Summer sylphs repel me,
Slip away as though they were never a certainty.
I prefer winter women,
Fat with autumn and
Soft as snowfall
Their bodies as deliberate as shadow,
As lovable and mysterious as cloud.
Category: poetry
Primal
Her legs are incendiary.
Though I travel 100 miles,
Dragging the point of myself
Through broken glass,
She watches my natural fullness like
A leopard a pattern in the grass.
Hunt my beastful blush,
Lick the harmony of my breasts.
What can she sing with her lips
Pursed in kiss?
Her waist the willfulness of tornadoes,
Her soft belly bread
Baked in the Parisian dawn.
It is the ritual of her hands hunting me,
The reminds me that pleasure rhymes
With guilt.
Woman to Woman
Her hair is so cool.
The bridge of her lips I consider straddling.
In the sweet musk of human frailty,
I rollick like a ship to sea
When she gazes at me,
Knife to meat,
Erosion to beach,
Destruction was never so complete.
Spread open like an unread book,
I am searched –
My ecstasy excavated,
Preserved in her skin,
Dissolving on her tongue.
In an Office of Glass
A careful umbrella
channels the rain
like tv reception.
I am a receptionist in an office of glass.
See this phone?
This is my phone.
There are many like it,
but this one is mine.
Operator,
transfer me to God please.
I field grape juice flavored calls
From cathedrals.
Wine about everything.
SPLASH!
Beneath the crystalline floor,
an alien jumps into the pool.
Foreign spirits gather in the lobby.
Operator,
Take me home.
A Viewer
Festive and feral,
I nuzzle a daisy.
The sun is dizzy in the revolving door.
The penguin in the lobby
points at me petulantly,
but I am not accepting discipline today.
In this gun scented,
Wednesday wearing
terrarium,
stones lurch,
lungs pulsate,
lizards lounge on the verdant moss.
What am I waiting for?
What I have always longed for –
a viewer.
Spirits
The spirits wash
their aeon voices in my sink.
Dizzy neon fish wiggle
through the water.
I am naked.
This is not a good thing.
My clothes are floating in the
vast oxygen above me.
I’ve been breathing bare black
for so long that my blood
is burning obsidian.
Desire –
air,
aria,
atlas,
able.
My spirit waiting impatiently
to birth through my stormy eyes
and gain a voice.
In the Corona
I am tunneling,
hands spastic,
mouth squirting saliva,
making my way through
to the other side of the sun.
Even in the corona,
I feel cool.
Designed
Hircine DNA designs
my sadness and my blithe lips.
River tongue,
organic mind,
biological legs.
Soul of granite,
disconnected.
In my arms
disjointed
disappointment.
Human shaped void.
In my cells,
the blueprint for spunk and war.
In the Jungle
The shipwreck crawls up the beach.
The volcano is so ice cold.
Trees creep into the ground.
The sailors have long since drunk their rum,
have devolved into the jungle,
absolved of their central differences.
Frying a Tuesday
I am frying a Tuesday
and it is ticked off.
In the fireplace,
ice steaming.
Give me my porcelain teeth.
Beneath the sink,
a tongue in pink French.
Do you understand me?
What powers you have in your eyes!
Tuesday is crispy,
Cream colored.
Let’s eat.
Miniature Moon 