Imperfect Smiles Rarely did I hesitate so much Between the imperfect tangs Of wild cherries. One basketful overflowing with femininity At its roughest, Wildest, Wine oozing honey thick between the bottom sprigs, Aromatic indecencies weaving their way through aromas of innocence and glittering sparks of sweat on bare skin Interlacing with odoriferous wafts of rose, and jasmine, and white lily spoken from red lips. Grace inside a breast unclothed With a suckling’s mouth betrothed, Moments past the ripping dolor Rapt in toothless screaming color... Charm beneath the rasping gravel Once thin woven thorns unravel, And the sting of biting lashes Dies as lust through bodies crashes. Pride unmindful of the glory Of a scarred and bleeding quarry, In the tender steel of finger Pain and love covertly linger. Mythical creatures, Wondrous in their undeclared vanity Thin perfumed whiffs mounting, dancing, Spiraling around each other Delicately touching Searching for the intimacy of shared warmth and naiveté and virtue And dreams, Until the sirens part And the siren chants follow each to its adobe Calling each its own sailor to a proscribed doom In the loneliness of past rifts And present promises And the beauty of tomorrow’s rolling rolling rolling imperfect smiles...

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Bricks Bricks Building my day, Events, needs, mortar drying up in between Sometimes solid sometimes crumbling. Wake up. Open eyes. Shower. Dressing. Longing. Longing?... this is not a brick I remember, Where did it come in from all of a sudden?... Bread slices. Door. Key. Car. Longing. Longing. Again?... my hand misses the ignition lock And my sight blacks out for a few seconds, Blacks, blanks, blinds... Ignition. Longing. Driving. Longing. Longing. Longing. Overtaking. Radio. Longing. Headlights. Straight ahead. Almost. I pull into a highway parking place, Let my head lean on the steering wheel Minding not the honking sound... is it mine?... Waiting for the shiver to subside Letting words flow on paper. Bricks. Paper. Words. Poems. Rhymes. Longing. Finally the right place. Bricks Building my heart. I smile. Drive. Park. Phone. Eat. Meet. Talk. Bricks, routine, irrelevant, Grey walls, grey mortar, grey sun. Then for a few moments I close my eyes Leaving the grey reality behind And visit that strange brick now finally residing in my heart. Longing. Green walls, green mortar, green sun Shining on green bricks building my thumping castle, Paper, words, poems, rhymes, the newcomer longing... And I smile again, no one sees me inside there except one, The one sharing colors with me, the mother of my inner bricks. Love. You.

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It Does Not Matter Your Pain I took your ring finger in my mouth And I bit hard Till I screamed. You did not. You knew. It does not matter your pain, I said. If real or imaginary, If body or soul, If anchored on solid rock or sinking in treacherous sand. I am there to soothe, I am there to let you sink into me Sucking you in like a forest mire Your open wounds pouring their poison into me As I drink it in Delighted To clean your pain Then to spit you back out on seas of grass Sparkling in your fresh beauty. You sat, thinking, suckling on your hurting finger, Wondering. There may be sharp rocks in the mire, you said. Sharp rocks, and thorns, and skeletons of long dead animals, Which may cling to my skin, And claw at my flesh And pour rot into my open wounds, The medicine may be worse than the sickness. I sat, abashed, inhaling the truth of words The reality Of wishing and ignorance. Teach me, I said. Teach me of rocks and I’ll blast Teach me of thorns and I’ll burn Of skeletons and I’ll bury into forgotten sands of time, Let me pour over you The thickness of honey The sweetness of lilac bushes Serenity of newborn’s sleep Drown you inside my shield of protecting arms. You sat, looking at your bleeding finger, Remembering my scream, An almost smile fluttering in passing over your lips. I don’t know, you said. I don’t know to decide if you sound like a despised machoist, Or a body imperialist, or a male chauvinist... giggle... pig... giggle... Or like a man in love, Still looking for his way And lost in the intricacies of wounds and pains and medicines And millions of words you did not read And you wish to write. What would you choose? I said. What Is or what Would? you said. Is and Would, I said. You tell me, you said. And I will confirm. Or not. I took my ring finger in my mouth And I bit hard Till you screamed. I did not. I knew. Did you? A man in love, I said. Then waited, Watching you take my wounded finger in your mouth And sucking its blood, Letting me take your wounded finger in my mouth And suck its blood, Then laying both side by side on the white bed sheet And watching blood drops Soaking into the tissue And mixing into one single red stain. You said You will be my mire, if I be yours, I will be your mire, if you be mine, You will love me, if I love you, I will love you, if you love me. You told me. I confirmed. The ceiling, then the sky opened, A feather fell on the bed next to our fingers Dipping into the blood. I almost jumped, startled, Then looked at your serenity and stayed down. Now you have to believe in miracles, you said, You just witnessed one. Tell me one word, one single word, and then I sign. Think carefully, one single word, and I will give you a hint – It is not ‘pain’. I thought carefully, wondering at the stain not drying, Wondering at the pouring green, I stopped wondering. I said it. You signed. I signed. Love.

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A Spider Called Life I felt it sinking its mandibles into me, Deep, Never able to shake it down whatever I tried, Wiggling and squirming just bringing in shrugs of indifference And faster sinking poison Sucking my insides dry By the day, By the minute, Dying such a worthless death Cocooned in unbreakable passing moments An alien preying on my years and my wants and desires, Not even an out of this world creature, A native, supposed to be a friend, ha... I started giving up, Another day in slavery’s hell... what for?... C’mon, suck it all in one go and let go, Who needs the skin When the soul is amiss? “I do...” she said, “...while the soul is still in...” “Knowing it is parting soon?...” “Knowing it is living now,” she answered. I did not know her. “Do you carry this scourge on your shoulders too, The one called Life?” “I carry this Life on my shoulders, The one called Love.” I did not understand her answer, it was too philosophical for me, But she sounded so soft, so wishful... “Are you wishful?” I asked, “Wishful for what?” “Wishful for Love,” she said, Casting down her eyes not in shame but in pride. “But you said you carry it on your shoulders...” “The wish... not the Love...” “I am lost,” I whined. “Then let me touch your Life...” “My scourge...” “Your Love...” She touched, And seasons blew into my lungs And children played in my gardens And rain poured... “Rain?...” ...on my deserts... “...oh...” She did not stop touching, she added a smile to it. “I guess we will have to learn each other’s language.” “You taught me already your first word, Love.” “I have more words I wish to teach you, Will you allow me?” “Do I have to keep my soul inside my skin for that?” “Is it a big sacrifice?” I refused to look into her eyes Fearing to turn into stone, fearing to turn into flower, Fearing to trust. “I fear to trust too... Please look into my eyes...” I looked into her eyes, Wandering beneath unknown constellations Tasting refreshing nectars from hearts of bubbling stones Feeling skin for the first time in my... life... I dared use the word. “What is your name?” I asked. “Your love,” she answered. “What is my name?” I asked. “My love,” she answered. “What is this place?” I asked. “This is where it all began,” she answered and took my hand Leading me on a path named Timeless...

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My Last Poem Your skin will remember What you did forget And scream with the urge of repaying its debt, Remember will glints in the desert it knows When fingertips ripped it from death’s reaching claws. Your lips will unbury What your wish to hide The trial by fire through blistering pride, Unbury beneath aging layers of mud The lingering traces of passion and blood. Your heart will uncover What once you have known And carved is with silver through marrow and bone, Uncover a love which refuses to die When emerald teardrops each sunset you cry.

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Morning Craves I miss your probing finger tips In search for dimples’ shallow deeps Still glinting with delightful brine And single drops of bleeding wine       Till morning under curtains creeps. The silent moments at your breast My mouth a welcome biting pest, The hunger growls your belly’s deep A music lulling me to sleep       While rolling skies sink into west. The jukebox guising royal band, The ribbon tying hand to hand, The silken kiss of gliding hips When dance the steel of patience rips       And then we love till end of sand. The words, the words, the words, the words, Your trill with morning’s feuding birds, I miss the sound, I miss the shape,       Upon my skin your roving herds.

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Continuum “Are you sorry,” she asked, “For ever falling in love with me?” “Yes,” I answered, “I am sorry every day, This being the reason I cannot fall in love with you Every day Again.” She smiled, satisfied. “Are you sorry,” she asked, “For ever kissing me The first time?” “Yes,” I answered, “For it robs me of the right To call each evening sunrise And each morning sunset And each kiss the manna in the desert of my life.” “You’re so sleek and smooth,” she said, thoughtful. “Are your words sleek and smooth?” she asked. “If they were Would my mouth be bleeding And your skin be ripping?” I answered. There was no question in my answer. “Are they thorns, then?” “If they were Would my mouth be caressing And your skin be shivering?” I answered. There was no question in my answer. “What are your words, then?” she asked. “A world,” I answered, “My world and I in it, Nicely tied with looping ribbons Laced with fire Sprinkled with dreams, There is a label on the box... Did you see it?” She frowned, “No, what does it say?” “Just one word, big letters, Wonder you did not see it till now, It says... fragile.” She smiled, satisfied. “Are you sorry...” she hesitated... “For making love to me, The first time Every time?” I picked her chin up Moving her eyes from the hair on my chest she was playing with To my mouth. She refused to lift them as high as my eyes, waiting. I knew what she was waiting for, I kissed her eyes and she laid her cheek, satisfied, on my chest. “Yes,” I answered, “I am sorry, For every first time is one time less In the number of first times We will ever make love.” She smiled. Satisfied. “Your turn now,” I said, “And don’t forget that I copyrighted all the ‘yes’ answers...” She propped her head on her elbows, looking again at my mouth. “No, I am not sorry I ever fell in love with you, No, I am not sorry I ever kissed you the first time, No, no, no, I am not sorry for eternally being a virgin.” She kept looking at my mouth. “I have never had a first time. Each time is one.” Simplicity. Beauty. I kissed her eyes again. She laid down her head on my chest, again. I smiled. Satisfied.

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My Ultimate Object Of Desire No, it’s not what you think, wink, wink... No, it’s not that flaming spot driving lame my sweet dame when the skin’s inhaled caresses plaiting moans in triple tresses shove demented fading reason into purgatory’s prison till the buds laden recesses burst in summer’s ever season... No, it ain’t desires quaint as your whip curls my hip and my wrists in ribbons straining with your toes my senses draining dancing flesh into my stirrup while your nipple’s dulcet syrup over craving hunger reigning feeds my summer’s ever chirrup... No. It is to look in your eye as I die...

