid love
of fantasy
mingles
with the sting
I like when you
Bat your eyes
At me
Springtime residue is
Dusted from our
Sheets as sun light
Drowns in a sea
Of pink sex and smoke.
When you shake
Your hips, American,
I lose all Hope.
There is a war
Inside me, and
You, child, are the bullets.
we couldn’t agree
couldn’t leave
couldn’t murder each other
so
we fucked,
smoked dope,
and spun vinyl
until dawn erased
the day before
and called it Love
life entrusts
no love
more lavish
than the
one that
tears you
open where
the skin meets the soul
and there
is no pain
more pure
than letting
it all go for
the sake
of your own survival
but without
the wound
there can be no
lovesong
&
air is only filled
with the quietest
of winds,
the birds burst
with no abundance
of singing,
the Winter woods
bare and battered,
sulk, silent.
so love,
until you cannot.
Ocean licks Land all-
along the littoral fringes.
steady, wet lines stain the brown
edges of the shore.
Land reclines in her embrace
lightly stroking her silken coiffure.
with the moon and the night
her hungry mouth rises and falls
against the grains
of his disheveled skin
smoothing even the slightest blemish-
he is never finished with her;
she is never put asunder…
i got the blues
deep in my soul-
it keeps my sex young,
but my heart, old.
with
come-hither visage
he worms his
way in
just under
the soil
of good
Intentions.
and plays
a god with
wanton rules.
a ne’er-do-well,
a miscreant,
a caitiff,,,
that leery midnight Lark
who haunts the dreams of
your Mother-
her sheets, a morass
of sweat-soaked avarice;
but you, all-willing,
,,,your window left
unlocked.
never before – or since
or the other -
the outre
late night trysts
when writers bloom
into readers,
has such
splendid hedonism
shone more
brightly
than in sweet Marie Jane’s
titillating nook,,,,,
soft Art meets flesh
and music bathes
it all in the
four-on-the-floor
rhythmic pulses
of a candy-lipped lass
laid bare across
her taunt
black and white
canvas of
epicureanism,,,
with lips of
ice cold,
cherry-pop soda
and a soul as
black as Night,,,
she lures me,
web-bound,
into her manic
Saturnalia,,,, gaiety
lived vicariously
across the borders
of a black lace bra strap
or a sanctimonious
songstress’
granular revelries,,,,
where do they hide such a key,,,,
hidden in the bosoms
of Romantics
and swaggers,,,,
a surfeit stage
adorned by
crowns
as timeless
as the
women (and gents) who
so oft’n do,,, tantalize,,,
***written for one of my all-time favorite blogs. The Room 22
