Literary as hell.
“I adjure you, O daughters of Jerusalem,
by the gazelles or the hinds of the field,
that you stir not up nor awaken love until it please.”
–The Song of Solomon
What I thought
as he ran languid fingers
down the expensive territory,
waist and hard hipbone,
squeezed my ass like sweet
dough to be devoured
as his eyes ate greedily before,
mouth to lip, tongue
binding tongue close(d)
as a tight contract Continue reading
First, find a stand made from barn wood,
salvaged from the old one
down the creek. The scrap-wood sign
is spray-painted; grapevines
tangle on the beams, tattered brown
and dry against sharp air.
If they have a goat tied in front,
all the better. No crafts.
Continue reading
she kept a razor blade
in the cupboard
the razor slid out
of a yellow plastic box
with a clear safety lid
that i’d once seen my father use
to get his cigar started
Continue reading
Quite suddenly, nothing happened.
With all the force in the world, nothing happened.
Assured the condition was only temporary,
we were told to return to our houses,
to leave the lights off and get into our beds.
To tremble at powers far beyond our comprehension.
Heaven rises and earth falls
And the tall become the small.
The heart beats its own accord
And the stream ripples with life.
Rock and water are inseparable
Flowing round each other.
If the center holds all things are strong.
Beyond that lies the soul.
Thought spirals a habit,
A dragon whipping its tail
Long enough to touch
the heavens
Here we are. Here we remain.
Man the creature of the middle,
The center that holds its own.
See the spectral
blaze of a child’s
silhouette seared
against the plaster.
Sound waves of
laughter take shape
into that of a hum
drumming through
my body, no
ponderous
force pulling me
down the center.
Her phantom bore
a hole through me.
Pink fractals sprout
throughout my skin.
The longing has
gone, disintegrated
into the brackish
water that’s
extinguished the
flames of need.
I no longer
sense the urgency
in my womb.
She’s just a faint
memory of want,
an etching fading
from erosion.
I ruminate about the past and
future, in a world that subsists
in the present, spinning in a
cyclical existence. Stories
form creases across the folds
of wan, scarred skin. My
clothes are torn and faded.
Dressed like a vagrant, I let
words slip out from my mind,
down through my fingers,
and onto the typewriter.
Indelible memories flow out
in ink. Into the night, my
head nods as sleep beckons,
a miasma of cigarette smoke
and ash hangs. A nicotine halo
wreaths me. Disgruntled
drones wake carrying off to
work in a sleep medicinal daze.
I am the stupor filling in the
fractures of their skulls. Dusk
has long passed and dawn
sneaks its way across stretches
of moonbeams over the
landscape of my psyche. I
yawn, fanning my face with
scribbled pages in the heat.
Show me it’s time to lay my
head, my world upon a strained
neck, down on my pillow
to greet the escape of slumber.
Don’t analyze me, complain about my size,
or conclude I’m an idiot with cat breath,
don’t glibly flash frowns or smiles
over this octopus stew and ginger beer.
We’ve tangoed together longer than forever,
so don’t defer with those sly eyes or
grin with trust in your silver tongue.
I’ll splurge for diamond and platinum rings,
feared by everyone, for I’ll soon own
the Vatican. I know where cottonwoods
pray to depressed skies, when cardinals sing
to their shadows, why perfume lingers in dark Continue reading
This is the wall of his memory
A photo to his disappearance
Pale, washed out with years
Yet, still, there he must be found.
His laughter haunts the echoes;
Not too far, she too remains;
A moment so long ago, outside
Of the time they both knew.
There, I will stay, searching
The nooks, the crannies, the seams,
For a signature has been apposed
Perhaps only a sketch of a life.
Palimpsest, the scientist
Will uncover every layer
Of the story finished too soon;
Unshroud a death only in rumors.
His skin reddened by the attacker
Weather of all seasons,
A shirt wearing spots of inks
And many chapters untold.
He laughs into the thickness
Of an unfathomable fortress,
Only from time to time, to
Emerge and wink at finitude.
It is his wall, the cover he built
Upon which his portrait lasts
Author of his biography.
She found words running loose in the Strand,
fit them for goofy hats
corralled them into a corner
and conducted them into photographs.
She knew how to assemble them.
You kiss like you are,
she whispered
as I sat stumped on eight across,
You’re vulnerable,
Then you’re not.
Drift out the window
Land in a puddle of silk
Float skyward, unbound.
I wish that my jealousy
Would stagnate like a dammed river.
Instead,
Jealousy rages on—swelling, overcoming.
While the only damned thing
is me.
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