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I Don’t Think I Love Her I turn off the radio. Then the little digital screen telling me irrelevancies like temperature, date, distance to destination... Distance to destination... ha... My distance to destination is thousands of miles, hundreds of days, The distance to you, your body your heart... I wonder for a moment – body and heart or heart and body, Chuckling, or actually cackling as I choke on a piece of waffle which I threw into my mouth and mis-swallowed. I finish coughing, still alive, My eyes tearing Not all of it because of the waffle... I miss you. The sky brightens, I turn off the lights, I feel like closing my eyes too but one does not close one’s eyes at 90mph unless... Unless what? I kick myself mentally, My pact of mutual respect with the lamp posts validated once more And I chuckle again. This time I don’t cackle. I touch the chain around my neck A pendant hanging on it It carries fingerprints, The element of crime, proof, undeniable, I don’t think I love her, I think I love you. You smile back. You like it when I think of you in terms of you, Present, always. My pen dries out, what stupid timing. I curse, sorry, curses are not suitable for this write, And finish by scratching the last lines onto the paper Hoping I will be able to read them later. If not... tough luck, So many of my words are gone missing Forgotten, never said, So that a few more... If there was a police of missing words it would have been busy just with me. I am running out of paper too So I cannot even scratch on I love you.

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Book I opened up your book today At page one hundred thirty three Where fragile scents of early May Disrobe a world of winter's grey To paint it green of lover's tree As if you wrote it just for me To call me back before I stray. I closed my mind to pages old Those seasons fore you knew my touch Afraid to find beneath the mold A beauty better left untold Of flavors soft as never such Inside that modest looking hutch With glints of glass... or was it gold? I did not peek to read the end I knew it floats beneath your eye Where armies grim the right defend To write a rainbow colored blend Where smiles the rules of life defy And wishes sweet stoutly deny The reign of fate's imposing trend. I read the rhymes between the rows Then lost in thought upon a bench I fell into a fitful doze About to let my senses close And let a raw and bleeding trench The thirst of nether worlds to quench As breathing fades and heartbeat slows. The book has dropped upon the sand... Was it your kiss you let me drink? Then with a loving tender hand You wrapped my wound in silver band And offered me the quill and ink "You write the end... and pray us sink Into the bliss of Neverland..."

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Softest The softest spots in your body Do you know them, Did any ever told you of them? I did? True, it could have been your lips Suicidal prey Brushes Insistently bleeding dry Once bitten Dripping red with unending paint Drawing uni-colored fantasies on my belly On their way to undenied conquest And momentary death. Breasts, yes, maybe your breasts Sharing layers of flesh with lungs And breaths Cushions of motherhood And hideouts to screaming desires When embedded rubies rise heedlessly Challenging destiny In a self proclaimed republic of tireless blaze Passionate onslaught And never lost virginity of want. Or your passionate insides Calling out in supplication For the invading demolishing lust of armies Of pouring rain And flowing tiger fangs And tearing muscles While shamelessly spitting out bouquets of wild flowers And squashed petals fragrances And winged drops of boiling honey Till nothing is left of any tomorrow And now is the only moment in time which counts. No, it is not. Not your lips, not your breasts, Not even your passionate insides. The softest spot in your body is your... memories... When late at night You lie on your bed Close your eyes Stop breathing Die for a few moments to the world And infinity tenderly yawns open its abysmal richness of sensation Allowing you to float down For years Into the ever endless engulfing embrace Of your memories' Caress...

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Once Once You were beautiful. Turning heads till vertebrae snapped And teeth rattled And eyes switched orbs fighting over the better view... Male humans locked in glazed stares watching the military parade of your charm, Female humans breaking fingernails in fist clenched frenzy, Pavement stones knocking each other to pebbles as they rushed forward trying to act cushion to your heels... Once You were beautiful. I wasn’t there to die inside your beauty. Such unforgivable sin. Now I am there. So late. Now You are not beautiful anymore. Now You are marvelous. Oh, the pleasure of dying inside the marvel...

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Abstractum Of Life An ocean of pearls, Trillions and trillions of blinking sparks, Hiding inside its depths the beauty of one single shell hiding inside its walls the beauty of one single bead of water hiding inside... life... I picked it open Threaded a silver string through it And hung it around your neck Sliding between your breasts Touching your skin with humid eternity. One drop of water... Water, life... You, life... My life.

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States When emptiness invades Uncalled for, Walls tumble Upwards... taking away even the comfort of ruins and dust and dogs yapping miserably for lost masters, And all that is left is oblivion And the stank of my sweat and the bones under my skin and the memories straining to get away through the holes in my mind, I stretch out my arm, palm open, fingers taut, Listening for the incoming sound of warmth An approaching hand Radiating skin flavors And questions uncared for And bits of ruin and dust and reality Till fingers twine and clasp and hold inside the unbreakable bond of the knowledge of love.

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Is It Lust? Sweat Crawling down your forehead Long your eyebrows Mingling like solitary rain pouring drop by drop with the water, soap, and foam on the floor, Your bent body inching forward on red knees As your hands scrub the leftovers of mud, and ketchup, and dog shit. The soles of your feet cracked, The hem of the dress wet and clinging to your thighs Outlining the shape of soft mounds of flesh Revealing without showing, Glints of white underwear flashing up from the wet mirroring surface. You hear me opening the door, Closing it, You hear me gazing with desires climbing up from my toes Past my loins and into my brain, Sparks streaking between fingernails at ends of tense fingers Like miniature thunder As I approach your prostrated figure, Inching and scrubbing, inching and scrubbing, Your waist oscillating, The hem of your dress pulling mysteriously higher up A thin line of intimate garment showing. I kick my shoes, socks, away Kneeling next to you Putrid water soaking into the rough cloth of trousers My palm sliding on the floor till it touches your ankle Then further on upon the flesh, You never stopping your inching, scrubbing Though your knees part a little from each other Inviting?... indifferent?... I inch alongside you, My hand suddenly gripping the limpness of the wet hem And dragging it up half your rounded spine Then hungry fingers grope the thin piece of cotton indecently hugging the desire smoldering between your thighs And tear it with a dry snap As you roll onto your back gliding on the soapy surface away from me Laughing wildly as I paddle behind slipping sliding slipping sliding Your feet kicking my advancing shoulders away Till finally I get hold of those antagonistic ankles Pulling, Sliding towards each other, into each other, Steaming jets squirting away from underneath our bodies Sounds of tearing seams, zippers, buttons drowning in basic animal grunts, Body tatters knotting into each convoluted other at loin, chest, mouth, Finger muscles mincing bone into minute splinters As teeth clash in a frenzy of insatiable voraciousness Saliva streaming thickly long incinerated cheeks Before it drips into the soapy mire with the futility of a short sizzling sound. “Is it lust?” I ask you. “No,” you answer, your claws back into their recesses, Your fingers still knotted into my hair making sure my teeth never desert your left nipple. “No,” you repeat, “It is love. Immeasurable.”

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Silences I said... I’m afraid of the day Rhyming senses will stray And words fading silent my sanity flay, When thin silver hairs Tying flames into stares Uncoil turning fever from silver to grey. I said... I’m afraid of the time Fleeting phrases sublime Will sink in the mires of mind’s clogging grime, When silvery stars Painting love into scars Descend into void’s unappeasable slime. You said... I’m afraid of the while Dusky moments beguile And blur your creation in silences vile, But know... if your pen Deceives now and then Forever you’ll own both my heart and my smile.

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Monologue For Two Voices, sometimes angry, sometimes defiant, never in hate yet sometimes in forgetfulness and in pain, sometimes blinding, vicious pain... Monologue, two voices unhearing of two voices same, knowing the way yet saying it the ways, tangling rules of love with rules of combat instilling quiet in dovecotes and unrest in eyries... A thin voice crying its thin pain, suddenly restoring sanity into the world and order as should and values as need and reality as short as no time for monologues for two, and as eyes ask for a final moment of warmth hands land softly on the soft body sharing their soothing power allowing the moment in time reach the moment in time when left little finger touches right little finger soaking warmth and consolation and knowledge from the one who says good bye... The touch persists, after, long after, having learned a lesson in monologues when hearts share one voice, single, called... so surprisingly... love...

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Probably Human Question marks Preceded by questions unknown. Sifting through possibilities Single words, complex sentences, Clear, concise, or hesitating. I look up from the piece of paper searching for guidance finding none Then look down again adding a few more squiggles to the paper. My mind wanders... why is this sign considered a question mark, Who decided, why is it not inverted, how do you know if it is a big question or a small question, Written letters carry no inflection of need, abuse, demand... Finality?... I return my attention, rather try to To the white space awaiting that fateful decision in front of the mark. Then click the pen shut, Fold the paper in four And seal the envelope, sending it as is. I do add the address though, Otherwise it would be ridiculous. More than is already? I wonder if I will get it back filled in before the question mark with the question Or behind the question mark with an answer. Not the answer, just an answer. I guess the answer does not exist. Just the question. Which I do not know to phrase.

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Some Call It Love I know, sometimes I strike. My fist as fast as lightning, As crushing and ungainly as an elephant’s foot. Moments of uncontrolled blindness, distress, Pain spewing out before brain takes control of reins And the whole herd of wild beasts gallops mindlessly Leaving behind trodden grass, Broken pebbles, One crimpled daisy. Did I say I love you, As mindlessly? As furiously, as fiercely, as ferociously? I gather the daisy into my arms, Lulling it to sleep the way I would a child, Smoothing petals, mending a broken leaf, Plugging the stem between my ribs there where it belongs Guarding it with my life, Feeding it my life Singing to it songs of praise and prayers of forgiveness. Waiting, Watching, Till petals soak blood Leaves drink thunder And the stem curls around my neck choking death out of me And life right into my mouth, throat, lungs. When did it turn woman? “I love you, silly...” mouths the daisy child Letting a soft tongue linger upon my lower lip And striking back with the power of glinting retina And sparkling iris. “I know,” I say and carry her upon my arms Knowing that my arms will dry And my bones will crumble And my shadow will encrust into rock Before I let her fall. “Remember” I ask, “when I told you I will always catch you Before you fall?” She does not answer. She remembers. She never forgot. Else... where from all the love, and trust, and forgiveness. “Remember” she asks, “the redeemable promises I entrusted With you?” I do not answer. I remember. I never forgot. She does not have to say it, I know it. They will never be redeemed. Because there will never be need. It is not promises between us. It is wildfire. And then there was sun. Some call it love. We do.

