Hobbies - Poetry - Anonn
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    My poetry reifies
    my ďit should beĒs

    or tries to

    or maybe it pushes them further down into the kind of obscurantism
    that could be used as metaphor for black hole, rather than the other way around.

    I do not know, I never read my poetry with anotherís eyes

    with your eyes.

    My poetry creates worlds
    and if no inter-worldly diplomatic relations exist yet
    it is because no one yet went there
    to return,
    no one yet went there, period.
    Maybe because communication is bound to fail,
    every untried communication is bound to fail
    with lizards
    with spiders
    with dandelions
    with my poetry.
    Easier to fly to the moon, I know. More expensive too
    which makes it more marketable.
    ďHey, letís attach a Nike shoe to the rocketĒ is a better proposition than
    ďHey, letís attach a Nike shoe to this in pectore poet.Ē
    Or opscurus. Or tenebrarius. Or inlaudatus inperceptus incelebratus.
    Not that the Nike executives know Latin, but they know Dollar.
    Like all executives.
    Unlike you, you know also Poetry. You went to my world but you are no diplomat.
    You are poet, like me.
    We both speak to lizards,
    also to us.
    Maybe this should be enough?

    My poetry fills your pillow,
    pads your chair uplifts your breasts cushions your stumble offers a fireflyís light
    for your next step.
    Do you speak also to fireflies? Teach me?
    Do you see my ďit should beĒs?

    I sit at my desk, write this blather with nerve ends tingling for your tinkle
    and hope that your next return from my world you tell me you found more of me.
    More of the meaning.
    More of the wishes.
    More of the ďit should beĒs burnt into your flesh
    as you, proudly, show me the scars.




    your nakedness in the block of air between my eyes and the wall facing me,

    the molecules one by one, slowly,
    emerge like a magnificent David from under the hands of a Mickey
    slightly faster, slightly quieter, slightly cleaner,

    let me regard
    the nascent outline still coarsely hidden under layers of decorum
    as the displaced molecules of air crackle, frizzle, sparkle into a deformed corona,

    chisel away
    with delicate tips of fingers
    the rough chunks of evolutionary propriety clinging to the emerging masterpiece
    and masquerading as a rabble of cotton, leather, silk, buttons, clasps, rubber,

    the way of Edgarís Dancer of Augusteís Kiss of Thutmoseís Nefertiti
    you, the first and last self-sculpture in my life
    born in that block of air between my eyes and the wall facing me
    so soft, so enticing, so far away...





    all these old people you laugh at today
    were once young

    were once strong, beautiful, proud, needed,
    had beating hearts,
    had sparkling eyes,
    made love like hyenas and sang like nightingales.

    Remember it,

    when you get old one day
    and others laugh at you

    forgetting that you were once strong, beautiful, proud, needed,
    had beating hearts,
    had sparkling eyes, made love like hyenas and sang like nightingales.




Vignettes, one

    ...and suddenly

    Iíll flare that rage
    that comes with age
    then sit and rhyme
    my worth of dime
    a poem sweet
    thus obsolete
    a winterís gray
    in search for May
    with flakes of white
    and tufts of night

    and when youíll read
    the words I knead
    with sparkling eye
    and riving sigh
    with wishes laced
    through dreams unchaste
    Iíll learn your heart
    bleeds round my dart
    Iíll know my breath
    has vanquished death.



Vignettes, two

    I feared the riverís mighty flow

    Until you dipped your little toe
    When all its might and all its plight
    Turned into murmurs of delight,
    The river braces, gently slows
    Defying gravitationís laws
    And for a moment eons long
    It bathes your toe with love and song

    The momentís dead, the momentís gone
    The river dons its primal brawn
    To roar its mounting rage anew
    The toe returns to warmth of shoe
    Yet both, forever, now will miss
    The magic of that momentís bliss.



Love Movie

    I saw a love movie, yesterday,

    of the kind where love returns eyesight to the blind heroine
    where love extinguishes a forest fire
    where love prevents a war between two neighboring countries,

    of the kind where love is responsible for all humans born
    though I call this act copulation and I see it as the one transcending humanity
    and common to all known and unknown species
    including and not exclusive to fishes, amphibians, reptiles, birds, mammals, insects
    and... plants.
    Hey, I guess it included dinosaurs as well, though it sounds a bit complicated.

    And yet, I sat down and watched.
    Maybe because I once loved fairytales?
    Maybe because I still love fairytales?
    Maybe because I... write fairytales?

    Wherein I grudgingly admit to paint things pink
    and dress things flowers
    and surround things butterflies
    and copulations is re-baptized love...
    at least for a few moments

    before I give in to that irrepressibly irrepressible impulse of realism
    which drives fairytale out of the window
    and forces my hand to grind and grate and gravel my words into the paper
    until it shreds into complete illegibility.
    And only I know what I have written.

    And then I forget.



Winter. Scene.

    The crows, in relentless competition with the magpies and swallows
    attack the crumbs of food I keep throwing in my garden
    then fly away, hiding from the evil eye while they munch whatever they scooped.
    Or swallow. Or whatever crows do with food.

    I just called them again, hoping the neighbors wonít call the police
    or maybe the medical services responsible for cases such as mine,
    oh, such a failure at learning foreign languages, mainly crowish
    not so much the lexicon as the accent.
    I guess even the crows have a problem understanding me
    this being the reason they wait for five minutes before falling upon the prey.
    Followed by said magpies, letting the crows take first risk.
    Followed by said swallows, letting the crows and magpies take first and second risk.

    Today there was also a cat. Black. A newcomer.
    Though I guess it was more interested in the flying food then in the lying food.
    Leaving hastily soon after,
    after all one does not play games with a murder of murderous crows.
    Plus magpies. Plus swallows. Even frogs but there were no frogs in my garden
    too coldy, too whitey, too snowy.

    I lie down in a lounge chair on the balcony,
    a thick blanket over me
    a thick hat to my head
    thick socks
    and wait for birds to come to sing,
    they donít. Probably donít know how. Or too scared to.
    I wait for you to lie in the lounge chair next to mine,
    you donít. Probably donít know how. Or too scared to.
    Or maybe because of the thick blanket and thick hat and thick socks
    and dark sunglasses that I forgot to mention
    you donít recognize me.
    Itís irrelevant, the result is the same.

    Crows come for my food crumbs. Also magpies. Also swallows.
    You donít come for my word crumbs.
    Even when I do not hide under blankets and hats and socks
    and dark sunglasses I forgot to mention.



Like a dream

    I sit on the window sill, balancing myself delicately
    so I do not drop the two floors down on the pavement
    and strumming just do-re, sometimes re-do then back to do-re
    which are the only accords I learned to play on this second hand guitar
    bought just for the occasion
    to impress you. Not expecting to impress you.

    You sit on the window sill across the street, balancing yourself delicately
    so you do not drop the two floors down on the pavement
    and listening to my do-re and sometimes re-do cacophony
    knowing I am just trying to impress you.
    Not getting impressed. Or maybe getting impressed, not sure still.

    A breeze flips your skirt higher up on the thigh
    you donít pull it back down.
    A breeze blows your blouse slightly away from your chest
    you donít pat it back down.
    A breeze tousles your hair.
    You allow it. Do you have a secret plan?

    This night I will write you a poem
    telling about the white horses I will tame to carry us away
    about the white hacienda I will buy to lead you to
    about the white bed I will gently lay you on to rob your innocence from
    about the white butterflies I will summon to dance a crown around your head
    and then cover our nakedness against nightís chill.
    Like a shield.
    Like a song.
    Like a dream.

    Tomorrow I will not send you a poem
    telling about the white carriage that will carry you away
    about the white house that you will be led to
    about the white sheets that will rob your innocence from
    by anotherís hand.
    The butterflies dead.
    Never born.
    Like a dream.



Live, here, now

    Live, here, now,

    Pit your glimmers of light against your glimmers of darkness
    and take sides in a battle that is not won until you decide elsewise,

    Prefer ugliness of beauty and foolishness of wisdom
    over the beauty of ugliness and the wisdom of foolishness
    when mind joins heart in decision,

    Regard me,
    through that temporary hoop created by thumb and forefinger
    joining in the perfection
    of a peeping hole,

    Try to follow your regard
    with your body
    the way of a banshee following her keening
    a swath following its scythe
    the bliss of quiescence following the bliss of commotion underneath sheets,

    Forget the paradox of physicality,
    forget the impossibilities of reality
    and make place for the wonders of poetical circumlocution
    pouring over your forms alongside your cottons and your linens and your silks
    dressing following undressing following dressing
    finally leaving you bare of covers and words,

    Read me
    with a mind allowing words sculpt the gyri and sulci of the brain it will inhabit
    ingest me
    with the mind of a newborn full of hungry emptiness
    understand me
    with a mind one hundred years old in a body one hundred years younger

    then youíll love me.



Complexities of Love

    I remember a girl
    my age, at the age when age didnít matter
    I was madly in love with her
    she was madly in love with someone else
    someone else was madly in love with someone else else...
    complexities of love
    devastatingly innocent.

    I remember a woman
    twice my age, at the age when age started mattering
    I was madly in love with her
    she was madly not in love with anyone
    anyone else was madly either in love or not in love with anyone else else...
    complexities of love
    devastatingly beautiful.

    I remember a girl
    half my age, at the age when age mattered infinitely
    I was madly in love with her
    she was madly in love with someone else
    someone else was madly in love with someone else else...
    complexities of love
    devastatingly demeaning.

    I remember girls, women
    above under around my age, age mattered, always
    I was madly in love with them all
    they were madly in love with various others
    various others were invariably madly in love with other various others...
    complexities of love
    devastatingly devastating.



Love Glove Above Poetry

    ...yeah, back to my favorite subject,

    i.e. perorating or sermonizing or haranguing or so on
    about poetry and its endless hanging-on minions
    if on the doing side or on the undoing side
    constantly shooting morbific mordacious morbid diatribes
    Just because they own a soap box.
    Just because they own a license.
    Just because they own a written mouth.

    They call erotica porn,
    no one called Franciscoís La Maja Desnuda porn

    They call romance schmaltz,
    no one called Williamís Romeo and Juliet schmaltz

    They call nakedness filth
    no one called Augusteís Andromede or Anguish and Ecstasy or Danaide filth

    I guess itís because everyone has access to a pen and a piece of paper
    yet not many have access to a brush or a stage or a chisel
    thus everyone is a poet
    yet none is a painter or a playwright or a sculptor
    thus everyone is allowed to open their mouth in depreciation of poetry
    yet none dares open their mouth in depreciation of painting or playwrighting or sculpting.
    They think they know.

    Strange world. Modern world. Diseased world.

    Thank you, illustrious predecessors
    for paving a way round humanityís mephitic tar potholes.
    I will keep poetrying,
    If need be then love-glove-aboveing.
    If need be eroticaing romanceing nakednessing
    the way of those others I appreciate and adore and admire
    and applaud
    and venerate.

    After all, I also do not know a brush from a stage from a chisel.
    But I do know my way around a pen and a piece of paper,
    oh, by God, I do know my way around them
    and those flames you see rising hungrily from around my desk
    are my pen rending the piece of paper
    with thoughts of erotica and romance and nakedness.



On the subject of LUCA

    There is a bit of LUCA in your cat.

    There is a bit of LUCA also in your amaryllis
    in your gold fish
    the pigeons family you saved from annihilation last winter
    the gecko
    the corals
    crocodileís deceased ancestors

    in the president.

    In you.

    One ancestor to us all.
    Way beyond Octogenarian
    more likely Hadean
    more likely brainless sensesless genderless.

    But... oh, what a legacy
    oh, what genealogy...

    *LUCA Ė Last Universal Common Ancestor



almost rhyme of almost life and almost death and vice versa

    and when in the evening
    the sun dies anew
    and melts in the dew
    that will birth it with morning

    and when in the forest
    a doe births a fawn
    and wakes in the dawn
    mid of wild andromedas

    and when summerís fountains
    are filling the valley
    aware the finale
    is summertimeís drought

    and when pebbles trundle
    like miscasted diamonds
    and mixing with almonds
    are steamroller fodder

    and when snow dispenses
    temptations suavely
    and innocence bravely
    defies it or dies

    and when rusty trumpets
    deliver a dirge
    yet flowers will surge
    from within travertine

    and when lovers argue
    and senses are torn
    the memories mourn
    their children unborn.



Parallax View

    Nobodyís fault. Uncalibrated expectations.
    Uncalibrated wishes.
    Like incompatible bucket lists from various periods in a life Ė
    the plastic of old, the silver of young, the real of never.
    Parallax view. Daydreaming. Flight of fancy.
    Psychology could define a new sub-science and call it Antinomis Oxymoronis
    to provide it with the necessary Latin justification and academic rationalization
    to be taught the world over.
    Also in my classes of once.

    I thought weíd have a Cleo and Julius relationship, though not so historic.
    I thought weíd have a Liz and Richard relationship, though not so tumultuous
    a Marilyn and John, though not so tragic
    a Lady and Tramp, and maybe so yes and they lived together forever
    unchanging irrelevant the number of times I screen it
    oh, the eternality of cartoon beauty.

    I measure relationships in poetry units. This is one dimension.
    Of course there are many other dimensions
    and seven volumes of it do not necessarily mean better than one poem of it
    but, still, it is one measure.
    Iíve had relationships with hundreds, Iíve had relationships with a single
    Iíve had relationships with zero.
    And if I do not define Ďrelationshipí any measure is of course meaningless
    yet I persist, with no specific reason... well, maybe with creativity as reason.
    And this one was rich,
    deep large fervent fomenting
    but, now I know, not Cleo and Julius.
    Not Liz and Richard not Marilyn and John not Lady and Tramp.
    Parallax view.
    Antinomis Oxymoronis.
    So sorry.
    Such pity.



