I want you to make me feel naked everywhere
saying things that make necks hot, face hot
don't have to be so sexual, don't have to touch
Want to? Do so, though, don't be so mechanical
swim on, flow on, spill on, no pushing
the things said should tear open, pop seams
wonder what's inside, beating
running, ebbing, draining, no inspecting, no prodding
a thorough investigation with eyes, words
make the most difference, words dig the farthest
fill the fastest, reach to ends that previously had
Copulation of the minds...
as word play
leads innuendos to fornicate
upon the poets tongue...
his fingers give voice to wanton
laying the reader bare
helplessly beneath his hands
with ink stained kisses
words into their mouths
a breathless sigh
resonating his ache to be heard
as he stands naked before them
to their voyeuristic gaze
before taking them upon the sheets
in punctuated passionate
leading them toward the climax
cried out for...
Jesus I'm Good.
across a vast
horizon of sea foam
blues - no body
can exist within
Gauntlet challenge completed, Mr Lipstadt ...
Path of destruction and rebuild,
Traffic crazy, in the car ahead,
Face yelling at a speaker phone,
Zig-zag path like the road owner,
3:05 late so a five o'clock date,
And a seagull sits right on the line,
Patient Mockery so sublime,
The seagull "walks the line"
Waiting can be a hating game,
That would be a vacation shame,
So now the seagull is not alone on the line.
It’s cold she said
and I said
it’s on the temperature we set it on
which started the dispute
about the pronoun
she placed upon me
and then posted a marker
not unlike the one
on Market Street and Third
when in 1765 the stamp master
William Houston was forced to resign.
A hollow ‘hello’ from Hell! Yes, from Hell.
Where do names come from? This Hell is
a sleepy fishing village and the best
spot that we’ve found on Hollow Head,
a Sleepy Hollows, so to speak.
We are in the ‘Bridegroom’, a little Bed
and Breakfast, run by a Rip Van Winkle
wise enough to know it was Empedocles
who jumped into Mount Etna. Empedocles!
Is my face red! Yet it will glorify
my pronoun to perfection—‘he jumps’. Yes,
both poetry and philosophy ought
to have the same antecedent. They forge
a world that’s capable of consciousness.
The self, per se, remains vestigial—
the voice of the volcano, not its source.
Your pronoun is the antecedent, not
your noun. Problematic resolved. Perhaps
I will go for a walk in Hell, perhaps
I will take the air, take the breezes.
A wonderful day in Hell! Ha-ha!