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Florence I visited your words, That museum with its glass boxes randomly arranged In shapes and colors flowing off your senses And its unnumbered exhibits... Your pain, love, hesitation, cry, dream. Your words. My Florence. I was alone, Moving along the corridors on the tips of my toes Like an overweight male ballerina Pulling out scenes from another life and dancing them, Laying my cheek against them, So soft... the occasional shard drawing a blessed bleeding line Across my skin. There were emergency hammers everywhere With notices attached “In case of emergency please do not use...” I had a glass key in my pocket, Unique, irreproducible, You gave it to me... use it with care... if you wish to... I used it with care, opening a box, Touching its art with reverence, adoration, Then carefully laying the words back Locking the door and healing my wound Before I moved on to the next one. Funny, your art, yet I found so many corners there Reminding me of the shape of my fingertips, Whispers I did, Dried out pieces of skin... did they match the scars on my lips? I looked each time back, asking for permission Before slightly re-arranging the exhibit, A comma forgotten in haste, A missing word, a missing letter. Sometimes crying over wasted memories, Sometimes smiling at a finger pointing to my ribs Ready to tickle or to rip... I locked the last door, the last exhibit. I locked the museum’s gates. Left town. Florence, Back to your eternal never to be touched again naked beauty.

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Pentagram I’d love to glide my finger round Your sole, as it deserts the ground To reap the crumbs of steaming earth Then seed three times your ankle’s girth In lustful mirth. I’d like to slide it up your thigh Until a soft impatient sigh Acclaims its trace inside the dell And leads it to sweet fire’s well Its thirst to quell. I’d wish to let it reach your chest And watch my lusting mouth at rest As air invades your hungry lungs And ripples ride your ribcage rungs And bleeding tongues. I’d crave it paint your pouting lips And rove around uncounted trips Till water’s eyes the pain refresh And red turns boiling blistered flesh And skins enmesh. I’d dream it wag a magic wand And dress its skin a silver band Awaking spirits summer rife And runes translating word to life... Like man, like wife.

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Reason I slid underneath the dry leaves carpet, Death’s endless colors rustling majestically above me As thin dust poured into my nostrils Counting time. Life rushed by indifferently, Boots thumping nearby yet somehow missing me again Dogs preferring a rotten tree trunk to my steaming mound Sniffing away, disgusted. I felt rain crawling through the putrefying foliage Marking with mud traces the most delectable portions of skin Paths for armies of worms to start a triumphal march Days later. I did not cry, leaving the ungrateful job to the few frogs In search for a kiss and for a kingdom And mistaking my unshaven face for the beautiful princess After all, what do frogs know? Why did you interrupt my gratifying hallucination When you kneeled next to the motionless shape And started cleaning its face, chest, loins, mind In caressing movements? Because I love you?... You always have the most inappropriate of answers I thought Dissatisfied with your absolute knowledge of me As reluctantly I smiled my dirty naked shape into your lap And went to sleep.

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Elephant Sometimes I feel heavy Like an elephant, My brain the color of his skin Sinking in a sensory deprivation mire Its thousands... billions?... of suction cups clinging to his skin Dragging him down to terrible suffocation death In a void rich in exotic minerals called nothingness, absence, turmoil... Turmoil?... what kind of a mineral is that? I try to dance, Elephants in a mire dance, didn’t you know?... The accompanying music the sloshing of skin cells and brain cells and memory cells Trying to escape the terrible wet embrace Yet inexorably working their way down to impending doom Such an ungainly dance, so much beauty in the gigantic muscular mass Imagining memories of dancing floors Snow turning skin clinging to neck, Warmth turning flame turning thigh rubbing against thigh, Dreams turning breasts, Lips... what turns into lips? Hey, do you know that elephants cry? Everybody thinks it’s crocodiles, ha, Stupid, ignorant, conceited humans, Elephants cry when sinking into mires, dancing, I swear you could even see them smile, Just try... Skin turning snow, Thigh back to flame back to warmth... what was there before warmth?... Breasts into dream wafts, Lips... The quiet so quiet, absolute... I hear a song, I blink away the mud As smoke thin fingers pick me by the ears Two each side And start pulling up, My bones emerge from the morass hanging limp Like wind chimes, “Wind chimes?...” She shakes me slightly and I hear the bells... “Hmm, needs some tuning...” she adds And she keeps me hanging by one ear As her other hand lays petal next to petal next to petal Till the blanket is thin enough and wide enough And she lays me down on the blanket on my back And picks each and every bone in my body Holds it flute like against her lips And Zephyr obediently escapes her mouth Tuning each to melodious perfection. “You miss one bone, here,” She says pointing to my ribs Then she curls and she curls and she curls till she finally fits in, Warm, snug, perfect. “Hey,” my turn to tell her, “elephants do cry, you know?” but she is silent. “Hey, you forgot to tune yourself,” I tell her as she snores lightly, sighing, happy, but she is silent. I do not dare move... I close my eyes and start tuning her breath, Gently, after all I love her, “...do you know?...” And the words start rolling, and rolling, and rolling...

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Eshet Chail biblical term: a most valorous woman The day behind you, When is the day behind you, midnight or later? Or is this later actually earlier? When does the day start at all if it doesn’t end? You sit for a moment on the wooden kitchen chair, Your muscles hurt, your back hurts, You close your eyes trying to recollect the day’s images At times mixing them with yesterday’s And with tomorrow’s... Waking up, waking up everybody, Then waking up everybody again, Yawning, you try to resuscitate yesterday’s painful bones in the few blessedly intimate moments in the bathroom, Impertinent knocks on the door “Mom...”, “Mom...”, “Mom, I have to...” Does it sound like two, three voices out there? Sounds more like one hundred. You open the door and let the stampede crush your feet as they fight for the right to pee first... Kitchen... breakfast... sandwiches for the day “Mom, where is my shirt?...” “Mom, I need a new notebook... I need two dollars...” “Mom, he hit me...” The bus, where is the darn bus? Of course, you don’t use damn in front of the kids or the dogs or the parrot Though you already feel like quoting all four lettered words you once read in the men’s room once when you needed to go on the highway and the ladies room was flowing over... You’ll be late for the bus, move your butt, take the money, You forgot your book... you run shouting after the bus as faces giggle back at you from the rear window and the bus disappears around a corner. You shiver in your pyjamas and oversized bunny slippers, the morning gets chilly. There’s still the dog to feed, such a bad habit, Then the other dog, the parrot, Luckily I don’t have to walk the parrot, you think. As you return, breathless, A coat thrown over your pyjamas and still in your bunny slippers, Your cheeks flushed And the dogs yapping all the way at some imaginary cat, The door clicks shut behind you a new generation of noises assailing you. One kid of the... darn, how many do I have? feels like thirty three... stayed home sick the loud music in her room killing every living plant within hearing range. No, you don’t use damn always darn around your kids... sounds like déjà vu?... even when thinking around them. The baby is up, pampers, milk, where are your shoes, your binky?... knowing darn... he-he... well most of them end with the dogs. I have to buy shares in Binky & Co. you think kissing the baby and doing your best to dress one handed and not fall over. Your foot misses the right entry to the panties once Twice You almost give up on them altogether and go panty-less when you finally get it right And hobble your way in jumping like a goat The baby in your arms giggling and exercising its right to shave your head using an economical system of no cream and no knife but rather weeding with small insistent fists. Darn, I look like a monkey, look at my legs, have to shave before they throw me in jail for indecent exposure... You prefer not to remember struggling into the damn bra and the rest of feminine amenities, Some of tissue, some of grease, some of paint and dust and mist... What was it? you ask yourself, what was next? as your fleshy bottom starts feeling as rigid and numb as the piece of wood supporting it. Oh, I hate grocery shopping so I won’t remember it... Tiles scrubbing, dish washing, laundry, dusting, Preparing lunch, preparing dinner, laundry again, Pies and rolls and stuffing and gravy and green beans and red beans and... No, this was the food not the laundry... The principal calls... your kid hit someone... Your neighbor asks to loan your land mower, Your neighbor rings again asking if you have gas for the land mower, Your neighbor returns your land mower forgetting... ha-ha... to clean it, Third laundry shift... when will they invent disposable garments?... The principal calls... you forgot today’s PTA meeting, The physician’s office calls... you forgot to come... Damn... oops... darn... another appointment in one month?... You scream at them and then you are sorry and call them to tell them you are sorry but you get an answering machine... Almost time for the kids to come home, The kids come home Hungry like three locust waves leaving the killing fields of the kitchen worthy of a Pulitzer Prize in disaster photography... At least they play with the baby though in one year they will all be deaf as they enter the “music chamber” at least you have time now to mow the grass then tiles scrub... yes again, dish wash... yes more, laundry... yes once more as well, dust... so much dust in this world, You try to find some time to talk to them Help with homework between one arcade game to the other, The dogs invade the house Muddy paws all the way to the kitchen and back The parrot screams its head off... “To bed, everyone to bed...” it’s you, not the parrot Yet you do not scream, you sing... The day behind you. The wooden chair in the kitchen your best friend. You open a drawer and pick up a book and read a few pages some quality time for yourself, a few minutes quiet, peace, You take a piece of paper and write a few lines, Words playing in your head all day long, Hopefully you remember most of them... Soon it is laundry time again... You smile, No one sees, You do not complain. This is my life. I better get ready for another slice of it. You dream of princes, and frogs, and neverlands. Oh, yes... and no laundry... * I close the window And part mumbling to myself... Eshet Chail, Yes, definitely Eshet Chail...

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Imagine Imagine, my hands hovering over you never touching, floating, just molecules of air separating us your mind guiding your senses asking where are his hands... now? Are the current eddies around my shoulder blades his passing hand as it pulls awake the mindless armies of living sand teeming under my skin drags them out of the apathy of their blood vessels shelter and sends them crashing against my pale skin barrier mountains mountains mountains short thin bristling hair swords cutting tunnels out to the light gloriously screaming for his blood in a madness of hunger and abandon and desire? Or is it the shadow passing my closed eyes asking permission to land without words or warning upon the undefined topography of my body my flower fields a frenzy of tumultuous sprouting fragrances my caverns honey flooded lace clouds melting against my ridges every corner a bundle of nerves ready to drop down its flags and slogans and dress ribbons and ribbons and ribbons decorating ankles opening in a delirious embrace to the liberating conqueror? Maybe the warmth soaking into my nipples and cutting a rugged path with the machete of my imagination trough the jungle of my entrails slicing slicing slicing straight into my loins where it ignites the long sleeping volcano into a beast of spitting steam and liquid flesh and squirming skin... is this his hand?... Imagine, now, my hand touching you...