10 x 10, eleven

    I wish the days of love forever gone
    Would turn to waste into La Parcaís womb
    And as my nights the lure of passion don
    You be my bride, and I your mortal groom.

    When morning lures the gullible young sun
    To choose a death in wait at end of sky
    Youíll sing me life until my days count none
    And never answer my beseeching why.

    I join the womb, beneath La Parcaís scythe
    You join the sun, and other hearts ignite.



10 x 10, twelve

    While Jupiter was busy hunting skirts
    I hunted words to build your beautyís reign
    And scribbled rhymes to paint into refrain
    Upon the cuffs of my discarded shirts.

    While Jupiter was busy waging wars
    I waged a spree of interlacing runes
    Dripping the trills of larks into my tunes
    Into my garbs upon your naked floors.

    While Jupiter was busy chasing oaths
    You dropped your eyes, you dropped your pride and clothes.



10 x 10, thirteen

    I thought I would compete with Bill today
    And challenge gold with some inspired clay
    But then I found myself trapped in morass
    His gold stays gold, my clay turns kind of crass.

    And yet I know, this ten times ten old art
    Will forge the key to your desiring heart
    So here I trudge with a renewed ťlan
    And braid my words into insane rattan.

    Iíll never win, heíll always stay ahead
    But Iím alive, and... sorry Bill, youíre dead.



10 x 10, fourteen

    The blades, awake in your smoldering sighs,
    The grass, ablaze in your flickering eyes,
    The skin and the fingers aglow with crave
    Your breasts my subject of poetry rave,

    I came to you days and I parted nights
    Obsessed with the shimmer of raw delights
    You came to me nights and ravished my days
    My body at war with mutinous haze,

    We cleaved parting reason with lips and nails
    And watched, bereaved, as the love season sails.




    Innocent bystanders, we, lovers,

    watching impotently as morning forces night into submission
    before murdering it with color and sound and movement

    our fingers clutching at each otherís flesh like tentacles of warring octopuses
    loving octopuses
    doomed octopuses.

    Let me dress you, I begged.
    You let me.
    Let me dress you, you begged.
    I let you.

    We dressed undressed dressed five more times in the following hour
    until time decided we used up our entire time credit.
    One more time, time?
    But time refused.

    A jarring buzz at the door told us the taxi had arrived.
    The taxi had arrived, I said, unnecessarily.
    Let me undress you, you begged.

    I had no idea how I got to the airport, on the plane, off the plane.

    And afternoon killed morning and evening killed afternoon and night killed evening
    and I lay in my bed waiting for morning to kill night anew,
    my fingers curled into a fist, like a dead octopus.
    And all that sea water streaming down my face
    drowning me.



Almost Legend

    We were drifting into the sun

    you, a goddess therefore alive
    I, an adoring disciple therefore alive in your embrace

    we, lovers, running away from prejudices of humans
    and gods

    much deadlier than the sun.
    We knew it.

    Do you love me because I am goddess? you asked.
    I love you because you are human, I answered.
    Do you love me because I am human? I asked.
    I love you because you see me human, you answered.

    The sun embraced us willingly,
    protecting us from worldís jaundice, partiality, misogyny, bigotry, xenophobia
    and rest of beautiful names to horrible evils
    infesting humans and gods alike.

    Do you think it can do it forever? I asked, eyeing the sun with wondrous fear.
    For as long as we wish.
    And does it ask anything in return?
    This time you eyed me, with the same wondrous fear I eyed the sun earlier on.
    Nothing. As long as we wish together.
    I see. Forever.

    I finally dared take my eyes off your big brother and look into the eyes of my sweet lover.
    I was melting, much faster than I would have melted alone in the sun.
    Would he mind if we make love?
    He would be terribly upset if we donít.

    The solar flare rested unexplained for eons to come.
    Not until jaundice, partiality, misogyny, bigotry, xenophobia
    and rest of beautiful names to horrible evils were expunged from humans and gods.
    Then they found my poetry book
    and you inside of it.
    And they understood.




    you lie on the snow
    on your back

    there where I laid you down

    your feet joined
    not in shame but in defiant waywardness
    your arms stretched both sides of your chest
    not like a Raphael transfigurating Jesus but like a Rodin uncurling Danaide

    your breasts flattened by gravity
    you nipples hardened by desire

    rivulets of color excommunicated from your skinís flowers
    slowly flowing both sides of your inert forms
    and dripping in reds and blues and greens
    growing gnarled roots into the snow like an amassed forest of veins
    dissipating into the invisibility of needle thin fingers, ends, nothingness...

    you sing, your voice barely audible
    when I kneel next to you ready to pick you up
    you repeat as my motion continues
    donít! wait!
    and I donít and I wait until the snow soaks in the hues
    turning to the frozen palette of springís flowers to come
    and dayís deaths to evanesce into sunsets
    and treeís greens to err on their dissonant ways to turning buds

    and you turn pale, aquarelle, beautiful
    do! I am cold!
    you murmur, your colors finally ready to explode into the world
    and I scoop you into my arms
    into my skin
    into my life
    like you were a leaf
    like you were a feather
    like you were a rune...

    I carry you home
    I cover you seven layers of colors
    I cover you seven layers of covers
    I cover you seven layers of compassion
    please, cover me one layer of love! you whisper

    and I cover you seven layers
    of love.




    We have just scratched the surface of the single-X domain.
    When insufficient time had passed.

    The one comparable to elementary school relationships
    when we hold hands
    push each other on swings
    chase each other
    here and there scratch, bite, cry, make up
    peek curiously at the different way the other pees with no real understanding
    kiss on the cheek
    then hide
    then rush to kiss again then hide again

    almost innocent
    almost comparable.

    I guess we will not reach the double-X domain.
    I guess insufficient time is left.

    The one comparable to adolescent relationships
    when holding hands is not sufficient anymore
    and brazenly we try to brush breasts, to brush cheeks, to brush lips
    with thighs squeezing under tables unseen
    and from time to time chests pushing against each other boldly
    and hips clashing shortly
    and fingers venturing where none had ventured before
    at least so we think
    some pictures daringly revealing a bare shoulder
    some sentences daringly using L words
    maybe even some poems borrowed from some recognized masters
    but dedicated to each other
    an open mouthed kiss
    a touch of tongue followed by disgust followed by restive push and pull and fire

    not innocent anymore
    beyond comparable already.

    I know we will not reach the triple-X domain.
    I know insufficient time is left.

    The one incomparable to any other relationship
    when all limits dissolve
    and all clothes rip away
    the hesitating hands of yesterday become the clawing hands of today
    with the teeth of yesterday becoming the fangs of today
    bodies rolling and reeling and roiling
    while the mattress screeches its terror as fire envelopes it
    its straw entrails bursting into the consummating flames
    consuming the trinity of man woman bed
    and incinerating it into the apotheosis of a relationship
    that only an act of God can terminate
    and an act of God terminates when they rest panting and sweating and smoldering
    in each otherís embrace

    innocence dead and buried
    incomparable to life or death.




    You are not virgin

    The sun rises in the east

    Eyes are green

    We will make love

    the way you are virgin still
    and the sun rises in the east sometimes
    and eyes are green always


    My only refuge is statistics,
    it allowing the probability of a lone 1 trailing several trillions 0s after the decimal point
    that any or all above inconceivabilities
    may turn conceivable.
    Including the never.
    This is a different kind of lottery than the one I never won
    and therefore it leaves me...
    Irrelevant the trillions.



Strange Seasons

    Spring, probably.

    Mine or yours?
    I guess it matters, but not really

    birth and death mixed,
    the primal scream starting a rolling stone down from the top of the mountain
    gathering speed, momentum
    jumping skipping crashing all on its way
    oblivious to miles and years and tears lining its path
    and the inevitable end awaiting at mountainís foot
    be it a soft landing in a swampís mud
    or a hard knock out against a waiting lump of iron,
    crocodiles and stars optional.

    I, playing with wooden swords and terrible monsters about to eat me
    many years before you,
    you, playing with silver dust and pink clothed fairies
    many years after me,
    as out of sync as hiccups to heartbeats
    and yet we knew that letters gather in storm to words
    and words gather in storm to sync
    and one day we would gather in storm
    to us.

    Did we?

    Summer, probably.

    Mine, when?
    Yours, when?

    Your music yours
    my music mine
    my dances not yours your dances not mine
    experimenting with life
    and body parts
    and cracks grew in the mountain and flowers grew in the cracks and bees visited the flowers
    eyes of various colors and shapes abundant
    finger touches of various demand insistence and permission need abundant
    and I kept losing my virginity so rarely
    and you kept finding your virginity so determinedly

    and we tried to identify why the hell is humanity so obsessed with virginity
    and with hymen
    when elephants and pigeons and mosquitoes arenít
    (with the obvious conclusion itís another means of menfolk subjugating womenfolk)
    both of us experimenting with our own versions of sometimes virginity
    occasional virginity
    as per need virginity
    statistical virginity
    and an olla podrida of various virginity levels as demanded by the situation at hand
    and by words passing temporarily through our minds at that specific moment
    coupled with invading dreams, wishes, expectations.

    Never supposed to meet. We.
    The gigantic gaping mouth of uncle Chronos
    carving an abysm the size of Grand Canyon between us
    with no mules hanging-bridges helicopters hot-air-balloons to help the crossing.
    Not even stopping my watch and advancing yours helped.

    And yet, it was coming. Poor uncle Chronos.

    Autumn, probably.

    Mine passing.
    Yours looming.

    And yet the mixing of the smells
    of crushed fruits
    and crushing leaves
    and crushing drops of rain and crushing dry grains of wheat
    with cranes hesitating between going and coming
    and the sun undecided as to its zenith location
    and me finding you before you losing me and us finding us before the world ends
    whatever was left and whatever will ever be left
    masked underneath heavy layers of blue mascara dripping on pale pages
    shaped as letters and syllables and almost poems and never poems

    I inhaled an entire ocean just to sense your provoking femininity
    and you exhaled an entire lungful and bodyful just to ensure my senses are overloaded
    those seven seas and thousand years away
    waiting for me to choke
    and come begging for more
    and I came begging for more
    asking for your heel to step over my chest
    and your grip to clench around my wrist
    and your breast to smother the leftovers of humanity and sanity once given to me
    and now prey to your womanly whim and delicate charm
    and maddening perfume
    pulling clouds down over my head to my shoulders
    and grass up over my shoulders to my head
    and cocooned I inside that impenetrable fortress waiting for your body to liberate me
    from the tyranny of metaphors
    into the republic of reality
    where lips are lips and teeth are teeth and hips are hips
    and grunts are divinity allocated to humans by any number of gods that there might be
    or might want to share
    or might want to smile, grudgingly and enviously
    upon us humans.

    Is it all real?

    Winter, imminently.

    Mine. Past looming. Past knocking on the door. Past friendly nosey neighbor.
    Wrapping seven tons of bricks around my ankles, each,
    and little does it matter that the bricks are made of years
    they could have been made of gold for all I care.
    Yours. So uncle Chronos does own a debatable sense of humor
    turning your looming autumn into budding summer
    with garlands of butterflies dressing your skin and braided in your hair
    and hanging five inches long from your ears in a fluttering frenzy of living earrings.

    Break off a piece of your summer, love.
    Send it to me.
    So that I can carry your warmth underneath that marble comforter soon to dress my bed
    while I join the sociopathic and poetry despising society of worms
    to their various forms and languages and habits and habitats.
    Hey, do you think that various voracious sounds nice as part of a poem?
    Do you think that macabrity should make it to whatever academy list of to be created?
    Do you think that I making love to you would be like you making love to me?

    Do you think you could love me?




    Pretty maiden, pretty say
    what youíll dream about today?

    I will dream of itching hay
    and of you between my cherries
    crushing grapes and rotten berries
    telling me Iíve born you May.

    Pretty maiden, are you happy
    when we play mammy and pappy?

    Mainly when you get all yappy
    as you chase me in the pillows
    under Mayís enchanted willows
    with your words so sweet and sappy.

    Pretty maiden, whatís your rush
    when I touch your bristling plush?

    I just heard a trilling thrush
    singing May into my morning
    and this gripping lust aborning
    when my blush turns into flush.

    Pretty maiden, will your fire
    be my most deserving pyre?

    As my passing Mays respire
    and your hands seed me with flowers
    while the yours and mine turn ours
    time your words beget my choir.



Metaphorical Layers

    All this shit
    that I write
    is I metaphorically kneeling in front of you
    and proposing

    which can happen, unfortunately, only metaphorically.
    And does happen.

    All these metaphors
    inside the metaphor
    is I making love to you
    in that undefined no-manís-land between consent and rape
    trespassing borders between undecidedly and unwillingly and their counterparts
    and hoping for the clemency of a jury composed of a single member


    The metaphors
    inside the metaphors inside the metaphor
    is you disregarding any metaphors and accepting my proposing
    and my love making
    and taking it all one step further into the Tierra del Fuego of your craving,
    no metaphor intended,
    that undefined personal no-manís-land
    where you demolish whichever borders or limits or conventions may exist
    and drag the metaphor ensemble into its reality

    borders or limits or conventions may they go to hell.

    the innermost layer
    of metaphors.




    We bought one waffle,
    one, for both of us,
    one bite you one bite I

    yet once the waffle ended, the munching did not
    and we continued with tips of fingers
    then with roots of fingers
    then with other parts of one or other anatomical significance
    for demonstrable reasons of selfless contribution to a wasteless sustainable ecology
    on a locally global scale.

    Care to be more specific?
    Culinaristically or corporealistically?

