I have released pleasure
from my net.
Over the years I have
captured every domesticated thrill,
caught every unguarded illusion.
But pleasure was the prize.
I cannot nail it in my shadowbox.
It withers when it does
not travel.
Tag: writing
Motives
My motives caravan
through a red, peerless desert.
Water travels just ahead
slightly faster than either I
or my mirror glass needs
can go.
Out here,
straws and dictionaries
present serious problems.
As though it were dead skin
scraped from the devil’s heel
by a pumice stone,
my purest motive blows
around the others.
If I flew my determinations
like kites,
attached to my stringy nerves,
could they rise to Heaven
and beg for a cloud?
Surveillance
I escape from the camera,
breaking through the
red tape
like a finish line.
What difference does it
make if the old house
turns blue?
The surveillance of my feet
reveals slick roads.
Confined actors in a play
poorly scripted.
The wasps I shared my
candies with
sting one another.
The other side of bureaucratic eyes
is a dim place,
shy from old rejections.
Ready to Fly
Always working,
the wind grumbles
about juggling too many kites.
The rain relieves him
of this data,
but not today.
I hang from my own
clothes line.
My daughter attaches
my umbilical cord.
I am ready to fly.
Time
Agnostic calendars
are great for those
whose lives are spiced
with regret.
On the cutting board,
her right arm.
Home is smart.
Weather is dumb,
beating the bones
out of what already dies.
Scattered,
the months refuse
to coalesce into a year.
She wants what she
can’t have—
a private train.
Her old job
encased amber.
Dirty Poem with Christmas
Found poetry on my phone.
Shore said he thought he was my best friend. The windows then go masturbate and get to know you. Tearing down a word or two about the flower growing up, she has been so tired. Carnality is a big deal to begin with, but it isn’t a good idea for Christmas.
Sex
Like a strobe light,
my nipple flash from my
bra cups,
overflow of myself and my softness.
He seizes me with his smart hands.
He knows what to do.
He will tease my peaks
and stroke my heart in
small, deft movements.
This is the game we play—
him catching me over and
over again like a ball.
I throw myself into clothes,
then shed them like unwanted baggage.
It is dark at the fringes
of my lomographic mind,
and in the center is my man,
plunging into me like a
lamp into an outlet,
completing my loop.
My hips squeezed in the
straps of lingerie,
I wait breathlessly for that
meaningful motion of his
hands tugging my panties
down just a little,
giving me permission to
unwrap myself
in his mute language.
My fire begins at my neck.
The beginning of pleasure
presides over the creased
space between shoulder blade
and ear.
That is where he starts—
at the beginning—
wise to my whimsical womanhood.
Deer
The whiteness of deers’ fear
behind the wheel of the car
I stole.
Deep in the woods,
whispering moss.
The direction the road takes
is determined by the path
families will take.
On their way to an
end made of synthetic light,
hurtling metal.
Husband and Wife
I am a well he drinks from
as he spends his seventh day
wandering the desert.
I’ve camped in waiting
And know the roughness
of the terrain,
the burning banality of work.
He built our home by hand
and like a bird I added
shiny things to reflect
the sun a thousand times
to guide him home.
My body is his haven,
the end of a chase
and the beginning of a pursuit.
He lays his head on my breasts
slides his hand down my belly.
The well will never run dry.
Old
After fate untwisted,
she left a trail of
disastrous death in my driveway.
I need an incantation
to summon the voice in my
hands.
Sprawled lazily across
the concrete,
hieroglyphics bleeding
with age.
I drew them.
My people ran down
the lane years ago
to hunt the sneaky beast.
I am the only one left,
struggling to clutch my ochre
with broken hands.
Miniature Moon 