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Mezzuzah biblical term: a prayer to be kissed each time you pass it by Mezzuzah, I say. Hilul Hakodesh, blasphemy! I can hear yeshiva bochers biblical scholars say Looking angrily my way And trying to give me the bad eye, Ein Hara, While at the same time keeping at their daily Pilpul splitting hairs On some confusing ruling the wisest of my people of once Hazal Once ruled In some once upon a time written Talmud pages. I look at them, smiling, thinking about rules of god ownership, How wrong, how confusing, How irrelevant. Remembering a story I once read about an illiterate boy Succeeding where the greatest of rabbi’s failed To open the gates of heaven to prayers By whistling irreverently and blasphemously In the synagogue The true prayer which lay at his heart And he did not have the learned words to voice. Remembering a poem I once read of a modest daughter of my people Who chose on committing the abominable crime of Taking her own life In order not to commit the abominable crime of Living in sin unmarried Deciding for god Making god’s choice for god. Remembering sights of my childhood My parents in fear of worship lest they end in a dark cell Or I end in persecution at school, In fear of placing the symbol of our belonging – the mezzuzah On the door, Hiding it out of sight But not out of reach of the eager hand looking forward At an unclear blessing And at the soul of a whole nation. Memories Colored by layers of childhood awe And so many years since. My grandfather, the oldest man in the world, Climbing slowly up creaking stairs polished at ends And deeply eroded at middle Walled on both sides by walls made of dry horse manure, Finally reaching the entrance door Taking out with hands shaking with age and veneration A sacred piece of hand written scroll Rolling it And fitting it inside a hollow piece of wood Which then he nailed to that hidden spot on the wooden door frame He hardly could reach up to. Then kissing it. Then my father kissing it, then my mother. Then everyone looking at me The three foot tall brainwashed red hearted child communist One party no god no religion no tradition, Not telling me what to do Waiting for me to do it. I don’t remember hesitating My left hand covered my head As I stretched on tips of short toes till my right fingers reached it And then brought them back to my lips, Not god but my god, not religion but my religion, Not tradition but my tradition, Not pride but my pride, not reality but my reality, My mezzuzah, My symbol of resistance, of belonging, Of growing up into the unpleasantness of the world Ready to come to grips with my roots And bleed if need be, Changing at one finger’s touch from child to almost adult. I do remember shaking, like my grandfather, Understanding it was not age But love unending. I look at you, With my mind’s eye, Stretching on tips of worn out toes till my right fingers reach it, Your cheek, And then I bring them back to my lips. Mezzuzah, I say.

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A Stranger’s Tears Sleet, Dark, Freezing rain. I am driving fast Preferring risk to sleep, The few screeching almosts’ induced adrenaline Keeping my eyes open. “Drive safely,” you said, meaning it. “Love me,” I said, meaning it. “I do,” you said, meaning it. “I will,” I said, meaning it. I even stop at a parking place to write these words, So unusual of me. I do know my limits though - Sleet and speed and writing do not inter-marry, And I promised you... I always keep my promise. A car stops next to mine. There is a woman inside, alone. She turns on the overhead light and blows her nose, She is crying. I turn away my head in haste, Hating to intrude on such an intimate moment, A stranger’s tears, clawing at my heart. I return to my piece of paper Hardly seeing Not turning on the light so as not to embarrass her. My love, I have seen a stranger’s tears And they clawed at my heart. If I ever see your tears I will let the claws sink in And rip it out of my chest... Shudder, waking up, The car next to me gone, My earlier scribbled words on the seat next to me, I start driving again My mind clear No need to hurry anymore. My heart quiet No beat. For how long already? I know I have to do something or within a few seconds I die... Then I remember, We swapped hearts. I stop the car at the road’s side Pick up the piece of paper And correct it. And rip it out of your chest... I feel the beat again. I start driving. The message waiting on my computer’s screen at home. I believe you never will. I believe you love me.

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Perfection Variants Looking sideways, Watching your profile and trying to imagine how you look like when looked at straight on. I know how, still, I am imagining, Taking the asymmetry of your half face’s features and mirroring it in my mind to complete the drawing and for a few minutes I feel like God, The Creator, Creating a mythical creature from just hints, and wishes, Images bouncing off dreams unfulfilled Or undreamed yet. Perfection, I am allowed, As God I am allowed to imagine perfection, Draw it, mold it, let there be... “Let there be what?” you ask, turning your face towards me. I probably said it aloud, trapped in my dreams of power and immortality and... smile?... You smile at me, Your teeth slightly irregular, Your nose slightly squashed, Your cheeks slightly puffy, Your eyes slightly squinting, Your smile... blistering my skin. “I was wrong,” I answer enigmatically Drawing a cross upon my imagination. “What about?” you ask. “Wrong about perfection,” I answer, “Perfection is a matter of definition. Mine is the strictest definition of all.” “And I guess I do not fit in?” you ask not sarcastically, just curios. “True, you do not fit in. You define it.” Your smile quiets into slightly curved lips As you look at me trying to get the catch, the joke, the subtle mockery. “OK, I give up,” you finally sigh, “what is the catch?” I watch you again, Your slightly irregular teeth, Your slightly squashed nose, Your slightly puffy cheeks, Your slightly squinting eyes, “You are so imperfect,” I say, “Am I the first one to see your absolute beauty?” You gave up trying to understand me a long time ago. You know what I mean to say. You know beyond. “You mean to tell I am perfect is what you try to say?” And I am thankful for you not trying to mock me. “Yes,” I answer, Wondering how did you guess this time. “I know,” you say. I still have a problem classifying the smile which followed, Somehow it did not fit into any of my preconceived definitions. What name do you call a perfect imperfection?

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Softly... Softly... Lie down on the ground Softly... softly... Airy arms of dying tornadoes guiding you As dry leaf crumbs shiver in anticipation to... the touch. Long blades of grass confine you to the green prison of their cutting edge As they unbutton your shirt And unweave your dress And your lace snaps fluttering into ribbons, ribbons... Thin invisible cuts drawing bleeding red shapes of imaginary flowers on the white of your skin and red on the red of your nipple and red above the sleeping green of your iris. My skin, do you feel my skin as it clothes you with the rough texture of its robe And I roll around you, and around you, The flowers copying onto my skin, The bleeding traces copying onto my skin, The myriad of cuts copying into my skin, I, your brother in love, Your brother in pain, Your lover, I, you... My fingers, do you feel my fingers licking away your wounds Hungrily tracing your skin’s art and changing it into memory, Fingertips rubbing in the salty sting of thin blobs of perspiration soaking into the lush of valleys abundant in raw flesh In a desperate attempt to efface the lingering bitter poison of life with the melody of words hanging onto runes of ineffaceable love, I, your mate in love, Your mate in pain, Your lover, I, you... Morning comes. Spiders have dressed us transparent habits then discreetly retreated to shadowed burrows wondering at the mindless folly of lovers, Tiny lilac flowers carrying tiny bunches of glittering dew bouquets stick miraculously to our nakedness wondering at the inebriating fragrance of lovers, Lost stains of dawn finally find solace inside the tinkling drops changing the morbid colorlessness of crystal into the exploding fervor of kaleidoscopic miniature galaxies while wondering at the devastating inferno of lovers. And flesh melts inside the shiver of skin And flesh flows into flesh And flesh rivulets braid with flesh rivulets into a mighty river flowing into the sun As we merge into an unending euphony forever remembering the shared ecstasy of pain, Forever testing the limits of human beauty and tasting the unimaginable blends of human tenderness.

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Underneath And Beyond I love your voice, I told you, Sweeping out of way protests and giggles And indecent remarks comparing it to... whatever... As I forced you to sing to me off key off scale off music, The gates to my auditory system busily stripping off your blush, your bashfulness, your grocery lists, your menstruation discomfort, your layers of calloused years, My eyes closed My hearing nerve ends stretched to molecular thinness there trying toiling looking for finally finding the real naked... you... Did you really think you could hide it forever mindfully or mindlessly the beauty? That purity of tone, Like the innocence of birth Gliding upon those nerve-end forests Then penetrating inside, nesting, curling down to sleep Finally having found the rhyme to their forgotten childhood whispers inside the embrace of my affection... I love your skin, I told you, Threatening with corporal punishment of said skin Any disrespectful remark or allusion its way As I yanked out of you permission for my blushing fingertips to scavenge it greedily for lost treasures, The gates to my sensory system busily smoothing out your wrinkles, your birth stretch marks, your laundry blisters, your arrogantly disobedient muscle shiver, your layers of fearsome memories, My eyes closed, My sensing nerve ends stretched to immaterial thinness there trying toiling looking for finally finding the real naked... you... Did you really think you could hide it forever mindfully or mindlessly the beauty? That absolute marvel of touch, Like a feather’s detached vane Indomitably easing its way on my epidermis’ inner side Searching for its final dwelling of unabsolvable pleasure Finally having found the rhyme to immeasurable desire inside the unconditionality of my love... * “There are only two senses here, Aren’t you going to verse your way through all of them?” “Of course I will.” “When?” I took a piece of paper and wrote a word on it, Folded it carefully and handed it to her. She looked at me, tearful, Took a piece of paper and wrote a word on it, Folded it carefully and handed it to me. A duel to love and death, We knew it. “Tenderness,” I answered. “Tenderness is not an answer to When?” she said. “Why?” “Infinite,” she answered. “Infinite is not an answer to Why?” I said. I was old fashioned, I let her open my note first. Infinite. I opened her note. Tenderness. “Some questions have no answer.” “Some answers need no question.” “Your tear... was an answer?” “My tear... needs a question?” “Love wins.” “Tenderness.” “Senses so many in love.” “Infinite.” I lay the notes side by side And started the rest of our life. Infinite Tenderness.

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I Wishes in collection: sillies I wish my words Like none before Unwritten be in lovers’ lore My summer screams Inside your chest The smiles to guide your heart to rest. I wish my hand With thieving stealth To steal all ancient worded wealth And on your eye To sign my name To verses rich in liquid flame. I wish... alas That Shakespeare guy His Juliet the sweet and shy Has gone beyond Mere mortal’s reach And matters not what I beseech. I wish... the other one Called Poe His blabbermouthed spooky crow And Annabel The sweetest Lee Such minstrel I will never be. There’s more Like Heine’s Loreley Old sailors’ hearts her evening’s prey Or Homer’s Penelope guile... I’ll never own such class and style. The giants rule And rave and roll The gods from Pluto way through Sol With human seed Admiring stare Into divine and splendid flair. I wish... then smile The moment gone A tender crave assaults my dawn They may have touched Sweet glory’s hue Yet guess whose arms are holding... you?