    I bought another waffle. Still one for two.
    Then I paused each step
    explaining (hastily)
    demonstrating (eagerly)
    breathing deeply (out of necessity at a certain stage and beyond).

    If I didnít know better, and probably I donít know better, I would say you are horny,
    you said,
    using the H word abhorred by any medieval or classical or modern poet
    and thus banishing any chance for a Pulitzer or similar out of the equation,

    I mean you could have used Halberd
    or Heuristically Programmed ALgorithmic Computer, aka HAL 9000 in short,
    or Hallelujah
    but you chose horny, leaving me with no choice but investigate further the matter
    hoping, now that any hope for Pulitzer & co. turned to smithereens,
    that you minded the Pulitzer even less than I did.
    Are you? I asked, keeping nevertheless the H indecency out of my question.

    I kept buying waffles,
    having incidentally discovered that I had an unknown-of interest in anatomy
    and had lots and lots to learn about it
    and the waffles supplied me with the necessary energy and rationalization
    and (most importantly) excuse to visit your various end-of-waffle areas of interest
    your own enthusiasm little by little evolving as well in symmetrical opposites.

    The end of three days found us with unexplainable stupid grins carved upon our cheeks
    verily more knowledgeable in several non-disclosable matters
    and emaciated to the point of hardly leaving a shadow in our wobbling wake
    irrelevant the number of waffles we wolfed down.



When 45 was king

    When 45 was king
    and I its devoted slave and servant and helot

    shuffling and sorting and flipping through my hundred odd deck
    faster than a seasoned cards player through his 52 pieces of painted cardboard
    having the time to sleeve-out and place-on and start-push and cheat-select
    before the one momentarily in my arms had the time to gather her wits
    and rebuke my insistence
    and powder her nose... powder can wait, Paul Anka cannot...

    and then to the next one
    both the 45 and the one momentarily

    some allowing the squeeze
    some resisting the squeeze
    some squeezing till my spine was about to break and my chest about to cave in
    at the onslaught of hands and thighs and breasts

    and then someone else would shuffle the 45s
    and another one momentarily would hang on to me, or I to her

    and I would curse or bless according to who was free and who was taken
    while the rock or rumba or cha-cha or twist or whatever was forcing us to unglue
    letting us chase the devils in our souls
    and those in our pants
    and those underneath our one momentarilyís skirts

    and thankfully another slow Elvis or Adamo or some unpronounceable nameís 45
    would send us all screaming to look for the light switch off position

    with the war of the sexes taking place anew
    under the protecting blanket of small blinking neon eyes
    (...hey! somebody cover those neons!)
    with a preferred one
    or an unpreferred one that was ďgivingĒ
    or an unchoiced one who was the leftover selection on the chairs
    the rest being captured if you crawled instead of rushed

    some even married the preferred or unpreferred or unchoiced one momentarilies

    The end of every battle
    always finding me greedily collecting my 45 kings, and queens, and jesters, and pawns
    caressing the dust off them
    apologizing for the rough treatment inflicted
    sliding them to a well-deserved sleep into their inner sleeves
    and outer sleeves
    and external protecting nylon sleeves
    and kissing them to good rest
    until next battle.
    Until the last battle.

    I donít remember the last battle.

    I slide a 45 carefully out from its multiple protection layers
    (I donít remember you acting so carefully with our babies, says my wife)
    handle it with the reverence due to a king
    place it with surgical precision on the turntable
    let it start rotating
    let the needle drop...

    hey, do I really cry? I ask myself
    as Elvis follows Paul Anka
    and Adamo follows Elvis
    and unpronounceable name follows Adamo

    and I feel sorry for my kids
    and their kids
    and their kidsí kids
    and so on

    hearing myself saying the way each generation before me said Ė
    they will never know what we knew
    they will never have what we had
    they will never feel
    the way we felt.

    Only that, in my case, I believe I am right.



or so I believe

    I donít have much time left

    so Iíll climb up the mountain
    to drink from the fountain
    that nurses new youth
    to all creatures uncouth

    or so I believe.

    I feel the end nearing

    so Iíll roam my first ocean
    purloin its commotion
    since swagger and sway
    keep tomorrows at bay

    or so I believe.

    Practically Iím done here

    so Iíll join masses mining
    some swearing some whining
    for nuggets of time
    hidden deep in my rhyme

    or so I believe.

    Youíre a dimwit

    oh these humdrum and boring
    excuses for snoring
    my breasts playing tease
    will get time playing freeze

    you better believe.



The reasons, though no reasons are necessary

    I want to make love to you
             because you exist.
    I want to make love to you
             because I exist.
    I want to make love to you
             because we exist.

    Now, letís define exist.
    One may say breathe. Ha!
    One may say eat sleep move. Ha!
    One may say think feel love. Ha!
    One may say whatever one may say and it will still be Ha!

    You and I and we fall outside the definition, any definition.
    I want to make love to you because dinosaurs once roamed the Earth.
    I want to make love to you because Pi is an irrational number
    I want to make love to you because there was once a guy called Michelangelo
    because man walked on the moon
    because dogs love humans
    because earth is round and sun is hell and in a few billion years the solar system dies.

    I want to make love to you because we are one single point node event
    on this infinitely thin single points nodes events randomly tangled skein which is existence
    leading from minus infinity to plus infinity mathematically said
    or previous big-bang to next big-bang astrophysically said
    or ever before to ever after poetically said
    and if this single point node event which we are fails to occur the entire skein falls apart
    losing its continuity
    and reaching from minus infinity to the miserability of no infinity
    from previous big-bang to the miserability of no-bang
    from ever before to the miserability of never after

    and this can never happen.

    The laws of mathematics. Immutable.
    The laws of physics. Immutable.
    The laws of life and its subset, poetry. Immutable.

    I want to make love to you because we are so fucking unique.
    It happened already
    we just donít know it yet.

    you better believe.




    I woke up to sounds of Dvořákís ďSongs my mother taught meĒ
    wafting from your phone like perfume from a lilac freshly blossoming,
    too tired to tell you to turn it off
    you, probably as tired as I was, disregarding it entirely.
    It was only after the jingle reached the end of its natural life
    that I felt your hand crawling out from under the covers
    and fumbling with the phoneís functionalities...
    a few seconds later Dvořák was blessing us again with his motherís stuff.
    Aha, she likes it, I thought.
    Aha, you like it, I mumbled.
    Uh-huh, you mumbled back your consent,
    you talk too much, you mumbled back your discontent
    turning on your side and pushing your bare ass into my no less bare hip
    wedging me into sphinxlike immobility and almost panic. Almost, mind you.
    I found one hand free, it was mine
    and decided to turn the embarrassing moment into an instructive one
    by letting it wander freely somewhere
    trying to find whatever items of interest there
    or elsewhere
    I found items of interest everywhere.
    I had to focus
    and at the end of a couple minutesí focus I started scaring
    watching the fire-alarm overhead, afraid any moment now it would go off
    and within seconds get us inundated by shapely muscular bare-chested firemen...
    aha, this was probably your plan all along, wasnít it?...
    Huh-uh, you denied, unconvincingly.

    Found anything of interest? your mumbled mumble followed your denial mumble
    and following impenetrable feminine logic
    you rotated round your longitudinal axis one hundred and eighty degrees
    now wedging me for real.
    I had suddenly one of those momentarily momentary moments of human weakness
    and I opened my mind in respectful yet blasphemous reproach to God
    contending the fact that he created humans with so few hands and so few mouths
    when the job at hand was so momentous,
    I bet, God, you were out of clay
    though, with due respect, you did not seem to be out of clay when you created the octopus
    not that I envy the octopus, mind you (I did envy the octopus)...
    You mumble too much, you mumbled again
    and soon it became irrelevant the number of hands and mouths
    and whatever else was of interest for the job at hand
    so glad that I had whatever was of interest for the job at hand.
    I wondered if you asked God the same question at the phase that you could still ask questions.

    I lay over you like a deflated tire.
    You lay underneath me like under a deflated tire, eyeing the fire-alarm plastic box critically
    and fumbling again with the phoneís controls, making sure I did not slide down.
    Dvořák blessed us again, good boy Dvořák,
    did you ever dream to become a phone jingle for a dream creature?

    We decided to change hotel.
    We did not want to risk a regular fire surprising us because of a defective alarm system
    irrelevant your repressed firemen mentals.
    It was clearly defective, if to judge by the smoke ascending slowly to the ceiling.



Volunteering ditty (ditty, not duty)

    I volunteer to love you.

    I volunteer to adore you, worship you, cherish, treasure, adulate, idolize...
    ok, ok, ok, ok, ok, ok...
    sing you, praise you, serenade you...
    ok, ok, ok...
    cuddle, caress, hug, embrace, deflower, devour, empower, prize...
    ok, ok, ok, ok, too late, ok, ok, ok...

    I volunteer to undress your overwear and innerwear and underwear...
    careful with buttons, careful with zippers, careful with clips and clasps and chinches...
    to be there every moment of your life, enjoy everything you cook, hear everything you say...
    no need to exaggerate, doubt it, ok but I prefer listen...
    make love like a man possessed...
    try like Brad Pitt, maybe a wig would help...
    dream of you every night...
    can you really control it? can you really prove it?...
    dress your underwear and innerwear and overwear...
    you mean like a drag queen?...
    no, I mean dress you your etc...
    oh, so again careful with clips and clasps and chinches, careful with zippers, careful with buttons,
    reverse order, see?...

    I volunteer to stop volunteering to anything but your cause.
    I donít have a cause.
    Then weíll create a cause.
    Which kind of cause?
    One that will be dear to your heartís cause.
    I believe youíre a lost cause.
    Because pause clause applause...
    Also this but way in futureís jaws.
    You killed the ause.
    But kept to rhyming laws.

    Our romance ended (see above) we went our separate ways,
    I stayed in the past (not too much future for me to look forward to)
    she moved in the future (not too much past for her to hang on to).
    I did, though, keep my volunteering oath
    see this ditty,
    I wonder if sheíll ever know I loved her so (used past tense, just in case she reads it too late).



Strange art

    Strange art, poetry,

    the odd child,
    the only personal art in the kingdom of arts
    truly and fully and absolutely so in essence rather than style
    which easily explains its zero mercantile value for whatever masses one may think of

    as personal as someoneís eating ways of their asparagus and cucumber and tomato
    and tell me who would pay
    for seeing someoneís eating ways of their inner asparagus and cucumber and tomato?
    Not to mention the additional effort involved in reading rather than seeing.

    Strange art, poetry,

    effortlessly finding its sister art in that odd place called infants drawing pictures
    those raw humans
    still lacking the much needed words to express torments and joys and wants.
    One picture tells a thousand words, yeah,
    says the professor,
    proudly regarding an auditorium full of the right bovine nodding ignorami.

    One word tells a thousand pictures, yeah,
    says the poet,
    dispiritedly regarding an auditorium empty of the wrong bovine nodding ignorami,
    oh, if they but were full of the wrong bovine nodding ignorami
    those with the right set of eyes to see. Or read, mind you.
    One thousand words then tell one thousand thousands pictures, yeah.

    Strange art, poetry.

    See, conversely yet,
    it takes the full seven volumes of a poetís collected word-art to paint one single picture
    though, it is the one picture science was never nor will ever be able to draw,
    all sciences confounded.
    The picture of a humanís soul. Or, in this case, a poetís.

    Strange art, poetry.

    Stranger still, those strange people who dare grapple with its scribbled bricks.
    The poets, I mean.



Let Melody

    Let your shoes, with soles and laces
    dragging memories of paces
    liberate those wriggling toes
    rollicking in freedomís throes,

    Let that horrible invention
    born in spinsterly dimension
    pantyhose its dreaded name
    let it rip and burn the shame,

    Let the shirt with pearl button
    hiding treasures for this glutton
    tear along the hidden seams
    carrying unspoken dreams,

    Let the skirt with all its trimming
    as my mind approaches dimming
    fly away into wind
    feeling utterly chagrined,

    Let your bra, so thin and lacey
    driving me befogged and spacey
    disappear into the naught
    left beyond my dwindling thought,

    Let, oh let your grinning scanties
    knickers? or culottes? or panties
    melt under the leering sun
    waiting there since time begun,

    Now, let me, your heartís pretender
    wallowing in all this splendor
    I, coveter of your skin
    let me habit you with... sin.



Lethe-al ponderings

    I have made it to the river
    In my old and battered flivver
    Once a mighty fearsome body
    Timeís grim minions turned it shoddy
    I lived twenty thousand sunsets in the arms of love and glory
    Watching wrinkles, pains and sorrows sink their claws into my story
    Now the reaper calls my number
    Slinging white into my umber,

    At the gates of naught and nether
    I will drop my resting tether
    One-way pilgrims fill the ferry
    To foreverís sanctuary
    Lost upon the banks of Lethe Iíll play ferrymanís affection
    Offering no coins but records, poems, or my stamps collection
    Guess Iíll play it kind of chancy
    If itís cash his only fancy,

    Say he doesnít stop to ponder
    And I make it over, yonder
    Will there be elated heaven
    Or just boredom all days seven
    Will I curse from morn to evening that which none escapes its halter
    And the noisome tropes encasing a divinityís sad altar
    Or Iíll smile... I touched you... once,
    It was worth now turning dunce.




