Sending poetry to the world
I dream so well, so deep,
sometimes I can’t tell the dreaming
from the living. The rooms are both blue.
Have you ever thought you awoke, only to
find you were still dreaming? The clocks
on the wall melt like Dali.
When you say I Love You, the words seem
slow. If I reach out to touch you, will you
still be there, will you still be?
You, girl, are preoccupied
with the way heat from an afternoon sidewalk
steams your bare thighs. You let
thunder bang around in the empty
cavity of your day-dreamin mind.
Forget what they sold you.
Love is not a hot dress, a polished spoon,
a bleak expectation,
It is a moment you’ll never own;
a long-awaited rain slipping into dirt,
or how you can silently lean
into a Miles Davis’ horn
sounding a single humid and final note.
a Sunday like red wine must
as my expectations of your
sweet harvest lips, so tantalizingly close,
like pressed
bodies bubbling in
that Sunday Indian summer way
where outside heat
provides the stomping and
each gasp like long legs swirling down a glass
provides the buzz.
(written early this summer, revised today)
Elton John for Valentine’s Day
Happy Valentine’s Day my lovely readers 🙂 love love love…. la la la…..
i want to be with the summer people
those girls with tangled salted hair
and men with shoulders tanned
want to sit among them with my
brine of loneliness, raise my
head to see the whole troupe crashing
naked toward the tides, moonlight
drenching – one man coming back…
these years later, when
taking my hand, you know how
each freckle took form.
girlhood crush, regressing,
he now seems
that one cool boy who sleeps
through philosophy
(the intro class)
with the teacher who
never turns around
unless that dream of falling
snaps the boy awake
with a crash
he seems now
a distant pair of eyes
compelling me
to learn a secret – lean in.
if love
means
taking a pause
still in the arms
quiet with another
nomads
like us
will surely
suffer
all these loves like ghosts –
how they hang on,
with energy enough
to throw plates
yet the vision of which
is leftover rain
sneaking across the
summer screens…
naked vunerability
is the look of my hands
as they smile down your back
how every massage
is a breeze
that chills skin in awakening
how every glimpse
out the window. a rush
how your eyes
take me in
like my skin melts away
like my skin bursts away
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