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Rambling Quest in collection: sillies I had my cup of herbal tea Then picked my Chevy jalopy I loaded it three blades of grass One broken magnifying glass Then went to pee, A rusted spade, a wooden rake, A culinary risk called cake A flashlight (based on what I knew It worked OK in World War II) A wooden stake, Some garlic... wait, you’re off the trail, It’s not vampires that I tail, Just let me finish loading in Some chains, some planks, some cheapo gin, And off we sail. Oops... sorry, ‘twas my tire’s screech Forgot to load my limping bitch, She bit my... hmm... then took her seat Next to the jar with (I’m NO twit) My pet the leech. What am I searching? You won’t guess - A stone, and nothing more nor less, Not real stone though, rather gem, It’s not a joke, I am, I am... But I digress... Well, off we go... from Pole to Pole, I dig through cave, through field, through hole Through sea, through mud, through windmill rows All I did find was Miss Monroe’s Eternal mole. I counted grains of sand way east I kissed a hairy farting beast, I fought three sharks off ocean’s beach Who tried to eat my sweet dear leech, And long’s the list. I was about three quarters south, You see, this cop, a blabbermouth Decided I can’t dig my worth Mid of the highway heading north The friggin’ lout. He locked us in his stinking cell, Ha ha, I dug myself a well And picked my bitch, my leech, my itch, My rake, my cake (just one of each) And ran like hell. Oh, gods of random’s dreary farm Just there, beyond the reach of harm, I saw it glinting like a star (Now, isn’t this kinda bizarre?) A... freckled arm?... I started digging frenzy full My chin a mess of dripping drool My dog above the massive stone... “Hey there, let go, it’s not a bone You furred bitch fool...” Oh, finally, my quest is done No need to keep this madman’s run I hugged the stone and smelled its cracks (I do belong to World Wide Wacks) And called it hun. I knew inside the rugged crust Under eleven layers dust A monster diamond hides in wait With emeralds adorned (as bait) In rubies lust. Thus hidden from the masses view I started chipping mud and goo My finger slipped, the blade scratched deep, A bleeding stone?... that’s kinda creep And kinda new. I had no choice, to try and seize The value – went to Tiffany’s, The stone (was heavy) broke the scale They kicked me out, I heard a wail, Or was it sneeze? Was getting weirder, out of reach, I eyed my stone, my dog, my leech, Then squeezed those mounds of function queer “It’s tits, you moron, get us beer...” A stone does speech?... Well, as it turns, with my queer luck She used a word which rhymes with... duck, She slapped my face, then kicked my butt That redhead freckled woman mutt, I hit the muck... “A diamond, ha, that’s what you search?... Wait till you taste my three foot birch, I’m trinket, man, and proud to be, My tits, my ass, and all of me, And love’s my church.” The truth - my dog my leech and I We know, beneath the wink of eye, You see, no diamond’s worth to me Like skin and flesh upon this... she To love and die.

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Parting, Kind Of The butterflies in my belly the size of a baby pterodactyl And as ravenous, Armies of nerves fighting a desperate battle to subdue the rebellion and its ulcerinogenic sympathizers... In vain, Tomorrow is Alka-Seltzer day, I wonder - if I drown in it will it be considered suicide or accidental death? “Don’t worry,” she said. “I don’t,” I lied, “You are a great driver but there are those other criminals, murderers, Sunday drivers, grannies, lizards, convicts and escaped lawyers... or is it the other way around?” “I will be careful, I will not read while driving, not phone, not write, not smoke pot...” she winks. “Did you take extra shoes, extra pants, extra panties, extra toilet paper?...” I rumble on, not really listening. The day arrives, I rest behind, enveloped in the stinking gasoline smoke inhaling deep into lungs the residue of her last movements touches sounds, I try to follow the car by foot persistent in my intention to rest inside the bluish stank but morning’s currents of air dissipate it through bushes and flowers and I am alone with a piece of folded paper in my pocket on an empty derelict road. “My love, By the time you read these lines I will be three minutes away...” how did she know?... “...and you will be chasing my car’s smoke as if it was mating pheromones...” was I that transparent?... I thought I played indifferent... “...don’t forget to shower daily, change socks, change underwear, water the cactus, feed the dog, cat, mouse...” I smile. She loves me, My God she loves me... I spit on the text and smear it all over the page Watching the ink float up, Then stuff the open paper inside my shirt, The written side against the left of my chest And rub it at length so that the ink will stick to my skin. Then sit on a nearby bench closing my eyes. To be loved by her... I wonder, How is it not to be loved by her? I look at the world around me in pity, in pride, and whistle my way home still rubbing the piece of paper to my chest. I feel like rebelling... I don’t think I will shower till she can wipe it off herself. That will teach her responsibility... she must return safely otherwise I will go on dirty blue forever, and she will not allow it to happen, will she?

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Scenes, One a glass of beer, tastes like malt, burnt sugar, yesterday. I start sipping slowly, then down it in one single angry movement wiping my mouth with my sleeve, alcoholic dampness lingering on my lips. where are yours – to lick away my memory into my present? I miss you.

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Scenes, Two I munch a chocolate piece, Half me, half you... that’s the way we did it Together. A boxful, till tummy aches sent us rolling Into each other’s arms Shivering with pain, ecstasy, More... Disgusting, you said As I forced a kiss upon you Stealing a piece straight from your mouth And as you were stealing it back from mine We offered each other Sweetness unheard of, More... The last dregs slide down my throat Scratching, Lonely in the loneliness of my saliva. My tongue remembers battles The victory in defeat Choked battle cries as the enemy breaks through rows of teeth And wounded, lies to sleep inside my mouth Bleeding side by side with mine. I miss you. So much More...

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Scenes, Three I walk, knee deep in fallen leaves, I didn’t do it for years now, many, Kicking them wildly with both feet Listening to the swishing sound swish... quiet... swish... quiet... Giant me Powerful I close my eyes... oh... such a mistake... Should not have done it... You are by my side... Logic, damn you logic, Telling me of my delusion Gripping my entrails and squeezing mightily... I fall on the rotting bed, Curling into a ball And I don’t care that passers by look the other way As I sob noisily Rolling and rolling Way past the place where you are not by my side...

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Treasure Room I unlocked the door to the room, Then unlocked the door to the safe, I took out the small steel suitcase and composed the lock code, Then removed the key from around my neck and unlocked the little box inside, Picked the stubby cylinder and unlocked one of its extremities with the same key. There it was... almost. I unrolled the worn out sheet of paper on the table And there it was. “Hi...” I said. It did not respond, A strand of hair cannot respond. Even I know it. I took it with me to the bathroom, We showered together Then I dried it carefully with the fan, No tooth brushing necessary, And laid it on the pillow next to mine after kissing it good night. “I love you...” I whispered so as not to wake up the dog otherwise he would ask for another tour around the block. I covered it with the small baby blanket size zero which I bought it specifically for this, And turned off the light. “Good night, my love...” Whispered again of course. I succeeded not to sob. I woke up and prepared breakfast for two, Two cups of coffee... one never knows, At worst the dog will eat it. I opened the curtains and let the morning’s light reflect from the reddish strand now a bit disheveled...I wondered, don’t remember being that wild this night. Of course it didn’t eat its portion of scrambled eggs, This finished with the dog. The dog drank the coffee as well. I washed, dressed, walked the dog, Then picked up the strand of hair smoothing down its curl And started counting the knots. One, two... one hundred thirty nine. Then I picked it carefully between the adequate finger tips and knotted one more knot underneath the rest. One hundred forty. Soon, my love, before there is no more place, My fingers will curl mightily around another thin strand And as pouring passengers stream around us into the terminal Rip it off your scalp Allowing you in turn To shred my lips’ flesh, my spine’s skin, my life’s meaninglessness. For the next time. Till there is no more next time. Till every morning there is no more coffee left for the dog But for my tongue to lick it off your lips. I miss you. I kiss the strand of hair and roll it back into the sheet of paper, Then slide it into the stubby cylinder and lock it with the key around my neck, Put the cylinder back into the box and lock it with the same key hanging the key back around my neck, Place the box inside the steel suitcase rolling the combination lock, The suitcase into the safe, lock the safe, Lock the door to the safe. All my life, All my love, Locked inside my treasure room.

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Scavengers day ends. you claimed the karaoke. i claimed the slow dance. then we claim bleeding chunks of salivating flesh as we roll the night around us and blue flowers keep exploding underneath splitting skins illuminating the pain of retreating fangs and sheathing claws. these flowers need tending... you say as i caress your breast, they will die till next time, i hate death. they will not die, merely soak back into your blood... i answer, they will remember life. who are the beasts growling as they scavenge the fields of the other’s body till day starts?

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Dementiality The liquid mix of hell and sleet and flying ice hits the windshield, At one hundred miles per hour that’s what the end of the world sounds like, Wipers flap uselessly, Senses tense on guessing the way, My muscles pieces of iron, A vision... out of the sudden nowhere A face smashes against the armored glass Obliterating my view Crashing the wipers inert The red streaks of fire dangling from the scalp to the face at war with the howling hurricane trying to hold on to pale cheeks surrounding scarlet stains While the mouth approaches the invisible barrier and finally sticks to it like a one armed octopus fighting for its life, My body jolts forward mocking inertia’s mathematically assumed superiority tearing through the butter of the safety belt And my mouth sticks to the counter side of the vision’s mouth vibration conquering the molecular invincibility of the piece of rigid plastic between us Fire demons dancing on each side of the shield inside the hollow created by those mouths till the glass finally melts sucking inside our lungs Coating our inner organs with the burning poison of civilization as our mouths glue to each other into one wormhole continuum and hands crash through the leftovers of the disintegrating curtain fusing And fire shoots inside our bones while hell and sleet and flying ice mix with spilling fuel and none ever knows where our souls descend when the huge ball of fire lifts the carcass of the car high in the air and drops it way into the counter-sense lanes of the highway.

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Dementiality, Two Morning, Making love above the drawer holding your intimate garments The femininity soaked in the intricacies of transparent weave clinging to the intricacies of shivering skins Hands flailing The wailing sounds of ripping lace and tearing silk and shredding nylon spit lumps of spicy gossip upon the walls When a demented fist smashes through the drawer’s bottom as brain slices boil into oblivion And we remain forever locked, limp, breathless. Noon, Making love on the kitchen table Amidst the sounds of cutlery striking the floor like raining metal and knives slashing unfelt through cloth and skin Wine bottles roll over smashing to bits mixing with oil and vinegar and mustard The acrid smell penetrating through eyes and mouth and skin into lungs reluctant to shrink in horror At the end of the long wait leading to that indecent scream Leaving us forever locked, limp, breathless. Night, Making love on the bathroom’s cold tiles Feet kicking broken the massive sink while fists grab at plastic curtains ripping them off rings Inefficiently trying to ward off steely water needles drilling holes in arms and spine and feet In a mindless effort to keep shreds of sanity before finally giving in to shared romping dementia When we accept death forever locked, limp, breathless. Day, After the goodbye, And the hole in my mind bigger than the hole in my body And together bigger than a yawning, bored god’s mouth And my shrill scream unending.