    When I got to the Gates of Heaven
    (thatís how ďtheyĒ prefer to call it, not Heavenís Gates or something else)
    someone there at reception said I was not on their list
    so I should try my luck with their unsavory neighbor
    they called Gates of Hell
    but their neighbor, once I got there,
    insisted on Hellís Gates... sounds sexier, they winked
    yet didnít let me in, nevertheless, even when I called it their way.
    Youíre not on our list, they claimed, checking also with the head office.
    So where do I go? I asked, pissed off at this time wasting bureaucracy,
    not that time mattered anymore.
    What about back on Earth, until we all sort our shit out? suggested the sexless guardian
    almost cutting my nose off as it (haha) speedily closed the gate.
    I did not see any complaints box around
    nor any ramming rod to ram any of the neighborhood gates down
    so I decided to follow its advice
    and floated back to Earth.

    No one was waiting for me, no one knew anyway that I left
    so I got down from bed
    donned my slippers
    scratched my head
    ate a piece of stale Belgian waffle, still tasty
    (all this wandering up and down and sideways got me hungry)
    and sat down to write this missive to my lovely.
    Will count as transitory Chapter X in my biography.

    I tried to get you rid of me
    but it didnít work out.
    Better luck next time. All this yo-yo up and down is kind of deprecating
    (to them, not to me)
    so I believe next time will be the good one.
    BTW, all is in black & white ďthereĒ
    so when you follow me, many years henceforth, no need to bring lipstick
    just bring your body, please.
    Iíll sneak it in, even though it is against regulations (I read their brochure).
    PS. Any hesitation you may have had heretofore... forget it!
    Letís just fornicate the way God intended, OK?
    With variations, OK?




    before the wheel,
    before the knife and the metal and the fire,
    I would have combed your hair with thistles
    and washed your skin with snow
    and laid your lair with dried grass and crumbled bark and lost feathers.

    and food?

    squashed overripe pears into your mouth
    and stolen honey between your lips
    and goat milk in my cupped hand for you to slurp,
    and loved you into toothlessness.

    after the wheel,
    after the knife and the metal and the fire,
    pithecanthrope once again
    I will comb your hair with phosphorescent fingers
    and wash your skin with heavy water
    and lay your lair with radioactive ash.

    and food?

    sweep exploded pears into your mouth
    and volatilized honey molecules between your lips
    and my breastís milk for you to slurp,
    and love you into eternal radiance.




    Give me your flesh,

    Let it wrap itself around me
    with the tenacity of a hunger driven piranha
    carrying in its belly a one hundred days stretch of fasting
    with the knowledge of one hundred days of fasting to follow,

    Let me wallow inside its annihilating embrace
    admixing the human wonders of goo and goop and gunk
    with the inhuman wonders of groan and grate and growl
    until gates that could only be appertained to heaven
    close behind the artistry of our convoluted bodies,

    Give me your flesh,

    And I will re-apportion the bones lining it inside and throughout
    until you will get as shapeless as a splash of mercury
    sloshing mindlessly around a wobbling fistful of gravel
    ever looking and never finding the form it would contentedly settle into
    for the rest of its unnatural life,

    I will paint into it colors of spring upon blandness of winter
    followed by summer robbing spring of its achievement to burn ripeness into color
    twig exploding into bud, bud exploding into flower, flower exploding into fruit
    autumn pending and before re-conquering winter drags me away
    you melt
    the way of the very first and very lonesome flake of snow
    fallen on the blushing cheek of a maiden
    touched first
    kissed first
    loved first,

    Give me your flesh,

    the essence of beauty
    the essence of love
    the essence of life.



Dying Leaves

    I walk the narrow, empty street
    The leaves are dying round my feet
    As autumn dawns into my wake
    And whiffs of rot my nostrils rake.

    My loves collapse from drooping eaves
    Awaiting death among the leaves
    My poems sing the inching curse
    And gild in black the waiting hearse.

    Some leaves remember better days
    And rustle whispers in the haze
    Some leaves beseech my crushing shoes
    To plead against divine abuse,

    And yet, some seep into my heart
    And beg to join my dying art
    Alongside loves and souvenirs
    And cheers, and fears, and years, and tears.

    The autumn catches with my stride
    And all that dies, and all that died
    My heart, my mind, the leaves gone rust
    Will turn to ever, lasting dust.



Good Bye?

    How does one say Good Bye even before saying Hello?

    How do I say Good Bye before taking a sip from your glass of wine
    before impatiently biting into a piece of food you impaled on your fork
    before drinking a bowl of soup with one single spoon
    with you
    one spoon you one spoon I one spoon you one spoon I...?

    How do I say Good Bye before knowing which side of bed you sleep on
    which is your preferred toothpaste
    which TV program youíd rather kill than miss?
    Before washing your hair drying your hair dyeing your hair combing your hair?
    Before finding which song on the car radio makes you scream and gesticulate
    almost hitting every other lamp post on the road
    without ever hitting every other lamp post on the road?

    Before smelling and tasting and hearing your perfume
    your contortions and contractions and convolutions
    once the preliminaries are over
    and the soup finished
    and the side of the bed defined as irrelevant by tailing events and actions
    themselves followed
    by that period of absolute contentment and contemplation and congeniality?
    Yours. With me carrying the onus of admiration and adoration.

    How do I say Good Bye before even saying Hello?

    How does one skip Hello right into Hell
    with the tiny o, that would otherwise mask the ripping sounds of a heart,




    between the linens and me
    dislocating the bond between flesh and matter
    and replacing it with the bond between flesh and flesh
    and when vacuum cements the vibrating borders and seals them into inexistence
    make certain your intentions are as dishonorable as mine
    or else you will never understand
    why the smile on your face for the rest of your life.

    between the cottons and me
    disregard objects objecting to your advance in a most non-objective way
    and rather than retreating
    embrace the challenge
    and find grounds of mutual interest before losing interest altogether together
    in that giddiness sinking its roots between dying elysium and resurrecting reality.

    Let me slide
    between your flesh and you
    leaving no leftovers of forgiveness in your mind
    no explorables unexplored in your body
    no doubt as to what a valley scorched by crawling lava feels like in your souvenirs
    and once your poetry ends being written
    ask me to write it again.



Pretending on matters of high importance

    You close your eyes
    and I touch your breast
    and then you open your eyes and we pretend that nothing happened.

    You read the menu
    and I kiss your ear
    and then we order and pretend that nothing happened.

    You give me the key
    and I unlock the door
    and then you lock the door and pretend that nothing happened.
    Which side of the door are you when I lock it?
    You decide.
    So I decide if something happened rather?

    You say good bye
    and I say good bye
    and we pretend that nothing happened.
    Like we pretend that spring follows winter?
    Like we pretend that the earth rotates around the sun?
    Like we pretend that we pretend?

    Sadly. Yes.
    I wish we pretended.
    So do I.

    We parted. Pretending eternal friendship.
    Pretending that spring follows winter? Or pretending that winter follows spring?
    You decide.

    You decided.



Love Cycle

    like any living entity
    gets born.

    It screams its first days into the unknown
    then it stumbles its first steps until it finds its footing
    it learns
    it grows
    it believes
    it becomes big love.

    like any living entity

    It falls into habit
    losing the spark and the sparkle and the glitter and the glint
    and gaining the wrinkle and the crinkle and the crease and the crimp
    it becomes old love.

    like any living entity

    It needs to be fed
    it needs to be groomed
    it needs to be healed
    and unlike any living entity it can bloom
    for the ever of a life, of two,
    or, like any living entity unfed ungroomed unhealed
    it dies
    it rots
    it putrefies
    it becomes dead love.



Strange Philosophy

    I know how I should be read
    by others.

    The point is I am not read the way I should be read
    by others.

    Why does it matter I donít know.
    I keep saying that I do not care so I probably lie when saying so.
    I wonder if Michelangelo cared.
    I wonder if Tennyson cared.
    I wonder if Mozart, Rodin, Chaplin cared.
    Of course they cared
    vanity stalking the most noble of souls. They were also paid, but this was secondary.
    Of course I care.
    Of course I see myself aligned with them artists, else, why do I write?
    Of course I know why it matters, noble soul that I am not.

    Others includes you
    and if I am not read by you the way I should be read
    then why do I write?
    Probably in the hope that above Ďifí is dysfunctionally embedded in this text
    and that I will one day learn of it.
    Doubtful but...
    we all know we die,
    hope is what keeps us alive until that moment.

    Strange philosophy.
    I was never a good philosopher.



Strange this, life.

    I leave no emptiness
    behind me.

    I wasnít there, anyway,
    so how could I leave anything Ė smell, pheromones, emptiness?
    Certainly no thunderclap
    the way the sudden removal of a car
    a tennis ball
    a needle
    would have created, left,
    the way the sudden removal of a kiss
    would have created, left.
    Kiss?! What kiss?

    Some idiot screams on the radio.
    A crow picks some leftovers from the asphalt, was it once a burger?
    A guy... no, a gal throws a smoking stub from a car window.
    One may call it life.
    I call it random events based on some universal law of functionality
    no one formulated yet.
    It will be formulated in a million years,
    once everybody would have forgotten me
    and the emptiness I didnít leave behind.

    Strange thing, life.
    Strange thing, butterfly effect.
    Strange thing, entropy.
    In the end nothing means as much as the moment
    any moment
    this moment
    when I write to you
    when I miss you
    when I wish I was kissing you, instead.




    Leave on the lights.

    I want to watch you.
    I want to watch your every detail

    be it cloth disposed of impatiently
    or fingernail broken in anger
    or indecent position unintended yet assumed with pride and vengeance

    after you throw me on the bed
    extracting me miraculously from all habits in one single move
    and then parade in front of me with female-cock pride

    peeling slowly away pieces of that bane humans call attire
    pausing at the delicate parts of it and pulling them away from the skin
    and treacherously cutting in it another tiny vent and another tiny vent

    slowly revealing another gorgeous piece of flesh and then another gorgeous piece of flesh
    my torture incomplete my humiliation beyond complete
    as I lie there on the cold bed awaiting the penknife the sickle the scythe to strike

    until with no intervening hiatus you rip all leftovers away from your body
    and descend upon me like a vulture
    my purpose in life suddenly clear since Adam bit that apple to be your rag your mattress

    you sit down on me
    you sit up from me

    and breeze turns wind
    and wind turns hurricane
    and emerging cataclysm gulps world gulps solar system gulps universe...

    are you alive? you ask worried
    I hope not, I answer feebly
    asking forgiveness from the enveloping womb of darkness I pull away from

    as two soft arms gather me protectively to a soft bosom
    and there between breasts and breastbone and sleeping nipples
    I suckle my way back to the horrors of life outdoors and the beauty of you indoors.

    Colors glide from the tapestry sewn into your skin
    and ebb into wave after wave of rainbow enchantment around us
    upon a bedsheet that witnessed the birth and death and resurrection
    of me.



Erotycon, two

    We lay on our backs, panting
    like horses that just finished a two miles race
    foaming, frothing, neighing... well, everything except neighing but not far from it

    whatís that on your body? she asked, looking down at it.
    I followed her gaze
    to the Dalíían landscape of reds and blues and greens and blacks
    slowly rolling away from the crests of my body into the crevasses of my body
    and bed
    and floor...

    your tattoos, they boiled away with the sweat, I exclaimed awed.
    Impossible, she giggled, uncertain, embarrassed,
    what was the temperature... there, you think?

    I have an idea, I smiled back, mischievously
    and rushed as horizontally as I could to prevent losing more ink to the floor
    pulled out a drawer
    pulled out an old pen, fitted to it an old nib, pulled a piece of paper
    and rushed back to the bed, still as horizontally as I could...
    What are you doing? she asked, puzzled, beautiful.

    I sat down
    scooped with the nib as much of the crawling ink as possible
    and started writing.
    You are writing what? A poem?
    You are a poem.
    I write memories.
    You mean you have to write what just happened to remember what just happened?
    I want to make it unforgettable.
    You mean you have to write what just happened to make it unforgettable?
    It was the wrong hour of the day, the wrong moment, the wrong position
    to answer stupid questions
    so I kept scooping and writing and scooping and writing
    pulling additional scraps of paper as necessary
    and scooping and writing and scooping and writing
    until there was no more to scoop
    and the last scooping movement was trailed by a thin, bleeding cut.

    Here, read it!

    She took it, slightly curious, slightly frightened... It is... just one word?!
    Over and over again.
    Over and over again...
    In all possible sizes and orientations and languages, at least those known to me.
    In all possible sizes and orientations and languages, at least those known to you...
    In all possible colors, no, scratch that, in all your colors.
    In all my colors...
    One color missing.
    I took the nib, scratched her skin until I drew blood
    and pushed my finger against the wound then fingerprinted my paper scraps, all of them.
    Now it is complete, all your colors.

    She wasnít persuaded, I saw it in those gigantic green eyes she raised towards me.
    Then she scratched my tiny cut until she got it bleeding again
    dipped the end of a finger in it
    and fingerprinted all my scraps of paper as well.
    This is ours. Now it is complete.
    Now it is complete, I concurred.

    The word, was of course love.

    Two miles later we lay there panting
    and foaming and frothing, and neighing,
    yes, and neighing, why not, life is worth living, life is beautiful.
    You are beautiful.




Beach? Cloud? Cave?... decide, woman!!!

    TAKE 1: Ready for the beach event?


    tickle the soles of your feet.
    Or maybe these are the tiny crabs I saw congregating
    deciding your fate between the various toes of your various feet...
    yes, I am aware that various does not apply to two
    but I kind of lose my bearings while watching you in that bikini...
    wait, is it a monokini?
    wait, is it a nokini?
    wait, is it a biped or a monoped or a noped writing these lines
    (same counting method applicable to this bi/mono/nopedís brain)
    while tickling the soles of your feet
    with the tip of my tongue and picking single grains of sand incrusted there.
    Sorry, apologies to the multi crabs nation for such infamous blame as previously inferred
    sorry, apologies to the one female nation for such fake news as previously proffered
    sorry, for not really being sorry.
    Please donít forgive me and punish me
    with being the shadow between you and fire of sun
    with being the towel between you and drops of sea
    with being the silks between you and layers of cotton following,
    later on,
    above the silks.
    And I will count the grains of sand your heels displace while walking the shore
    and I will brush your hair while the wind willfully undoes my work
    and I will carry you on my arms waiting for your fingers to clasp the nape of my neck
    and whisper in my ears all the words I ever wrote you
    reminding me
    of love. And you.

