You float through the room,
majestic in your steady flow
yet fluid in each sensuous step.
Your sheer gown loves the glass-smooth marble floor
a wave in the wake of your tender toes.
My gaze is captured by the gentle curve of your thigh
rising to a graceful half moon.
Yet full, being double.
Through the gauze I see the dimple
come and go as you move.
Your geisha hair frames a solemn-seeming face
yet thereon lies a hint of smile
which does not lie
is not painted on
is born within
borne by thoughts and feelings forged in fire
to beckon me into your wake
and so I swim behind this lovely vision
to the chamber of love.
Therein you take seven months to slip the shroud
from one soft shoulder to your breast
and I can scarcely breathe
to see the next and the next and your collar bone so fine
the gentle rise of your smooth, spare belly
and your navel and still other signs of your humanity.
Your nipples loved the slipping misty cloth
and stand erect to crave another touch.
I caress them with my eyes
until it’s time for more.
As the shroud falls farther past the fertile hips
and valleys hiding streams within their depths
I tremble just to leap into your river, yet
I dare not still to draw my ready sword
in reverence for your gentle revelation.
Onward and off the shroud more quickly falls
your lovely legs the pillars of a temple
where ardently I soon shall give my all.
The pool of silk around your feet lies spent
the treasure it had guarded now revealed
and I cannot stand longer but must kneel
and beg your leave to enter with my steel.
FaceBook wants to know what’s on my mind.
Why the hell is ANYthing on my mind?
Must be SOMEthing on my mind to get me out of my warm (too warm?) bed
to stagger around a dark, quiet house.
I must have something
in the shadows
of the back of my mind
It’s in there with the extra box of macaroni
gathering dust like that jar of peanut butter.
Why the hell am I awake at 3AM…
is what’s on my mind.
What’s on my mind? Is what’s on my mind.
I used to crave Peter Pan smooth peanut butter.
I’d eat a whole jar in a few days.
Now this same jar has been there for months
against the back of the cabinet
creeping toward its expiration date
Sometimes I feel like that.
The clock and the calendar never pause, never rest,
and yet I must.
The sun will rise and I will go to work in a few hours
whether I am rested or not
whether I am ready
Beneath me the tile floor is sticky.
As I stumbled barefoot around the living room just now
I found the area where last night I spilled a whole glass of sweet wine
the cheapest sherry I could buy
but the glass didn’t break.
I usually have to pick sticky shards of broken glass out of the mess
but not last night.
That was good.
So I went looking for the steam mop
and luckily I couldn’t find a clean pad for that lame little toy.
Nearby was the commercial-quality mop & bucket I knew would do the job
so I put some water in it and rolled it out here
and made quick work of the puddle
which was larger than I had first thought
and now I know that it was larger still
because the little bit of water and the little bit of mopping
only spread the stickiness around and thinned it out.
So now I’m going to go and get that same bucket
that same mop
and take it to the bathroom to fill it to the top
with hot water.
I’m going to roll it out here and shove the furniture aside
so I can really work out with that mop
The Navy is tattooed on my back pages.
I’m going to do one thing I know I can do and do it right.
and maybe then I can crawl back into my too-warm bed
next to my too-tired wife
and hope for sleep.
From the roof I can see farther
and feel the restless night breeze
searching my limbs and hair.
No sign of the fires to westward
A wayward lock across my eyes soon gone
A few stars and the moon halfway to the hills
ignore the smoke dissipating.
This air has cooled and yet
continues rushing here and there exploring
catlike sniffing all my intimate simplicity
and I don’t mind.
It means no harm and I have naught to hide.
Tomorrow has a sun and a wind of different temper
but now I feel the roof on my feet
the gust in my hair and peace run through me like rivers
the standing wave pausing at my side.
The last few neighbors find beds
quail under mom
skink on a rock
Sun through Joshua spikes lights fruit.
This is a jubilee year.
Dew on Desert Rose
drips past thorns and leaves
to moist roots locked in Caliche.
Mist made taller by the mirage
gently, slowly fades
’til petals apart reveal a melting heart.
I watch you ride by and envy you the thrill
yet if I could knock you out of that saddle
still I would not.
You grip the rope;
your hand is white with wrapped windings
binding you to the arching, heaving flame.
You breathe long and steady through clenched teeth.
In tense smile density
Choked to thicken the mix
throttled to endure.
Then back to idle when the heat arrives.
I have no license, don’t even know the gears.
I have felt that mane, those flanks
Ride on, and may you never fall
though this iron horse can never be tamed.
Blood spatters flake off
and wash away,
becoming brighter as they diffuse into the water and the sponge.
flowing with the mountain track dirt
leaving smears of chain ring grease behind.
But then there’s the gash.
Softened by the salty water
the scab loosens and parts of it wash away.
but fibers have formed
between the scab and the new flesh hoping to heal.
As Dr. O gently pulls off bits of the coagulated mock skin
the fibers stretch and snap
some without hurt
some with a twinge
and then it is time to finish with a sudden deft jerk
a flash of pain
a few gentle dabs around the wound,
exposing raw, newborn skin to light and air.
and then where there is some dirt from the crash, scrub it out.
where infection has begun a colony, scrub it out.
peroxide foams out the villains
and a little of the flesh as well.
Play the Adagio from Chopin’s Piano Concerto in F#m.
Why these tears, this ache in my throat?
How can a dawn I have so long yearned for
Find me not surprised yet unbelieving?
How can I, who have always been too hard
Too quick to batter down the gate
Stand now amid the rushing throng
And beg another moment to prepare?
Is it that I finally see
How dawn leads to day leads to dusk
And in this creeping twilight sense a rushing night?
Do I finally face the rise of a blackened moon
on a bone-white landscape?
A scene I never comprehended,
Yet now I must claim that dark moon as my own.
Mortality has grown taller while I slept
And now I fear to sleep again that I may not wake.
Sleep was my desire until I waked to you.
Knowing you has brought my mortality full before my face
Because you are the essence of life to me
So full and fine and fair
So dark and taut and true
So much older and younger than me
So much a mirror against which I press
Fearing shards of broken glass
Yet weeping to melt and meld with you
Dissolve with you in these flowing tears
I love you. I fear you.
I lust for you. I die in you.
I lie beneath your moist, green turf
And pray your roots to penetrate my skin
And suck me in
To a new life as your leaf.
Ecstasy and anguish are sides of a circle.
The palace of love is built next to the charnel house.
I weep to be released yet linger without chain or rope
Bound by my own heart and loins
to a helical ladder
spinning and slipping past me
the rungs a blur and the ends beyond sight.
Eternally falling along this endless steam train track.