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Wear Your Colors Wear your red shirt, the one sewn with the whistle of my breath as I lay my ear against your chest... Let the warmth of inner cotton coat the shiver of your flesh Knitting drops of sweat through cobwebs in a bone-deep slicing mesh Floating down from marble shoulders till beyond the mountains range Priding tips of glowing embers spewing death in sweet revenge. Wear your green skirt, its buttons pieces of my broken bones as I squash your thigh against my ribs... Sheath your hip inside the pleasure of forgotten hugging art Strange delights bemoaning slumber thieving time from lusting heart Bashful chants inside the valleys robbing dreams of rightful lust Leaving long delightful traces bearing hues of sweet disgust. Wear your white skin, damaged beyond recognition by scavenging fingertips as layers of it amass underneath my fingernails... Dip your body in my senses chasing tribes of howling hordes Way beyond demented pastures weaving verses into swords Shed its failing crumbs of passion deep of desert’s roving dunes With my flares of sunrise teeming in your green and sweet lagoons.

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Dementiality, Three Roll me in guitar wire, you asked, Roll and roll and roll... I did not ask, I bought miles of it, Undressed you And rolled you and rolled you and rolled you in it. Between your toes, Round your ankles, up your shins, up your thighs, Rolled around your hips and waist... Your chest too?... I asked. My chest too... you answered. Round your chest, envious of the wire touching your breasts, Loosely around your neck, Your eyes?... My eyes... Cocooning your head, lips, eyes... Are you there? I asked. I love you, you answered, now undress, lie next to me, and close your eyes. I undressed, lay next to you, and closed my eyes. I heard the sharp breath intake, Heard the zing of a snapping wire Felt the bite of the sharp end into my skin I wished to scream... Then I heard it, the first note... The scream froze in my throat As the sound slid over my skin, inside my wound, Coagulating into... was it summer? I heard the second snap, the second bite, the second sound... I gasped, Not at pain... at beauty, The beauty of the second note, of the after beginning, of genesis past its prime, How did it sound that first note, that genesis at its prime? I could not remember as a third note bit the air and my flesh, Then a fourth, a flow, The flow surging, a flood, How many coils did I wrap around your body?... Many?... Thousands?... Sufficient?... Sufficient to turn the flood into a sea, the sea into life, life into love? Seasons started crawling inside my veins fighting desperately for the first row, Tigers growled between skin and flesh preying on the dust of blood, Rolling stars around me claimed a place in my universe born, dying, reborn, The music seeping into my brains Coating my marrow, enveloping my memories... Stop!... I whispered... I wish not to die... Just as the last snapping sound hit the last island of sane skin And curled itself around my finger. We are married... you said, Thousands of raw gashes around your body. We are married... I said, My body a pulp of raw slices. We hugged, Blood finding countless ways to stream inside our fused bodies, fused veins, Fused hearts. I love you, like music before being sung, you said. I love you, like ears waiting for music to be sung, I said. Yet I sang to you, you said. Yet I heard you, I said. Do I love you less now? you asked. Do I love you more now? I asked. Yes, you answered. No, I answered.

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Softer Contentions I gave you an apple. I guess there is no softer spot Than mid that isle of oozing rot Surrounded by the sunken wreath You carved with hunger’s ridden teeth... You look at the apple in your hand, Meditating, Then poke your finger middle of the rotten stain Pushing half way through to the other side. You are so wrong, Your art, Your heart... I gave you a scrap of paper. I guess there is no softer smile Than mid that sweet deceiving guile Immersed in splattered savage scripts You kissed with passion’s bleeding lips... You look at the scrap of paper in your hand, Thinking, Then choose several scribbled lines And overwrite them with thin arrays of letters. You are so wrong, Your rune, Your june... I gave you a patch of skin. I guess there is no softer touch Than mid that dream you crave so much Still floating in creation molds You hide between your spirit’s folds... You look at the patch of skin in your hand, Smiling, Then unseal the gates to green floodlights Watching as it uncoils into an opening petal. You are so wrong, Your glove, Your love...

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Once, Two Once I was human. I watched birds singing, Trees budding, Sun shining... I was an observer Walking through life like a hot teflon blade in soft butter Passing, Nothing sticks, nothing rests And even the butter halves fall back together as if I wasn’t. Once I wasn’t. Now I am poet. I am the feather carried into the ocean’s reflection hanging by unseen strings above my forest about to be pierced to death by my lark mother’s enchanting trill, I am the leaf struggling to open its one winged glory awakened from slumber by zephyrs flirting mid of my forest about to be hugged to death by my tree mother’s smothering shadow, I am the flame lost depths of earth’s disintegrating crust floating upon eternal hell’s fires underneath my forest about to be incinerated to death by my sun mother’s devastating flare... I am a partner Hanging to life like teeth to a lover’s lip Clinging, Grabbing all, hoarding all, And the bleeding lip refuses to heal smiling as if I am. Now I am. * Death, why do you use death in your metaphors? Because it is the after life. Because it is the before birth. Because it is absolute, final, irreversible. Eternal. Like your love for me? Like my love for you.

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Ideal Woman We sit facing each other, Naked, Not as newborn naked, no, We weren’t as hairy then... well, I certainly wasn’t, I mean I don’t mean you were, I mean I am now I don’t know if you were, I mean... ok, sorry, don’t know what I mean, I mean we sat facing each other, A bit of bulging stomach A bit of limp muscle Eyeglasses... no, not when we make love, They would explode... I have a small pimple on the side of my nose, Imagine, at my age... And I watch you slowly putting on that worrying diffident look... Describe to me your ideal woman, you challenge me Punching me in the stomach. It may have been a friendly jab but it hurt, Especially since it may be flabby but still muscled Into instinctive self protect. You don’t mean it, I say. I do mean it, you say and I know you do mean or else... And I better not play games or lie or else... You see... I start, hesitatingly. Don’t...you warn me, no hesitation there, Spill it or else... Third time or else and this time vocally so, Doesn’t leave me many options, does it? OK, you asked for it, I challenge back. Yes, I asked for it, you answer, Laying your head in my lap Oblivious to events happening in that area as soon as you do it And guide one of my hands to your breast Forcing two of my fingers around your nipple. I know what you are doing, this is your truth machine - I lie and you know it before the words spill out. This is also your safety net, To absorb your pain once it will erupt, As you know it will. The ideal woman, lets see, I start cautiously, Dragging my legs, hoping you stop me. You don’t. Definitely Naomi Campbell’s body, definitely. You nod your agreement, as serious as if it was Sunday prayer, Your eyes closed. The neck... I think I would take Audrey Hepburn’s neck And the eyes of Michelle Pfeiffer, or maybe Liz Taylor, Something in between. Also the mouth, hmmm... Something between Marilyn Monroe and Julia Roberts. The nose on the other hand will be that of Barbara... Streissand? Yes. What?... Why?... It comes with the voice. Oh... nervous giggle, ...also with Omar Shariff’s moustache?... My confidence mounts steadily. Hair, what about the hair?... you ask, Your mouth undecided yet which way to curve, Your nipple still absorbing the sensations from my finger tips, Uncommitted yet, still testing. Kim Basinger? I ask. Would you go with Kim Basinger Or would you prefer another one? It is your woman, not mine, you answer, a bit tense, Do I hear hesitation? OK, Kim Basinger it is, and I want also some fingernails to go with it all. Fingernails? This surprises you. Yes fingernails, I say, I insist to be allowed to choose my own fingernails. Those of Liza Minnelli in Cabaret. Liza with a Z Not Lisa with an S ?... you ask. The same and one and only, I answer. Green?... you ask. Green I answer. I feel something happening inside your nipple, I ain’t sure but I think something strange happens there, A certain beat, rush, a worrying stiffness, a pulse... My fingers squeeze involuntarily... you moan... Pain or ecstasy, pain or ecstasy?... You sit up again, facing me, Ensuring that at no time my finger hold on your nipple gets loose, And look me in the eyes. I do not cringe, I do not fear, I know. You know. I look at my creation with unseeing eyes, Penetrating through you Molding upon you the body, the colors, the appendices, Arms, eyes, hair... the rest, The beauty of my creation, oh, so exquisite, So incredible, so strange... So... remote, So... cold, meaningless, irrelevant, artificial, So... not you. So not you, I say, surprised to hear my voice as I focus my eyes back on you. My ideal woman, you asked? As I start erasing from the picture eyes, and mouth, and skin color Adding eyes and mouth and skin color And my eyes brighten up And your eyes brim with overpowering humidity And your fist softly pushes up my chin into mouth closed position wiping the drooling liquid slowly sliding down Then eyelashes flutter rapidly before my unblinking fixed stare And finally your mouth decides on its final curvature, ends up, As the same hand closes your fingers around those of my fingers clamping your nipple And squeezes till tears stream from your eyes. I feel the steel between my fingers beating, beating, beating... I’ve never seen you as happy in my life. You, I finally mange to say, my ideal woman. I know, you answer, now I know. We’ve never made such wild love ever before, my fingers not releasing even for one single second their vice hold on that burning, burning, smoldering nipple

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Embarrassed Clumsily trying to unbutton your shirt unzip your jeans Trusting I could control my movements so easily. Failing to. Unbutton, unzip, control. Embarrassed, Ever present tenderness allows for several blessed moments lust’s beast out of its cage And my teeth bite angrily in one sharp snarl shirt and bra out of way unleashing pride of breasts upon my world My fists tear zipper teeth into chunks of metal scattered on the floor peeling scarred cloth from your hip And apocalyptic revelation unites our disintegrating pieces of flesh into that one shared moment of absolute peaceful solitude. Embarrassed, Ever present tenderness takes over once again locking the sated beast back into its cage I remove garment leftovers from the pale nakedness of our bodies knowing no mending possible Then a towel soaks the warmth of water until the caress it carries is softer than my rhyme laden heart And as you fall into the bliss of lover’s sleep I clean all your wounds till none left.