    TAKE 2: Ready for the cloud event?


    is not the barking of the electricity in the clouds
    but the barking of that uncontrollable muscle in my chest
    as we are half way up to the first cloud
    about three thousand ladder steps beneath us
    about three thousand above us to go
    and you parading your paradables there, above me
    as you insisted to climb first
    your skirt beating every which way
    my eyes fixed one way and one way only
    up, straight up,
    I guess you knew what you were doing when you proposed this vacation.
    Effort involved?... nothing, meaningless,
    mental control involved?... thunder, told you.
    Love, Iím a bit tired, you meowed
    voice girlish smile impertinentish regard devilish.
    Yeah, tired my ass, I muttered to myself, or rather tired your ass, I muttered to myself
    as I closed the few steps upwards
    one hand clutching the ladder one hand pushing afore mentioned paradables upwards
    softness so welcoming
    perfumes so welcoming
    sighs (mine) so welcoming
    the way to the bottom of the first cloud so blissfully remote.
    Until you suddenly rushed upwards
    leaving me there cursing my ungainly shape
    and my forgotten binoculars down there, on Earth.
    Ready for the next cloud? you bit my lip drawing blood
    guided my fingers a heavenly nanosecond long under your skirt
    and then shooted upwards the ladder again.
    I knew what awaits me, us, me, once we hit that promised seventh cloud
    that thunder in my chest turning Godís trumpet
    as I rushed after you,
    pausing from time to time to inhale heaven
    from my fingertips.

    TAKE 3: Ready for the cave event?


    grazing my head
    and stalagmites drilling holes in the soles of my bare feet
    as I rushed about that hidden from sight cave
    making soft bed for my woman to lie on
    piling sweet fruits for my woman to chew
    carrying carcasses found outside for my woman to feather herself in
    fur herself in
    hide herself in,
    invite me in.
    I would never force myself in.
    I was quite advanced for a primitive he-hominid
    she was quite feisty and capricious for a primitive she-hominid
    with bones woven in her hair
    and white chalk images artistically scrawled upon her body
    and black charcoal stains drawn around her eyes
    and tiny drying red lines of blood leftovers smeared on her mouth.
    What will they call these things in a two handsí count millennia? Lips? Lipstick?
    (Please forgive me for using words I was not supposed to know, ok? Inclusive ok.)
    I was born to hunt and love her.
    War and love her.
    Protect and love her.
    She was born to hunt and war and protect me and love me.
    Told you, quite advanced for a pair of not-so-far-from-monkeys.
    Lover (or whatever combination of grunts meant Ďloverí),
    make love to me (or whatever combination of grunts meant Ďmake love to meí).
    I did not let her repeat herself,
    last time I did it I lost her for a full moon to another full moon.
    Never mind stalactites, never mind stalagmites, never mind quartz as sharp as tigerís tooth
    I rushed her way all bleeding and all panting and all relieved of my habits
    and she welcomed me inside her feathers and furs and hides
    and black fingernails cut ruts all across my spine
    and black teeth cut pieces off my face
    and green... green? where did I learn this word from?... eyes
    shone like wet leaves in a storm lighted by burning trunks fallen prey to skyís anger
    as we rolled beneath above among stalactites and stalagmites and quartz
    and I ripped her open and she crushed me broken
    and I guess it was the first time ever a hominid woman whispered inside a bitten ear
    I love you.
    Also the first time ever a hominid man wrote a poem to his mate.
    It was short, just three words, three stanzas,
    but what a symphony of feelings was sung through these words.
    You understood. I knew you understood when you bit off another piece of my ear
    and crushed me broken once again.
    Ah, the beginnings of modern romance...



Weaker sex? Ha!

    Re-live your ancestry.

    Re-live your yesterday.

    Re-live your yesterdays

    when you cut the hair of the mightiest
    had the empireís emperor hold on to your hem
    launched a thousand ships
    turned a holy king into a murderer
    were assassinated to prevent a revolution
    wouldnít give up your seat in a bus
    flew to no return
    provided a face for chicanos and feminists
    prophesized in poetry
    nursed the wounded under fire
    warred for the rights of beasts at the price of your life
    and etc.
    and etc.

    Donít you kind of... idolize women a tad too much?
    No. Not at all.
    I know also all the bitches, I can count also all the bitches.
    Thatís why I started with a Ďyourí indicator, first line. And second. And third.
    When my mind pulls you to the forefront
    these are the ones that rise above all the rest.
    Whatever the reason.



The Artist

    Time decided to take on the art of sculpture
    not as a profession mind you, but as a hobby.

    Of all the arts it could have chosen from, it is sculpture it chose.
    It could have chosen poetry, pottery, clowning,
    writing ghost stories and competing with the Rowling dame (this is where the billions are)
    ...no, the stupid critter decided to compete with Michelangelo
    and compete with Mickeyís David. Idiot!

    And who of all of Earthís population did Time take as its block of marble, so to say,
    to chisel on?
    Guess! The one other critter that never won any of the state lotteries
    with their ridiculously high odds of a few poor billions to one
    having tried them all all his life (double all is not a mistake),
    and yet he won Time lotteryís first draw with its impossible trillion trillions to one odds
    the prize being acting as Timeís block of marble, so to say.
    Me. Is this the right way to say it or would I be a better choice? As if it matters.

    So one day I wake up to find Time chiseling away layers off my muscles.
    Then chiseling on additional layers to my fat.
    (How does one chisel on? Trust Time to find a way.)
    Then chiseling some artistic holes in my teeth,
    some artistic ruts to my eyes and at second thought also to my mouth,
    some stains to my skin
    some hair off my head
    some fine strands on to my ears (that I have to keep shaving off daily)
    some hair extensions on to my nose (that I have to keep snipping off daily)
    some ingrown nails
    some hanging skin
    some less erections

    it chiseled away my spagat
    and it chiseled away my forehead to knees
    and it chiseled away my 100 meters in 10 seconds (I never had it but feels good saying it)

    and then Time took some time (haha) off and it wasnít even the seventh day
    and decided to try some improvements, with David all the time on its mind,
    in the internal layers of its block of marble, so to say,
    gory details of which I will save you from
    since I do not want to have you puking your breakfast/lunch/dinner/snack/etc.
    over this poem/blog/story/essay/etc.
    in whatever form you may be reading it paper/screen/microfiche/roentgen/etc.

    Great job you did with this block of marble, so to say, Time.
    All of this effort did not get you any closer to above mentioned David
    but it did get you farther away from above mentioned original Me.
    And now I bet you planted your undefinable ass (apologies, all the under 18) in some bar
    or bodega
    or night club
    sipping your cold Belgian beer
    and thinking of additional ways to improve on your creation, after your beer of course.

    Well, let me be clear on this one, Time. Fuck you (apologies, all the under 18)!
    Next time I will allow you next to me
    will be when all youíll be able to do is chisel my flesh away from my bones
    in atomic size particles, no more sculpting allowed.
    Mickey beat you! David beat you! I beat you!

    One million years from now, in the future, a then-hominid
    ten times farther away from the today-hominid than we are from our ancestor-hominid
    with head the size of three watermelons and eyes the size of single watermelons
    and feet the size of watermelon seeds
    and balls and tits the size of no watermelon
    (by that time hominids would have all become hermaphrodites, oh, poor devils)
    will gently lay on a table the recently excavated bonily leftovers of Me
    will caress them with thin long watermelon tendril fingers
    and will mutter to itself (hermaphrodite, remember?)... shit, what a magnificent specimen!
    It will not know what shit means, of course, therefore it will not apologize to any under 18,
    but it will use it anyway the way we donít know what ok means but we use it.
    MAGNIFICENT! Hear it, Time?

    THIS will be my revenge, you Time scum, you sculptorial failure for all eternity
    (eternity being longer than you, I presume, hahaha).
    Fuck you, Time (apologies all the under 18, recidivating, this time triple exclamation-marked)!!!
    ooIoo ooIoo (this being my typographical attempt at a double middle finger) Time!!!



For a dime

    A poemís lines rhyme
    Like a caroling chime,
    The doís and the laís
    Wedding silver to brass
              every time...

    The poemís lines rhyme
    Like a caroling chime,
    The doís and the laís
    Wedding silver to brass
              every time...

    My poemís lines rhyme
    Like a caroling chime,
    The doís and the laís
    Wedding silver to brass
              every time...

    This poemís lines rhyme
    Like a caroling chime,
    The doís and the laís
    Wedding silver to brass
              every time...

    A poemís last breath
    The obdurate death
    My verse for all time
    This song for a dime.



Absurd Analogies

    You mean AA?
    No, your AA has nothing to do with my AA,
    yours has to do with me being the brain
    and you being the alcohol masquerading as blood
    flooding me into a state of pure

    No, I mean other analogies.


    You the mouth
    and I the bee gathering all that sugary existence from your lips...
    Bee? Are you going to sting me?
    Do you prefer me butterfly?
    No, stay, bee,
    I like the feeling of danger
    vulnerability you deliver to my lips...
    You will not sting me, will you?

    You the scabbard
    I the sword.
    Oh, do I hear some sexual inflections?
    You hear wrong. No, wrong, you hear right but youíre wrong in your interpretation.
    Intimate. Not sexual.
    We are virgin to each other
    never knew each other
    never will know each other
    until that moment that I slide into you
    to cuddle there safe from the wraths of the world
    rust and dents and atomic bombs...
    ...to wrap myself around you
    safe in my knowledge
    of your sudden penetrating slash
    and soft, feathery protection...

    virgins to each other...
    virgins to each other...
    (Momentís hesitation. Yours.)
    Say, and if I was the sword and you the scabbard in this analogy?
    (Momentís hesitation. Mine.)
    Oh! (Here I roll my eyes CW.) Oh! (here I roll my eyes CCW.) Oh! (Cross-eyed.)
    This opens up unimaginable possibilities,
    and since they are unimaginable I cannot imagine them.

    You the sea
    I the swordfish.
    You used already sword.
    This is different, this is swordfish.
    You used already Oh.
    (Here you smacked me the way Muhammad Ali smacked whoever was in the ring.)
    You. Unfathomably deep, unfathomably startling, unfathomably mysterious beguiling warm.
    You. Unfathomably talented unfathomably creative unfathomably imaginative.
    I get it, what about you?
    I. Unfathomably lost in all this depth mystery creativity
    and stabbing every which direction trying to hit your thought
    hit your soul
    hit your body
    failing again and again, sea, so vast.
    I.E. trying to hit on me.
    I.E. yes, shamelessly, humbly, violently, gently.
    And other xlyís.
    I like your xlyís.
    I want you to love my xlyís.
    Thus I keep swimming times blindly
    other times blindly as well,
    after all you are woman, I am man.
    You are sea. I am swordfish.

    You Jane
    I Jackass.
    And this leads?...
    No idea, skip.
    You volcano.
    I soda pop.
    And this leads?...
    No idea, skip.
    You my end of time.
    I the one who called you my end of time.
    This starts interesting. Not even a hint of sexuality, though, knowing you... Letís see, go on.
    I found you somewhere at my many percent from start time mark
    and my few percent from end time mark
    and you but a lass where percents are meaningless
    and nights are long but not long enough
    and days are long but not long enough
    and the sum of it all is threaded with the sparkle of silver and the flicker of gold
    and opals
    and amethysts
    and jades
    Hey! I shouted your way, almost falling from my top tree branch
    where I was feeding birds
    Hey! you waved back starting to climb my way
    carelessly letting your stockings tear away and your skirts tear away
    (I knew it would arrive, eventually)
    and by the time you reached my branch there was not much left to cover your nakedness
    and I just wished it was even less
    I brought you flowers. And me.
    I fed the birds. I love your flowers. I love you.
    And somehow your flowers and my birds and you and I we all started mixing up
    ending with just you and me
    mixed up
    with so many beautiful flowers flying around us
    and so many beautiful birds blossoming around us
    I donít really mind Jackass. I donít really mind soda pop.
    I donít really mind Jane. I donít really mind volcano.
    I do. I do.
    The end of virginity, not as the world knew it. As we knew it.

    You Penelope.
    You Odysseus?
    You Eurydice.
    You Orpheus?
    You Desdemona.
    You Othello?
    Hm, letís try some that donít necessarily belong to the O family.
    Iseult. Tristan? Guinevere. Lancelot? Beatrice. Dante? Juliet. Romeo? Delilah. Samson?...
    (And on and on we went through the night, through many nights,
    my head in your lap, just beneath the youth of your breasts,
    your fingers at the corners of my eyes, counting the age of my eyelashes).
    I wonder at the absurdity of all these analogies. And stories surrounding them.
    I guess there are more.

    I wonder at the absurdity of absurdity. In all these analogies.
    Yes, there are more. There are countless more.




    like every day preceding this day and for all the days that days remember me

    as your charm trickles and lingers
    I tie ribbons to your fingers
    tiny diamonds to your lashes
    round your nipples moon-rock ashes
    silver bangles to your feet...
    oh, my mind with you replete
              swoons and crashes.

    Every day
    preceding this day and for all the days that days remember me

    when the sun deserts its nisus
    with its sunset to surprise us
    I inhale the blissful glory
    of that damning purgatory
    that cherubic burning lea
    neath your dressís canopy
              hellís furore.

