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 ...
She once told me
she was terribly afraid of
the 889 blades of grass
in the park down her street,
of the 889 worn books
in her local library
of the 889 gum-covered steps
to her bus stops
of the 889 looks
she must make over her shoulder
of the 1 778 pairs of greedy eyes
stealing looks away from me.
I missed her when she sent me pictures
because I couldn't bear to look
at empty frames of empty eyes
(red dows no match red
unless it is the scarlet of blood on broken glass
after a year and two months of tranparency)
and also because the things that slipped into my phone
could only remind me of moments that could never be
that would never come true.
I don't know what to say to her
without breaking her
(like the broken glass)
(the image still hasn't left my head)
but she inspires me toward metaphors
and the adromeda galaxy
isn't so far away anymore.
How can I stay by her side
when she triggers me to want to fall
but how can I ignore her call
when she is the only person I feel safe with
I am afraid to tell her
how I feel
because in a cliche
I don't know how I feel myeslf
but dear, together, we are formidable
and apart --
I don't know about you,
but I catch myself on the dry spells --
we are fort minable
this song has been stuck in my hear
since it reminded me of you
and this could be another metaphor for something heartfelt
and not altogether original
But I want us to be
the figures in the painting
you said you saw us in
I want to be
that feminist duet
(even if I can't sing and you voice is that of the devil's)
I want to be
the cats in the picture
with the intertwined tails
or the flowers tangled up
on a vine
(I was going to send you that on
but I thought against it
because you were too beautiful to be compared
to a simple petrichor-scented bougainvillea)
So I will be
the 889 poetry books
you dog-ear and highlight
and secretly slightly plagiarize
and I will be
the 889 plants growing
in your backyard,
sparkling for you like replacement diamonds
after the rain
(and better yet I will be the forest
of 889 trees
looming not frighteningly but protectively
and I will be
the 889 strides
of golden brick road
to follow to your favorite coffee shop every day
and I will be
the 889 innocent peaks
at a delicate pinkie finger or a nose
(because a delicate rose such as you
cannot be seen all at once and truly appreciated)
and I will even be
the 1 778 pairs of eyes
stealing my own looks,
and hopefully you will not be afraid anymore.
I will split myself
6 228 parts
to make you feel comfortable
and if this is not a love poem
then it is an apology
and anger/resentment/not really/how could I resent you/you are everything
what I'm trying to say is,
we could go so many different ways,
and what's one more expression of love to you
after all you've been through.
It looked like it had the weight and guilt
of a white man's history book,
and it hawked and scratched
at my soul like a raven.
It wept honey, sliding slipping around,
and bled sweet raspberry jam -
Chanting: "This is what I am,
O my girl, this is what I am."
It banged its chest
like a worker man's best bet
on a stallion for gold
as it just won't grow old.
"The sunsets are divine aren't they?
Do you think of me when you look up?
I think of you when I look down.
I'm always looking down."
It ended up with more,
more puncture wounds than Christ.
Marked raw white, purple and red.
All those pretty stars and boring scars.
They scatter the top of it's thigh,
healing them in vain in the sky,
stained dirty by the very essence of you
and the memory of your touch.
It kept jumping of the cliff
pretending the ground didn't exist.
Words swathe me in calm,
Sentences, paragraphs that soothe.
Viridian verbs burst through the grey,
Taunting me into action-
Seducing me into a delicious dance-
Gypsy girl, swing your sentences my way!
Turquoise adjectives wrap around my wounds,
Embracing my flaws and perfections.
Rough olive skin; somber caesious eyes-
Gypsy girl, with amaranthine scars.
I drape myself over sienna nouns,
Steadfast, supporting me proper, improper, always.
Paper, songs, tree, sky, love, Jami Lee-
Gypsy girl, use your words correctly!
Each turn of a page lures me deeper-
Each spoken rhyme embraces me close-
Jami Lee, sweet little girl, get your head out of the clouds,
And your nose out of a book!
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.