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Cocktail That perfect cocktail called your body In that perfectly amorphous glass called your skin... Strange ingredients mixing their virtues according to time of day, My palate’s needs, The unexpressed wish of my wandering fingers And your poetry’s secrets unshared. I dip my finger in your milk, the one next to it in your ink And after I taste the sweet and bitter with my tongue I start painting my body finger-wide stripes Over, all over, all around, Thin lines long my fingernails, Infinitely delicate lines upon my irises, My body lying limp on the bed And the private pedestrian crossing for your ballerina toes and skinned fingertips and bony knees Safely lost inside the urban jungle of my body For you to walk on, jump, crush As I squirm in the delights of acting the pavement to your soles... I dip it again, five fingers this time one after the other Picking honey, tear, blood, wine, ice pearls melting reluctantly in stubborn refusal of accepting the reality of warmth, Then I hold all fingers above the milk and ink stripes And let them drip an irregular mix of explosive pellets Elongating all the way to my skin then splashing lazily When they relinquish the welcoming convenience of fingertips for the refreshing adventure of mixing with the milk, and ink, and each other in a thick kaleidoscopic slush crawling down my ribs, My body lying on its back While puddles of your life’s pleasures and memories and pains Evaporate into magnificent bubbles accompanied by rhythmic thumps Exploding at your delighted screams of surprise As I abandon reason for the benefit of insanity at your side... What about my passion, aren’t you going to dip your finger into my passion? you ask, So softly that I do not hear the words. But I know the words as I lick one of my fingers clean Then dip it in the incandescence of your dementing passion And as I pull it against my eyes I see winters melting And summers slamming into the oceans And mountains disrobed of their megalomaniac dreams When beads of renaissance wear their galloping hooves Raiding the distance from my finger to my chest And smash down through my prostrated body Beyond the carapace of my ribs Past my lungs, heart, spine And screamingly chase ecstasy into my body then out of it As I pump my useless fluids feeding the oven exciting me to death... May I have my life back? you ask, hours, years later As you start licking across the striped pattern Making faces as the various tastes hit your taste buds And shivering ecstatically each time a piece of my skin peels off and penetrates your carnivorous desire. You can have it all back, my life too, I answer, Shedding my skin running mile by running mile And when my flesh lies there in its ugly exposed rawness You dress it in your milk and ink and honey and tear and blood and wine and ice and saliva and sweat and secretions and fat and sebacic acids and your life and your life and your life and your love and your love and your love Until all I am is just one of the flavors In the cocktail of your body. Just one of the flavors? you ask, inspiring me into your nostrils. The only flavor, you state, As I finally find my nestling place inside your lungs’ lining.

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Passionate Moments, Eight My face drowns in your hair, My teeth touch your scalp Tasting portions of you Unknown, My palms cup your breasts, Fingers search for expressions Sunken in your wants Long ago, Bare thighs against flesh, Shapeless warmth flows Penetrating secret pathways Unhidden, Voices awake in sore throats, Wordless songs surge In the bellowing clamor of A duet, Tenacious quiet ensues, As the only skin alive Is the one surrounding Us.

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Winter Soliloquy I sat down on the bench, Right side of it, close to the edge. On my knees a huge flowers bouquet But I mean... a big huge flowers bouquet... An incredible mix of shapes and sizes and colors... mainly colors All the pastels and oils and crayons imaginable and combinations and shines... She sat on the left side of the bench, Close to the edge, When did she sit down there?... White, white... never saw such white ever before, Not even in my bouquet... and I looked it over carefully three times. Her lines were as sharply defined as if created by scalpel yet the only way I could see any of her features was by interposed shadow. There were no hues in that white of skin, Hair, eyes, lips, garments... did she wear any garments or was she completely white and naked?... “My sister would love you,” she said. I think her lips moved, judging by the shadow butterflies which seemed to flutter around the place her mouth was supposed to be. The air around her was hazy, as if several molecule layers froze into absolute immobility Though I believe there was some motion underneath that skin boundary... Was it a clear colorless fluid streaming there of kinds unknown Or ice crushed into fluidity by powers unknown to me? “Your sister? Who is your sister? Why would she love me?” “My sister Summer. She would love you because you hold a bouquet of paper flowers. She believes flowers look best alive, When you cut them they die, only humans are not aware of it. All that is left is the skin, the soul is gone. Humans are selfish.” “My lover thinks the same,” I answered. “Do you have other sisters?” “Summer is the one dearest to me, Though we hardly meet, if at all. Spring and Autumn are the other two, brats, Crazy, childish, wild, They never decided what they really want to do with their lives. They are closer to me but not as dear as Summer.” My eyes started getting used to the blinding whiteness, Identifying underneath it the delicate features of a young girl, I think she was wearing a long gown, I am still not so sure. Such an unimaginably beautiful face, such sadness, I wondered how I could identify sad without being able to identify eyes. “How old are you?” I asked. “I am young, fifteen days,“ she answered. “Do you ever get old?” “No, I die young. But it does not matter because I get reborn again in one year’s time. The tragedy of my life, never able to die.” “I know of many who would gladly swap places with you.” “No, you don’t know of any such.” A round transparent pearl dropped from her eye Hitting the wood of the bench underneath her with a cloudy hiss Passing through it and burying itself somewhere in the depths of earth Leaving behind a small explosive geyser that quieted within seconds. “May I sit next to you?” “No, you will disintegrate. Don’t you ask yourself why I am here?” Truth is I did, I expected her, my own her, to appear any moment now Yet I was trapped in the mystery of this appearance And could not detach myself from it without knowledge. “Yes,” I admitted, frozen into anticipation And smiling to myself at the use of frozen in my mind. I think she breathed, I could swear she did, does winter breathe? the imaginary garment stretching on her young bosom and a comet of ice sparks escaping her mouth to get lost in the thin playful breeze. “How old do you think I am?” she surprised me with the question. “Fifteen days, you said.” “Times a few billions of years... how old does it make me?” She stopped for a moment, As if hesitating to share herself with a human, Then continued. “I see the winter in your hair, strands of it pushing through, I see it in the corner of your eyes, Yet there is so much sun in your heart, green, hot, devastating... Something I will never know. I, immortal winter , envy you, in your winter’s mortality.” Another flood of pearls dug a wider hole underneath her, Ice-spark comets escaping in painful fast succession to the air. “You see... I am in love with Sun. If we touch... we die, we’ll never know what love is.” Quiet. “Help us?...” * She kind of landed out of nowhere straight into my lap, My human whirlwind, Flushed, laughing, kissing me with the ferocity of a young tigress And crushing the paper flowers in my bouquet to pocket book thick. “Oops...” she laughed at the sound, Pulling the mess from underneath her, “...oh, paper flowers underneath my butt, I love you I love you I love you...” She screamed delighted, burying our heads in the bouquet And getting my face utterly wet with kisses and licks. “Tell me, love were you missing me so much that you started talking to yourself?...” kiss... “...and what is this steaming puddle under the bench?... you peed or something?...” shrieking delight anew. I bent, my green love hanging to my neck, Dipped my finger in the puddle and tasted it, Then forced it between her lips. “Mmm... cool... sweet... aromatic... almost like me... Waiting to make love... How did you know?” Her eyes glazing, dreamy, Her hold on my neck strangling, Her teeth pushing suddenly into the flesh of my lower lip. “My love...” I asked, “...would you mind?” “Would I mind what?...” “Making love the four of us... I, you, the winter and the sun?...” “You are crazy, my winter love...” “I am crazy for you, my sunny love...” I placed a white sheet on the bed, White... so white... immaculately white and so much more... “I’ve never seen such white before...” she said echoing earlier me, Watching it settle on the bed surface As a shivering flurry rippled through it for a few seconds, Touching it in wonder And pulling the fingers back swiftly “...so cold... fire...” I opened the windows wide letting the sun in, Warm... so warm... perfectly warm and so much more... “I’ve never seen such winter sun before...” she said, Watching rays hovering above the bed sheet Almost touching yet holding back as if in sacred contemplation, Letting her hand cross through the beaming glory And pulling it back swiftly “...so hot... fire...” She looked at me, lifting that annihilating, forest deep regard to my face “What is happening, my love?...” She asked. “Do not ask, my love... do not ask... Let’s make love...” I answered. We lay on the bed undressing each other watching each piece of garment disintegrate either in the puff of smoke or in the dust of ice the moment it left the touch of our body our eyes’ gloss thickening minds sliding steadily down the savageness ending incline of not caring not wondering not asking as the large sheet of whiteness rolled itself around us again and again a triple roll then triple again sticking to our skin with its tiny invincible claws crawling inside our body aspiring to its empire the warmth of the enveloping sun sinking into the fibers its own claws joining the invading armies and setting their frozen hearts ablaze till ice suddenly flared into self consuming conflagration searing paths of flowing frost deep beyond the insides of flesh the trepidation inside the bloating ball of boiling desires devouring us swelling as pieces of flesh mixed with pieces of bone mixed with pieces of hell embracing a frozen eternity and then finally ripped our embrace apart as we ignited, fulminated smearing our seething insides upon walls, mountains, worlds... Touching my charred eyebrows, eyelashes, Removing blackened pieces of fallen plaster and molten glass from my chest. Regarding that unacceptable rainbow in a clear blue sky. She looked at me, lifting that annihilating, forest deep regard to my face “What happened, my love?...” She asked. “Do not ask, my love... do not ask... Our love is now encrusted into eternity...” I answered.

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Love, I Guess undress, my love, yes, as naked as my eyes’ desire, then lie down on the raked foliage of ages steaming with a miasmic mix of rot and putrefying leaves and resurrection. i will show you a miracle only you can achieve once you sink into my flesh’s embrace and your skin’s fragrances crawl inside the humid mound carrying my venerating touch. i pick up your body, later, whispering in your ear promises to end of time no, not to end of love, there is no end of love, to end of time, then i sit in my lazy chair carrying you in my arms showing it to you, the miracle. see the patch, there, where your spine tensed and squirmed with mine, earlier, watch the rot and the putrefying leaves soak your skin’s leftovers and your satisfied desire, watch the flurry of birth, following, watch our wedding bed budding into the green of tomorrow’s season and tiny white flowers bursting into morning’s trill and your skin blooming into the garden of my senses...

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The Last Season December comes, its stride has gained the size of passing years, Thin strands of silver in my hair adorn emerging fears, The mirror edges peel away, inane its vain attempt A lifelong twin’s decaying flesh to bar from life’s contempt. Upon a time my seasons passed at crawling minutes pace, Invincible beyond of reach my mighty April race, Then June has come, the minutes changed to hours, then to days As August touched my limping gait and slowed my savage ways. All seasons gone, just one more heave until the age of dusk Rings at my door to ask its dues, my crumbling mortal husk, And by the time the tinkle’s done and fades to roads unheard December dies in misery and steals my life, my word. “Upon a time?” I hear a shriek, a whirlwind picks my mind, A monster green of eye and gaze and curses unrefined... “Upon a time? Upon a now!” she rips my chest apart And sows a herd of mustangs wild between my ribs and heart. December comes... who gives a hoot?... whence this benighted sneer? Two prancing steeds of blazing tail towards a sunrise veer And as the morning’s chilly breath cuts paths through Eden‘s sky We have one season’s lifetime age to live before we die.

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Oh, Oh, tenderness... Those so called bards Who claim to own God’s spoken shards And in a flood of lines absurd Have mocked my right to sing your word I guess that none of them has been So close to your cherubic skin, My girl... Oh, dew... Lone tear of dying night A modern poet’s landscape blight Where pastels have no right to live And rasping sounds are heaven’s give, I know they think a cough is song You were not there to show them wrong My bride... Oh, love... The word of rhymes so few And scoffed at by that vocal crew Who, lacking inspiration gust Paint golden hues on scraps of rust, They never knew, they never will The bliss you pour inside a quill, My wife...