    This day
    and for all the days that days remember me

    you have danced on nail and nettle
    proud of heart and brave of mettle
    now Iíll swathe your lacerations
    those invading sweet temptations
    turning want to feral chase
    with my wild and muscled mace

    For all the days
    that days remember me

    Iíve roamed kingdoms populated
    minds aberrant, underrated,
    until lifeís depleted ocean
    in a last, defying motion
    stranded me upon this shore
    swan and siren songs galore
              loverís potion.

    remember me

    they may call me misbegotten
    yet remember the white cotton
    guarding the forbidden borders
    that my hands, your nipple hoarders
    ripped away from flesh and skin
    then bedizened you with sin
              fuck lifeís warders.




    You should have been born
    somewhere in the wilderness
    in a farm,
    with cows and horses and chickens and wheat fields and vegetable beds
    and dogs, of course dogs,
    next to my farm.

    I should have been born
    somewhere in the wilderness
    in a farm,
    with cows and horses and chickens and wheat fields and vegetable beds
    and dogs, of course dogs,
    next to your farm.

    And as kids I would have pulled your pigtails
    and you would have scratched my eyes
    and we would have loved each other, oh, how much we would have loved each other.

    And as guys and gals I would have taken you to dances and touched your breasts
    and you would have let me take you to dances and blush when I touched your breasts
    and we would have loved each other, oh, how much we would have loved each other.

    And as young adults I would have married you and given you five children
    and you would have married me and given me five children
    and we would have loved each other, oh, how much we would have loved each other.

    And as old adults you would have sat in my lap with fifteen grandkids on the porch
    and I would have sat in your lap with fifteen grandkids on the porch
    and we would have loved each other, oh, how much we would have loved each other.

    And as old people I would still sneak upon you in the meadow and steal your delicate offering
    and you would still allow me to sneak upon you in the meadow and steal your delicate offering
    and we would have loved each other, oh, how much we would have loved each other.

    You were not born somewhere in the wilderness.
    I was not born somewhere in the wilderness.
    And we love each other, oh, how much we love each other.



definitely NO! sex

    Iíve taken you to the beach.
    Iíve taken you to the clouds.
    Iíve taken you to the cave.
    Iíve taken you past present and future.
    Iíve taken you nowhere and somewhere and everywhere
    and each and every place and time
    Iíve remodeled you tatters
    Iíve revealed you naked
    Iíve crawled every square inch of your outer and inner flesh and left prints
    etched down to muscle
    down to bone
    down to mind.
    You wonít remember, you were not there when I was there...
    or maybe you do remember?

    Iíve not taken you yet to my balcony, though.
    Among flowers.
    And butterflies and bees and parrots and no crawling fingers.
    Iíve taken you to my balcony. No crawling fingers.
    I laid you down upon a bed of mixed petals
    asked gently butterflies to fan you cool
    asked gently bees to drip your lips honey
    asked gently parrots to offer you nuts of all sizes and colors

    and while you lazed under the transparent canopy separating life from dream
    I started reading you poetry.
    Some of it mine.
    Well, honestly, most of it mine
    I did not know of any other that would do justice to the moment
    to the woman
    to the womanís senses.

    And you listened, and you napped, and you woke up to the birds, and you napped,
    and you turned over peeking from under eyelashes making sure no sex
    and I there making sure against all biting instincts no sex
    and you asking meekly no sex?
    and I answering hoarsely no sex
    and you listened, and you napped, and you woke up to the birds, and you napped
    and I kept reading until there was nothing to be read anymore that wasnít read already
    and starting anew
    from chapter one, poem one, word one.
    Feeling every bit like an antiquity god
    building a heaven
    for a goddess.
    And no sex?
    And no sex.

    You wake up... did I fall asleep?
    Then you feel the flutter of butterflies and taste the honey of bees and munch the nut of parrots
    and... hey... is this your voice, still reciting poetry?
    I believe it is. I believe I could go on like this
    Can you please define forever?
    My voice. Then my writes. Then memories of me. Forever, the human way.



Do you dream of my body?

    Do you dream of my body? she asked
    her voice intonation as factual as someone asking the time of the day
    as someone reading a rental contractís endless clauses
    as someone reciting a grocery list for the twentieth time.

    Do I dream of your body? I echoed
    my intonation so different that it might as well have been a different dimension,
    the rhetorical quality to have made a Cicero proud
    the musicality of sound to have been accepted as a neologism
    the underlying temperature to put global warming to shame without the inherent risks
    and yet with all the doom quality of a tumble into the sun.
    Do I dream of your body? I reiterated
    harmonizing a different amalgam of intonations
    yet keeping the same set of abusive statements that the first set placed on her ears
    drilling mercilessly through the labyrinths of her ethereal mind
    and the convolutions of her physical brain.
    Please re-think,
    not the words but rather the music.

    She re-thought,
    not the words but rather the music.

    Do you dream of my body? she asked.
    And this time
    the sun tumbled into me.

    I wonder how I keep writing,
    makes one believe in ghosts.




    Wedding rings, studded with tiny emeralds.
    Grinding discs, studded with diamond dust.
    My poetry, studded with morsels of heart, mine,
    size of weasel bites
    size of searing sparks
    size of stiletto punctures with atom sized knock-outs.

    even with the thorns and the broken glass and the razor-wire fragments
    it is still
    try it,
    drag it softly along your cheek downwards, sideways, in circles,
    drag it softly upon the back of your hand downwards, sideways, in circles,
    drag it softly underneath your breasts, between your breasts, around your nipples
    and as the inflammation between your thighs threatens your life
    let it soothe, placate, tame that harras harassing your insatiable gluttony for fire
    for smiles
    for peace underneath the poplars
    with my hand braiding roses in your hair
    and your sighs mingling with the buzz of bees
    and the flutter of butterflies
    and the rustle of leaves slowly covering your nakedness
    with autumn.

    Donít shy away from telling me of occasional thorns and glass and razor-wire
    piercing your skin unintentionally, if mine,
    maybe intentionally, if not mine.
    I will gather you in my words
    lull you all the way into the worlds of ataraxia
    and as white lace ties to your ankles
    green consonance ties to your eyelashes.




    I cup your flesh.
    Which part?
    If you so wish...
    And while your shoulder finds the right nook against my shoulder
    I will tell you the untold, unabridged and true story
    of Ulysses and Penelopeís first night together
    after his return from his unfortunate pilgrimage.
    Is it an... erotic story?
    It certainly is.

    I cup your flesh.
    Another part?
    If you wish.
    Ahm... elbow?
    If you insist...
    And while your foot finds the right positional angle between my feet
    I will tell you the untold, unabridged and true story
    Of Othello and Desdemonaís first night together
    after the pomp of marriage and guests left them in the bliss of lone togetherness.
    Is it an... erotic story?
    You bet.

    I cup your flesh.
    May I choose?
    Didnít you until now?
    Ahm... let me think... breast?
    (there I stuttered, coughed and choked, in this order, for a few moments)
    And while your hand cups my flesh...
    May I choose?
    You may.
    (you chose and I stuttered, coughed and choked, in this order, for a few moments)
    ...I will tell you the untold, unabridged and true story of Romeo and Juliet
    and their only night together after and before mayhem and death.
    Is it an... erotic story?
    There isnít any more so.

    I finished telling you the stories.
    Those are stories.
    Do you have also a story about... us?

    My cupping firm.
    Your cupping fearsome.

    I hope so.
    I hope so.
    I will tell it when...
    You will tell it when...

    I will tell it. When. If.
    Yes, definitely when. Definitely if.
    Like waiting to be born. More.




    I look at them,
    admiringly, lovingly.

    Some timidly designed, yet gorgeous
    some so intricately designed that gorgeous would be insulting
    and the correct word to detail them was not invented yet,
    can never be invented.
    Splendrous? Magnificent?
    All but pale synonyms to gorgeous and none encompassing the totality of the thrill
    those indescribable ampersands entail.

    I couldnít imagine a Romeo & Juliet without such a one.
    I couldnít imagine a Ulysses & Penelope, an Othello & Desdemona
    without such a one.

    Lover, you seem to be stuck on your pairings, always R & J, U & P, O & D...
    Oh, but I have others as well... I have...
    She blocked any following words with a pair of lips
    that would be the envy of any ampersand design.
    What about... You & I? she smirked. Which ampersand design would you use here?

    She got me there.
    By the balls, if I be allowed a bit of pardonable yet germane pertness here.
    Never thought of us in terms of ampersand design, and now that she said it...

    Oh my God, was all I could say
    as she converted the inherent meaning of above pert expression from figuratively to literally
    and literary ampersands became just blurs
    upon the endless canvas of those ampersand eyes
    and the rest of ampersand she.



That moment of glory

    That moment of glory

    when I undressed you naked
    in the rain

    and streamlets
    and runlets
    and rivulets of purified water cascaded from ends of hair and ends of fingers
    exploding in tiny rainbows around your feet

    human you disappeared
    and aery you birthed the way of a water lily
    the way of a diamond grain
    the way of a nova thankfully billions of light years away
    thankfully falling into my arms.

    That moment of glory

    when you blossomed all around dying me
    in the rain

    with streamlets
    and runlets
    and rivulets undergoing a process of contamination by salt erupting from skins
    and blood particles blessing the birth of another sun

    human us disappeared
    with the rest of us hewing a way out of bodily knots
    and bacchanalian collusion
    and howling wings stretching our lungs into the ten-line staff notation
    so typical of our fleshís plainchants.

    The moment of glory
    The moment of glory
    hiding in the interstices of watertightly




    Iím virgin, she stated
    and I spattered and splattered and stuttered my way back to sanity
    four days running.
    Yeah, and Iím 4th of July, I tried a flat and thin joke
    and flat and thin it stayed. Like single layer toilet paper,
    like peel off an overboiled potato
    like a drop of nail varnish diluted in a glass of acetone.
    Címon, youíre usually more articulate than that, she teased,
    goading me into proving that she was lying.
    I couldnít prove it was 3 oíclock (it was 3 oíclock at the moment)
    so certainly not that she was lying (she was lying... I thought... I think...).

    My memories of that defining moment in my life are blurred, still.

    I remember walking fluffy pink clouds covered imbricated petals
    I remember riding hummingbirdsí beaks deep into hearts of flowers
    I remember many other nonsensical offerings to my senses.
    I do not remember proving the debatable matter.

    I remember lying on my back (I think)
    on a sandy beach (I think)
    the red gate of hell receding from my gate of food (I think... no, I am sure)
    and emanating sounds that translated the cacophony in the world to a simple... So?
    So what? I retorted, the temporal blur I related higher up starting at that very moment
    to never let go again.
    She made it considerably harder
    laying her head on my chest
    her hair conquering even the most elementary of my senses,
    those I did not know humans possess until she uncovered the secret to me.
    Add to it the horrifying (to my sanity) combination of fingertips and nipples...

    I donít know if you are... were virgin, I stated in return.
    You are certainly not human, I finished my statement
    hurrying to return to those hairs and those nipples and that... creature.

    I think she accepted the answer as articulate
    and converted any further mental tease she had in mind to a bodily one.
    She succeeded.



Autumn Colors

    The autumn colors
    are preparing for the big invasion,
    that much is obvious even to civilians like me.

    For now
    it is just a few patrols here and there
    a few skirmishes there and here
    the sharp edge of polar-cold bistouries cutting erratically through the air
    killing a few leaves
    frightening a few mice deep down burrows...
    nothing serious yet,

    the onslaught is yet to come

    It comes.

    It finds us with all the abruptness of a snapping dry twig underfoot
    unleashed hysteria suddenly channeling our primal senses through narrow gaps
    cracking beneath splinters of flint stone
    and tree trunks
    and dry bones yellowing with age
    as we roll and rave and rage among wooden benches
    underneath wooden benches
    between the planks of wooden benches
    sometimes making love
    sometimes plain fucking

    a torrent of leaves burying us three feet underneath the never ceasing deluge
    where our humanity shed of its cloth and inhibition
    gives in to the most tender of bestial ferocity
    and beauty.

    We pause,
    among the wooden benches
    underneath the wooden benches
    between the planks of the wooden benches,
    cupfuls of the otherís flesh still broiling inside clenched fists
    and as we shyly try to cover each otherís glowing skin with our own
    we feed each other crumbling leaves
    and whisper them down the settling landscape of lungs
    with mouths regaining momentarily the sanity of encroaching color
    decomposing inside the rapidly fading lull
    of in-between
    rampaging sallies.



The childhood of man, the finding of woman

    So we sit at the table,
    you drink your hot cocoa
    I drink your hot cocoa too, from your mouth.

    So we sit on the bed,
    you invited me to sit on the bed, yours,
    I hoped to be invited to sit on the bed, yours,
    I donít know if to hope for more
    though I do.

    You hug.
    I kiss.
    We donít undress,
    we rip rave rage
    all of a sudden
    all together
    all the two of us

    and as all that we just began just ends
    and as we grab the ending just a little bit longer
    by fingertips to fingertips to rest of us
    you offer me your cocoa again
    and it burns to blisters my lips my tongue my palate
    my heart.
    How does cocoa get to heart?
    The mysteries of life never cease to astound me.
    Of love too.

    I walked lifeís deserts, hiked its mountains, crawled at the bottoms of its seas,
    I married your body without marrying your finger
    married your mind without your consent
    lined my mattress with words you wished to say but didnít
    and sank into the chaos at the end of my time and the beginning of yours
    carrying with me ounces of happiness,
    trillions of them.



There are absolutes:

    I will die forever,
    I know.

    I will never step on the moon,
    I know.

    We will make love only on the silent white between my stanzas
    there, where reproaches just about to be born retreat into nothingness,
    I know.

    There are also inabsolutes, a word that doesnít exist but should:

    If government ministers would be logical they would not be ministers,
    I think.

    If our ears would have had a band-stop to filter out the Ďmií
    the music scene would have been completely different,
    I think.

    If someone would have stepped on a butterfly somewhere mid of Eocene
    we would have been born same time, same continent, same street,
    I think.




    We got there, finally.

    Took us the better part of a life but we got there
    at the feet of the Eiffel tower
    and holding hands we looked up... wow!
    another part of life, maybe not as better as the first, to get to the top of it.
    I squeezed your hand...
    to encourage you or to encourage myself?

    Are you ready? I asked.
    You squeezed my hand back, didnít know it was possible to squeeze further
    and for a moment I feared for the sake of my knuckles, and thumb,
    and middle finger - its uses so ingeniously varied.
    This is where you wanted to be, right? I continued
    a note of uncertainty creeping in my voice.
    You kept looking up,
    your neck the neck of a swan
    your eyes the eyes of a birthing universe.
    And there we make love? you asked.
    And there we make love.
    You on top?
    If you wish.
    I on top?
    If you wish.
    You talk too much.

    We burst forward
    the tidal wave of humanityís only two humans alive at that moment in time
    crashing through the frozen immobility of guards and gates and gawkers
    and climbing the forest of beams and bars and bolts the size of watermelons
    upwards onwards topwards
    first half of the way I helping you
    second half of the way you helping me
    third half...
    ...third half, whatís this, poetic math?...
    third half, I continued unperturbed, we holding onto each other
    like vines
    like burrs
    like thistles
    reaching the needle top
    clothes exploding off our skin
    metal around us turning incandescent blob
    leaving the following endless generations of city engineers wondering
    until Earth fell into Sun.
    As we made love
    madly, wildly, insanely...
    on top of whom?

    on top of we.
    And around? and underneath? and inside? and everywhere? and?...
    You talk too much.

    I spread my wings
    gathered naked you to naked me
    and started floating above a glittering Paris...
    ...see, this is la Notre-Dame
    and we made love...
    ...see, this is le Louvre
    and we made love...
    ...see, this is la Sacré-Coeur
    and we made love...
    seventy four times we made love caring not for frightened screams of passers by
    or challenges of gendarmes
    or the endless bickering of doves assailing us...
    ...oh, this is la Notre-Dame
    and we made love...
    ...oh, this is le Louvre
    and we made love...
    ...oh, this is la Sacré-Coeur
    and we made love...
    this was the second time around,
    you still clutching at my chest
    I still clutching at everything that was skin and flesh and bone of you.
    Drinking you in, inhaling you, absorbing you.

    Now? I cooed.
    Now, you chirped.
    And we swooped down on people in the cool breeze drifts
    feeling the freedom we couldnít enjoy as wretched humans
    and we glided upon the mirror of the water
    watching the twin sky slide underneath us
    and we invaded the pavement eating yummy crumbs
    fallen from luxurious cookies
    and finally perched atop the highest and prettiest building
    watching the sparkliest and prettiest lights.

    May I now wake us up? I cooed.
    No, you chirped.
    And we remained hugging for minutes, for hours, for centuries.
    This doesnít look like our gargoyles,
    kept saying the following endless generations of city engineers wondering
    until Earth fell into Sun.



idyll, one

    we walk
    hand in hand,
    mostly your hand in mine, at times mine in yours,
    head on shoulder
    on mine,
    thigh brushing against thigh as if by chance
    certainly by chance, sometimes,
    mostly intentionally by me
    sometimes intentionally by you, I hope,

    we find a bench
    we sit
    my arm wraps your back protectively
    and a left fingertip pushes against the round softness of a left breastís side
    unintentionally, at begin,
    intentionally the entire rest of time,

    we stand
    we walk again
    the dogs running berserk around us
    chasing first imaginary then real squirrels
    chasing first real then imaginary skunks
    chasing each otherís tail while we kick the life out of mounds of dry leaves
    so that we can cough
    so that we can choke
    so that we can clean each otherís mouth
    with each otherís lips
    and tongues
    and breath.

    the sun falls asleep at the mid of the day
    its warmth beating softly neath smoldering hay
    Iím itching, you murmur delightful distress
    beseeching me kindly your need to address

    I open your button and open your clasp
    relieving your skin from the menacing grasp
    indebted, your gratitude voices its chime
    and offers your nipple till end of all time

    the dogs lie asleep round the knots of raw flesh
    that moments before seized the meaning of thresh,
    my hand on your belly, your head on my chest
    I start weaving dreams... at your gentle behest.



idyll, two

    the pines shiver lightly foretokening wonders
    about to bedizen the mighty expanse
    the bridal immaculate garment which sunders
    a worldís innocence into anguish and dance.

    the maiden steps slowly, engraving with garlands
    the glittering snow crunching under her feet
    a murder of crows cawing gaily engarlands
    the colorful figure theyíre eager to greet.

    a black-and-white storm barks its way with a flurry
    a white-and-black storm follows thick on its trail
    the somnolent white turns rampageous slurry
    as wild shrieks of laughter yield hiccup for gale.

    the pines fall asleep, while the moon graves a crescent
    disparting the white from the hovering black,
    the maid falls asleep, flushing cheeks iridescent
    with trickles of dreams and a doggyís wet smack.

    the morning erupts with a crowsí mighty bugle
    three creatures emerge from the crumbling white silk
    and life starts anew like a landscape by Brueghel
    infused with the warmth of a motherís fresh milk.



I Wish

    I wish
    I could sink my body inside your body

    the frailty of stiff flesh burrowing roads and inhuming despair
    until, once reaching those unfathomable depths of woman and beast,
    it displodes like an army of glass bottles
    chasing the side of a building to the solid pavement below

    and once there
    the cur coils
    and curls
    and nestles
    for as long as the word eternity
    carries meaning.

    You lullaby me with daggers
    and squashed rose petals.



Love. Positive, gushing, cute, romantic, poetic love.

    Itís something I think I need right now, she said.
    Positive, gushing, cute, romantic, poetic love.

    Like this? I asked
    pointing to the starling murmuration that followed the wand of my index finger
    first shaping a pulsating side-lying heart
    then shaping the fluttering tail of a galloping stallion
    then thinning out to one single horizontal line, horizon to horizon
    before disappearing.

    Her eyes sparkled, tears exploding into a scintillating mist that enveloped us,
    hiding us from the world, from ourselves.
    Hey, did you really do it all with the tip of your finger? she wondered loudly
    taking the tip of my finger and letting it run all the way from the tip of her nose
    to the depression of her navel. Letting it rest there.
    Sorry, no murmuration there Iím afraid, I said.
    Are you sure? she asked,
    and suddenly I wasnít.

    Or maybe like this? I asked further
    releasing my finger from the tirany of her hold
    and starting to draw shapes in the sand.
    Yes, suddenly we were swimming in a sea of sand, or rather walking atop it
    like that famous biblical character...
    If you wish.

    My shapes took form, then took life, then took their own lives...
    Butterflies! she clapped hands delightedly
    and with every clap another color added to the fluttering rainbow
    until my finger slashed the middle of it all...
    Fishies! she danced and pirouetted and fell on her behind
    only to bounce back to the tips of her toes and chase a school of sardines
    then be chased by a mean looking shark
    then leap with a glide of flying fish
    and then my finger stabbed the heart of the vision...
    Puppies! Kitties! Lambs!
    There were more kinds but she just lay on her back and let the biting
    battering multitude of miniature life inflict upon her body as much unimaginable damage
    and pleasure
    as imaginable in her mind.
    My finger struck out.
    Oh, no! her sides of mouth pouted in repressed sobs
    until I offered her the same finger to suckle, bite, torture, assuage.

    This? I donít remember asking, probably I did.
    She looked around.
    I see nothing, she said.
    This? I do remember asking this second one
    guiding each of my right handís single fingers in between each of her left handís two fingers
    my thumb outside, her pinky outside,
    palm to palm
    wrist to wrist
    hip rubbing against hip
    as we started touring the world and its wonders.
    Also the Eiffel?
    Why not?
    Also the pyramids, the Norwegian fjords, mount Fujimori...?
    she kept enumerating and I kept us jumping
    until her head fell with a sigh on my shoulder... all this with the tip of your finger?...
    She was whispering, tired.
    And the warmth of your heart, I added,
    covering her with layers of warm night
    interspersed with layers of white snowflake
    interspersed with layers of broken flint stone sparking with every movement of her body.

    You know, this is the first time we fall in love where there is no sex involved,
    she giggled into my cheek.
    You know, this is the first time I offer you positive, gushing, cute, romantic, poetic love.
    Still love, no?
    No. Not Ďstill loveí.
    Simply... love.

    She yawned, content, and fell asleep.
    When she woke up I wasnít there anymore.



Night, Follows Day

    Your heart entrances tips of mighty trees
    And leads them through the glare of morningís sun
    To feed them life, until the day is done
    When it pulls back to sleep across your knees.

    Your fingers touch the earlobesí gentle pink
    And gently ask the butterflies astride
    To part and fly, with morningís ebbing tide
    And paint the night with stardustís playful clink.

    Your breasts engulf my mouth into the fold
    I sing with words as meaningless as time
    The rapture in the bodies joined in crime
    I beg with night, my soul and life to hold.

    My day has ended with your breeze of mouth
    My night has started, and my cranes fly south.




    The letter lay forgotten, the pungent smell of mildew
    Pervading hollow innards of vowels huddling close,
    The bloated ink recalling within its tufts of shrill hue
    A fire once consuming love poems in their throes.

    All yesterdays forgotten, she dusts around the corners
    A tune escaping softly the prison of her lips
    Grim days of old forsaken along with clinging mourners
    Her mopping hand rejoicing in dustís apocalypse.

    A flutter... What in blazes?... A yellow apparition
    Floats from beneath a drawer and lands against her shoe
    One corner bends... it offers conditionless rendition
    As scribbled lines sink slowly in the surrounding goo.

    She freezes, thinly choking, the sheet between her fingers
    Vibrates like frightened kittens afore impending doom,
    A sudden, long gone throbbing between her temples lingers,
    An eerie silence gathers and sails across the room.

    My dear... convulsing fingers gash wounds inside the paper
    My dear... convulsing rivers gash wounds inside the brain
    My dear... she drops the broomstick, the mop, the brush, the scraper,
    The world begins to wobble, her eyes begin to rain.

    An hour, two, an ever has seen her crouching, hollow,
    As she re-reads the stories, the lives, the matching rhyme,
    As she re-lives the moments in which she used to wallow
    Believing into stardust until the end of time.

    Enough. She stands. She wobbles. She steels her melting muscle
    Her fist crumples the letter reminiscing the lust,
    The awe, the crave, the fire... all gone with yesterís rustle,
    The brittle paper crumbles, and dust returns to dust.



Futuristic Nostalgia

    One hundred years from now
    and three hours,
    or so

    my grandkids wouldíve had grandkids
    cars wouldíve gone droneway
    food wouldíve been 3D printed

    and my books wouldíve rotten
    crumbled into dust
    become just another polluting factor.

    Where is he buried?
    no one wouldíve thought necessary to ask
    relegated as irrelevant or not relegated at all

    a life lost
    just a life forgotten

    a love lost
    just a what the hell was once upon a time this thing called love about?

    And then philosophically I wouldíve asked a question asked millions of times before
    what is the purpose
    of life for the living

    what was the purpose
    of my life
    into my death

    and why am I writing such gloomy lines
    at an unholy 3am on this unholy Sunday night
    when all I want to say is yet again I love you?




    Suddenly I feel old,
    not because I feel old but because others feel older.

    Sleepless nights
    keep me awake,
    as strange a statement as any older than itself

    keep me younger than older others
    my brain de-fusing itself from my body
    and dancing to tunes even older that those older mentioned
    a gush of youth hormones just engendered by my various systems at 3am
    doing its best to make me forget poles melting and sinews melting.

    Loves lost are loves never tried
    my hidden older self keeps goading itself into existence
    and finding philosophical reasons for a revivalists festival.

    This is a second gloomy body-refuse rejected by a brain this chilly morning
    while I console that hidden older self with ludicrous lustful thoughts of you.




    A poet
    can turn beauty into gloom,

    as dowdy a philosophical expletive as any,

    A poet
    can turn gloom into beauty

    as dowdy a philosophical expletive as any, in addition to the one above expelled,

    A poet
    can heal a broken bell
    A poet
    can grow a rose in hell,

    maybe dowdy in its own way, but honest,

    I wish I was a poet, my hundred thousand lines
    entwined with thorns and flowers, with bitter sighs and chimes,
    my words a swarm of locusts that drowns a helpless dawn
    and you my match of glory... a spark... and then Iím gone!...

    actually I am quite happy with it, I do not think it dowdy at all, personal parallax of course.




    I dream of moments at your breast
    When I assail the nippleís crest
    And while the rapture storms sublime
    While critics bowdlerize my rhyme
    To feel your nail cleaving my flesh then fall asleep inside my chest,

    I crave the moments in the rain
    When begging lips cannot abstain
    From licking drops gliding upon
    The stretching neck till birthdayís dawn
    The brackish flood failing to cool the bubbling roar of fireís reign,

    I crawl through moments in my mind
    No man or poet to their kind
    Has ever fathomed could exist
    Where tongues encroach and limbs entwist
    The only justice I can yield is blessing them with words maligned,

    I dress the moments with my ink
    Beneath a sky that fears to blink
    Afraid to lose those sighs divine
    When mouths get drunk on pouring brine
    The sleeping wolves growling to life before they leap and white fangs sink,

    The moments that you own, unique,
    The laws of obsolete physique
    Re-written with a masterís hand
    Besprinkled with your perfumeís brand
    I lie prostrate against your feet to drown in flakes of your mystique.