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Cucumber Love Undress, More, The rest of it... too... Please?... Now turn around so slowly as I bathe you in long stripes of lustful tongue’s prayers Glinting paths running all the way toe to scalp and back and back again Till all your specks of dust ride my tongue like an ant’s hill and thirst husks my throat. Worry not of the cloths I burned, Roll inside the sand till you are dressed in the beauty of the desert you so loved before loving me Clinging deliriously to your wet skin in ever flowing motion as we walk home to undress you again. No, Not the shower, My body drowning in sweat’s oncoming gale rubbing it off you at sounds of scrap and pain and delightful moaning Till my tongue dutifully back on duty finishes the assignment almost ripped off my mouth by your convulsions of ecstasy and beauty. I will dress your wounds with thin fresh slices of cucumber cool and as your blood mercifully soaks drops of green potion I will soak drops of green life into my cracking fingertips.

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Perceptions to pick the lights from the trees and to hang around your neck, to pick the lights from the gardens, from the roofs, from the passing trucks and to hang around your neck, to pick the lights from passers by, from dogs’ tails and snowed hats and cheek flushed kids and... “...to hang around my neck...” “how did you know?” i asked, upset, my feathers ruffled, “now i cannot surprise you anymore, words, desires, you know it all...” whining... “true,” you answered, confirming my fears and i cowered into a corner waiting for the snow dust to crystallize into a thin, shiny coffin around me. “true,” you repeated, kneeling next to my prostrated figure and blowing the whiteness away from my eyebrows. then away from my tightly pressed lips. “i know of all your words, desires, i know of it all...” then you sat next to me, hugging my neck and whispered into a melting storm of flakes... “what i do not know is... will you keep telling me... again?...” i opened wondering eyes and hurried to swallow the blob rolling down before it reached your upper lip, it was cold, blistering my tongue and throat. “do not surprise me, ever...” to steal the toys from the trees and to stuff in your pockets, to steal the toys from the gardens, from the roofs, from the passing trucks and to stuff in your pockets, to steal the toys from passers by, from dogs’ tails and snowed hats and cheek flushed kids and... “...to stuff in my pockets...” we smiled, together. yes, again, then again and yet again... for as long as you wish me to... “hmm... this is going to be one long ‘as long’...”

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Blisters I carry the blisters your eons of sin Inside counted hours have carved in my skin While witnessing walls crack to rumble of stone In envy of lust hugging splintering bone. The pain, oh, the joy in that mighty embrace The teeth in that cauldron severing your face Ferocious beasts cutting pleasures in flesh As flailing desires skimp sanity thresh. The howl growing thick in the billowing throat, The tightening muscle of heart’s bloody moat, My spine falling prey to your weapon of war As swallow turns dragon and angel turns whore... Oh, beautiful maiden asleep on my chest, Asleep is the cherry adorning your breast, The sated desire now curls in your green And bliss wanders slowly beneath lashes thin. Your blisters I’ll lick into memories sweet As rhyme turns your evening to lullaby tweet, My scars will turn letters then flow to my pen With feathers immortal I’ll pad our den.

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Mouth Your mouth opens, Petal after rosy petal, The muscled pistil hesitatingly licking its lips Wetting them with aromatic salivating dew, Testing the breeze’s refreshing intensity And pulling back in, alarmed, Then suddenly your hand grabs the nape of my neck Forces my mouth to open as it meets yours And stamen mates with pistil And saliva turns wine And our spinal stems twist, bend, curve, Till we collapse rolling in the welcoming undergrowth Where nature triumphantly takes its course Threshing glinting skin against glinting skin And reason loses its way in the mist As predator me sucks out the liquid pollen Of you...

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Green Buttoned Shirt Wear your green buttoned shirt Of so many whites Your red threaded skirt Of one thousand nights The silver laced shoes Of glittering dance And tenderness muse In rock melting glance. Let the hair touch your brow With two rolling curls And tapping heels plow With gracious twirls Your eyelashes spruce With glimmering shields And butterflies loose In daffodil fields. Tame my shivering hand As green buttons rip The lingering brand As hungry teeth nip When shoes join the skirt As mouths misbehave And we roll in dirt In ecstasy’s rave.

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Nothing It is not as soft As it should, As I wish. Take my words, lover, Peel off the chemistry of the ink And the physics of the sound And the literacy of the meaning, Keep on peeling Inside sciences known And beyond sciences unknown As deep as your reason allows And your imagination rides, Go there You will find it. My lover, I followed your word I followed your wish And beyond the last door I opened There is nothing. Did you touch nothing? No. Touch nothing, lover. Oh... * Many, many years later... I wanted her back... I kissed her. What was this world you sent me to, lover, Of softness unreal, unknown, undefined, Where no senses and all are but one interminable, unbearable softness like... nothing?... This is your secret. Mine? The place you sent me to When your mouth poured into mine the nectar of your stolen apples. I did not know this softness exists. Neither did I, interminable, unbearable like... nothing... Lover mine... Yes?... Join me there... Her fingers pulled an apple from an invisible pocket And she bit into it, And as her mouth was feeding me its nectar, its life, its memories, We fell asleep. We never woke up.

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Shoulders Silver knives Cutting my flesh In so many different ways, Missing you. “How old is this cut?” you ask me. “One minute old.” “And this one?” “Two minutes.” “Is this one three minutes old?” “Yes.” You keep inspecting my skin The damp cloth in your hand mopping freshly bleeding traces And coagulated clogs of old And scars well dried by now. “There are so many thin cuts in between, Almost invisible, What are these?” you ask. “These are the seconds,” I answer. “Are there cuts thinner than seconds?” “There are. Thousands.” You watch fascinated As an invisible blade keeps plowing the tiny traces Right there under your eyes, You squeeze dry the mop in your hand, Empty the overflowing barrel And keep wiping the skin with lengthy moves. “But now I am here,” you murmur in wonder. “I catch up with a past when you were not. I miss the lost days,” I respond. You cover me with the white bed sheet Up to my chin Leaving my right shoulder uncovered, Randomly strewn red blotches flowering timidly everywhere. “Why did you do that?” I ask wondering aloud. “Why did I cover you?” “Why did you leave my right shoulder uncovered?” You start undressing, Garments falling to the floor with a swish as they slide along your skin hitting the cold tiles with the finality of a wave breaking against the shore. The most ephemeral of lives The most eternal of sounds, I almost doze off into the beginning of a dream when I hear your voice... “Because it is the only unblemished spot on your body. Why is it left untouched?” I look, surprised myself at the intact skin on my right shoulder, frowning. “I guess it is my spot of hope,” I venture. Your last garment falls at your feet and Venus steps out of the mound of jeans and cotton and silk and lace in that ascending order, My breath stolen by the invincible twin gods of gasp and awe watching the tapestry of tiny cuts covering the skin which covers your beauty proudly. You slid under the sheet alongside me, Your skin cool, fresh, Your smooth left shoulder against my right one... “Your shoulder...” I say, “...it is unblemished...” “I know.” “Why?” I hear the clink of metal as fingers twine into fingers and vises take over the hold. “It is my future...” someone says, I guess it was you As shoulders turn one And flesh turns one And minutes turn years. * “Do you remember?” I ask, My wrinkled body hosting the passing years in its folds as I kiss your smooth left shoulder. “Not even one cut,” you answer, scanning my right shoulder as we make love for the uncountedth time.

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King Bore Boredom, A kingdom... The kingdom I miss, The life... oh, the life I miss. The loud lazy yawn on the pillow next to me stretching through shoulders, elbow, all the way to fingers groping in vain for a hammer to hit the alarm clock with, The blurred sight of bouncing naked buttocks stumbling ahead of me to a bathroom where they sit with a sigh of relief on the toilet bowl thanking me with closed eyes for not forgetting to lower the seat on the cold porcelain rim while I curse my way through a forest of brushes and bottles and jars and powders and small soap bars and big soap bars and lavender scented medium soap bars in my vainglorious search for my one overused tooth brush and squashed tooth paste tube... oops, tastes like lilac scented dog shit... mistake... used your shaving paste... The shower... Let’s not get into the porn details of the shower... I dress, Watching you jump and stomp and squiggle and kick and squirm and squeeze with queenly grace into your faded undersize queenly jeans, one button pops... the second one holds... the delectable smug satisfaction on your face ...it holds, see?... you beam as my hand fails to penetrate between the trousers’ upper rim and your skin. The parting kiss, Another adults only scenario which would not have been mentioned if it was not for my fearless hand refusing to desert the battle field beneath your majestic t-shirt fighting the overwhelming odds of bites and moans and laps and smooches and queenly fingers groping for my unmentionables... We (even single kings are we) jump into the carriage proudly projected forward by a herd of one hundred fifty magnificently coughing diesel horses belching bluish clouds of stinking smoke into neighboring kingdoms watching in the rear mirror my ever diminishing queen chasing neighboring queen’s chickens out of our courtyard our dog chasing you and snapping at your ankles. Work. Start. End. Back. I smell your kitchen wonders eleven blocks away work Inc forgotten and boss Asshole forgotten and client Bitch forgotten, My mind obsessed with the assailing smells and shapes and colors and tastes real or imaginary filling up the table in a mixture of olive oil dressed salad and sliced roast with potatoes and green beans and mushrooms and red... red?... peas and white bread and brown buns and cheese cake and something that foams like beer and looks like wine and tastes like flat Pepsi you force me to drink straight from your mouth and the melody, oh, the music of you chattering away your day of chicken shit cleaning and laundering and the kids preferring grandma’s food to yours (no wonder) and grandma’s hospitability for said kids (mmm... that’s some news...) and mowing the back yard’s lawn and groceries outdated and the letter from the tax office and the handsome new postman and I finally shut you up crushing my mouthful of red... red?... peas into your mouthful of fried potatoes and the resulting dish is manna for the gods... Much, much, much later... The king and the queen put on a minimum of underwear wash and dry the dishes and he sits in front of the TV while she falls asleep, her head in his lap, a smile slightly drooling the beauty of satisfaction upon his stretching... again... garment. They both know of the rest of the night. We walk... do we?... sideways all the way to the bedroom Waddling like a four legged giant Donald Refusing to unclench at knees, belly, chest, screeching teeth, Loosing some irrelevant garments on the way And as we fall on the bed the ceiling implodes dragging with it roof, leaves, clouds, sky soaking into our flesh with dead stars and cosmic dust and imploding galaxies. We don’t make love, We love. * I hear the neighbor’s chickens cackling in my yard, The loud lazy yawn on the pillow next to me stretching through shoulders, elbow, all the way to fingers groping in vain for a hammer to hit the alarm clock with... My boring kingdom, Oh, the beauty of life...

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