    The moments gone.
    The momentís gone.
    Oh, lay your wing around me, swan.




    I wish I had time to read War and Peace again,
    I wonít. Oh, such pity.

    I wish I had time to read Don Quixote again,
    I wonít. Oh, such pity.

    I wish I had time to read again, so many,
    to listen again to so many to watch again so many to meet again so many
    many of which are not there anymore to be met or I donít know if they are there to be met...

    My world ends
    and these
    and others like these
    and many others like these
    poison my thoughts my days my nights

    and then you send my way Spiegel im Spiegel
    and I hesitate between howling and smiling
    knowing none of my wishes will have the time to come true
    and yet the dagger smoothly gliding inside my heart somehow misses the target
    and exits the other side

    You hang your hat on the colorful arc
    remembering to remove your head from inside it
    and tell me that a world capable of creating such mesmerizing pain
    is a world worthy of the veneration of words nailed to it
    like icons,
    and I manage to decide on smiling

    and I thank you for alienating the poison,
    be it for just the interlude
    of first note
    to last note.

    There is magic in this world.
    You are only part of it.
    But you proved to me there is magic in this world.




    I canít help but ponder

    why do people associate strength with iron
    with steel
    with concrete?

    Primitive people, I understand.
    But modern homo-sapiens?

    Iron rusts.
    Steel, even stainless, eventually rusts.
    Concrete crumbles. Eventually. Too.

    I understand why not wood, wood rots.
    Or stones. Give stones a couple hundred years of wind and they reshape. Eventually. Too.
    Diamonds are too rare to count and glass too brittle to even consider.

    But why not plastic?
    Plastic is abundant. Plastic is eternal. It will outlive iron, it will outlive us,
    if there were dinosaurs alive it would surely have outlived any of the species.
    So why not associate strength with the eternity of plastic?

    Could it be because it does not sound poetic?
    Or could it be because it is so close to a human plague easily beating any of Godís plagues
    that we are simply afraid
    of blasphemy.




    Give me
    a quarter of an hour of life, yours.

    There was a lot of life before, mine,
    there is a bit of life after, mine,
    there is the before the before and the after the after
    various lengths
    various knowns and unknowns
    various varieties of variations and I donít necessarily mean to sound poetic,

    give me a quarter of an hour, yours,
    and weíll make it last longer than the entire before and after and quarter
    including the undershoot and the overshoot and whatever other shoot there is

    and forget the quarter
    and live the infinity

    and fulminate.

    Not like a star.
    Like a party balloon like a soap bubble like a light bulb dropping to the pavement...
    and while our eardrums implode
    I will guide your eyes through the interstices of a hydrogen atom to watch the wonders
    I will travel with you upon the convolutions of a canine brain to see the love
    I will hold your hand while you shop around for sun flares tiny hair-ends singeing...

    while we make love
    while we make love
    while we make love

    until we donít make love anymore
    quarter of an hour later.
    Infinity of an hour later.

    See?... I kept my promise,
    watch your wristwatch
    the molten blob of plastic embedded in your wrist is all that is left
    proof of all that was.
    The sacrificed quarter of hour embedded in timeís wrist
    like Venus de Miloís nipple upon her right breast
    like red inside a poppyís petal
    like a newbornís cry of victory over the impossible odds of life.



The moments gone

    The moments gone,
    the moments gone to no return
    lost in chiffon
    lying injured among the fern
    lost with your smell
    with perfumes warm of women young
    inside the knell
    and all those poems left unsung

    the moments gone
    the moments gone, forever lost,
    the final dawn.

    The memory
    grating my blood inflated veins
    like emery
    the games it plays inside my brains
    the gentle song
    losing its voice within the din
    within the twang
    of life decayed to whisper thin

    while years assail my flesh and bones

    Upon a time
    forgotten with its blooming moons
    upon a rhyme
    awake within forbidden runes
    your head asleep
    between my shoulder and my neck
    the sorrow deep
    pieces of heart staining the trek

    I leave behind
    covered with loves that once I loved
    with heartbreaks twined.

    The moments gone,
    the fire burning sweating skin,
    now sorrows spawn
    with acolytes and next of kin
    the beauty wilts
    the eyes regard and try to see
    and reason silts
    between the was and tries to be

    the moments gone,
    regrets a thousand swarm my mind
    while mornings wan.

    ...grasping the tune and the rhythm and the spirit of Léo Ferréís Avec le Temps.



I love your, she said

    I love your poetry, she said,
    I love the way you turn around phrases
    and metamorphose words
    and break rules of grammar and literature and English
    and dare go strange ways and strange metaphors
    maybe tried before yet never seen before, by me.
    I love your poetry, she said, smiling.

    I love your attention, she said,
    you always pull me aside
    away from the rest and the many and the few
    and you make sure I feel wanted
    and loved
    and appreciated for whatever I do and whoever I am and whatever I donít
    never forgotten though you could easily have forgotten.
    I love your attention, she said, smiling.

    I love your persistence, and insistence, and consistence, she said,
    I may be there
    I may not be there
    you may not know if I am or will be there
    and you write as if I am the only one in this world
    and as if I exist beyond doubt waiting beyond doubt enjoying beyond doubt
    which maybe I do maybe I donít
    doubting not for a moment
    I love your persistence, she said, smiling.

    I do not love you, she said.
    I do not love you, she said, smiling.



Idyll, three

    The smell of freshly cut grass
    sends delicate tendrils to inspect my nostrils
    and then, finding them sufficiently safe
    curls there for the one-two hours sleep
    of its ephemeral existence.
    I allow it,
    I would allow even for longer than that
    but it politely refuses... this is my life, it yawns,
    I will live it to its full, you should the same.

    Yes, I should the same, if not for being human.

    I count three crows,
    chatting noisily about the most efficient way to dissect a worm
    so busy with the arguments that the worm slithers away to safety
    long before the argument is over.
    Then they start blaming each other
    and fly each to its way,
    I do not worry
    they will make up, they always make up
    and visit me again. Loyal crows.

    Like the loyal stray cat that keeps stealing the food of the other loyal stray cat,
    I have lots of loyal stray cats.
    Loyal to me
    to the neighbors
    to the other neighbors
    to the entire neighborhood,
    they could have made great watch dogs
    but they are cats.
    I pour some more dry food in the bowl, enjoy!
    And leave the stupid pigeons alone, please.
    And the mice.
    And even the rats,
    after all they are not to blame for being born rats,
    it was not by choice, it was by statistics, by fate, by design, by... you choose it,
    whatever you choose fine with me.

    I yawn. That smell left its lazy heart with me. I yawn again.
    Where are you, right now?
    What are you thinking right now?
    What are you doing right now?
    I start enumerating the possibilities, attaching odds to each
    and knowing that I am as far from reality as reality is far from my dreams,
    letís see:
    scratching your left side
    shopping for shampoo
    just finishing your john duties
    just finishing your love making duties
    just finishing your painting your fingernails an toenails and lips duties
    laughing, inside or outside,
    climbing steps, upwards or downwards,
    imagining me, dressed or naked.

    I take a walk under the cherry blossom trees,
    soon the lilac will blossom
    soon the dandelion will blossom
    soon all the billions of seeds floating through the air will die
    some will not
    some will wait for a better world, a better summer, a better human to replace me.
    I will wait for you
    or maybe not
    or maybe youíll come
    or maybe the maybeís will metamorphose into certainlyís
    and all those petals shedding like dandruff from an afflicted treetop
    will join us in the agony of discovering us
    of uncovering us
    of recovering us
    of departing from each other us.
    In the beauty of the agony.
    With the crows
    with the surviving worms
    with the stars exploding first in your eyes then in mine then in our joining joined bodies
    with the stars dying before the death of the universe
    with the stars dripping upon your hardening nipples and roasting them the red of fire
    of lava
    of hell.

    The cat meows. Itís a new one. Probably heard the rumor.
    I throw some food its way
    get up from the reclining chair
    and enter the house.
    Close the door.
    The emptiness so... empty.
    I sit down, write my thoughts before they forget me,
    ready to click ďsendĒ before clicking ďoffĒ.



Idyll, four

    Iíd like to tell you of those dreams I dreamt before the scythe of dawn
    Had culled the crown from blades of glass and spread its glitter down the lawn
    And in between your oohís and aahís at my absurd narrating skills
    To find asylum in your lap, forgetting all assailing ills.

    While swallowtails invade my realm, the beautyís flutter in their wake
    Besprinkling lifeís egressing sprouts with promises of crystal flake,
    Iíd like to smear upon your lips the taste of ripe and rotten fruit
    Then whistle in between your teeth quixotic figments of my flute.

    A broken wing reclaims its flight, a broken claw reclaims its might,
    A broken soul reclaims its hell and begs to set the world alight,
    I like to say ďIíd like toĒ stuff while gazing through the eye of life
    The roaring trail of passing years ablaze with whipping tails of strife

    Iíd like to claim your bodyís day and through the night to fill its bed
    With ďmight have beenĒs and ďshould have daredĒs and raw kaleidoscopic red
    The power of tomorrowís brawn to quell with everís lofty spark
    And as I saddle my last trek, to pour my light into your dark

    Iíd like to say ďI told you soĒ after your desperate embrace
    Breaks bone and heart, unpens my rage and locks me in your boundless grace
    And when I go to never be and you remember my fierce hold
    Iíd like to think I taught you love that burns your heart in ways untold.




    Youíre a painter,
    paint me your sorrows.

    Take out buckets, numerous,
    from the sea of sadness
    and sort them out by color by viscosity by rage
    take out some more buckets
    the sea will not diminish in size, no worry

    (I know, you donít worry, you hope)

    and after you line them by color by viscosity by rage
    choose your brushes and dip them in the goo and start painting the lumpy hills of my body
    and the serpentine troughs of my brain

    wide brushes for my back, shoulders,
    narrow brushes for my wrinkles, creases,
    long and soft and lithe brushes for my intimacies... you donít know them?
    Discover them. Paint them. Vanquish them,
    subdue them to your will
    wait for them to beg mercy
    allow them to boil away the leftovers of sorrows into the naught of incorporeality

    prefer tattoos?
    dip needles and drill my skin
    prefer graffiti?
    fill cans and spray my skin
    prefer comics?
    stretch my skin between thumb and index and draw a stiff middle finger
    directed every which way sorrow engulfs you.
    Then laugh.

    Laugh! You know, the rictus applying to your mentalis, risorius, buccinator
    and some thirty odd additional facial muscles
    and as the tinkle deserts your vocal chords
    it turns the sea of sadness into clumps of ice
    that first break
    and then escape gravitation
    and then flow to fly around Earth
    like the suddenly remembered small brothers of the rings of Saturn.

    Your sea of sadness now a sea of beauty,
    just because you painted me




    then, when the first light pierced my eye
    I burst into that primal cry

    that spawned my years of joy and pain,
    I swore aloud: never again!

    eagerly waiting that last breath
    to spawn my death.



magic and abyss

    at the end of magic
    there is an abyss

    when magic ends
    one falls into the abyss

    I have lived both.

    magic did not quite end, yet,
    I did not quite fall into the abyss, yet,

    looking forward to the second
    once the first ends.




    Harken, maiden sweet of lashes,
    To my mindís benighted ashes,
    From an inkwellís liquid quarry
    I have dug words wrapped in glory
    Verses famished with desire
    For a love encased in fire
    Tales of yesters laden sorrows
    Craving sunís exultant morrows

    Then... oh gods of bliss cascading
    Just as life is set to fading
    You arise within the verses
    The encroaching mist disperses
    Tales and words enslaved by beauty
    Pledge to seal my tour of duty
    While a hymn to you unfetters
    In my adytum of letters.


    Thereís a maiden, there, worlds yonder
    Time to time she stops to ponder
    Turns one page, and then another
    Moments few of utter pother
    Was it sooth or was it vision
    Heart to heart on rapt collision?...

    Then the moment gently fizzles
    Amidst laundry, pots and swizzles.



Good Bye, the rhymed

    Before we say good-byes fifteen
    And blue invades your tumbling green
    Ascend into your passions cart
    To rummage for your misplaced heart
              and let it preen

    Then watch it offer me your hand
    And lock my hopes into remand
    When after curtsying abashed
    To rhymes untold and pledges slashed
              it drowns in sand.

    The bell is cracked now fifteen score
    The weight of tempestís clawing lore
    Has left it with a gaping gash
    The tinkle with remorse awash
              for evermore

    The ever afterís sole good bye
    Is crushing stars inside your eye
    And in the face of trothal death
    You glean those crumbs of passing breath
              that you descry.

    I guess itís time to break my flute
    Arrest my drum disjoint my lute
    My line of reason to exscind
    My stanza reave my spark rescind
              my verse imbrute

    All youíll remember is the gist
    Conjuring morningís waking mist
    While in a corner of your mind
    Inside an ogre guarded shrine
              rots yesterís tryst.



Good Bye, the rhymeless

    Do you hear it?
    The thousand-head strong horse herd thundering its brutish way across the valley...

    or is it a cattle herd?...
    or a moose herd?...
    or a brontosaurus herd plummeting down the mountainside toward me
    ravaging everything on their passage
    before they blast through me
    the way of hot iron through a snowflakes blanket

    leaving not even splinters of my future writes
    not even dust
    not even a stain.

    The history of writing can be cut with a knife
    even mid of a sentence
    mid of a word
    mid of a punctuation symbol.

    My history of writing can be cut with a sound

    zero decibels
    would suffice.

    Did suffice.



Good Bye, the nothing

    Nothing good about it.

    Nothing bad either.