“Sir, this mole seems to be growing and spreading”
Suhail stopped the scissor and comb, and said
“It’s a bit grown than last month and even then, I noticed it spreading”

Suhail is my hair stylist for the last about six years
I have seen him growing from a Hair Analyst to Specialist to Senior Hair Specialist
There is something more than the generous tip that connects us
May be my willingness to abide by his experiments with my hair
Or reciprocation of loyalty that bound us every month

Surprised, I asked him, “What mole are you talking about?”
“Don’t you know the black mole on the back side of your left ear” puzzled Suhail
“You go and check with Madam, may be its my feeling only”

“How would madam know about it Suhail, she doesn’t cut my hair!”
“Arre Sir, you too!” Suhail had a vicious smile on his face
“Come on tell me” I prodded him with the same viciousness
We got into wayward pastime …

“Arre, Sir, they get to see it…
When you lay down on her lap in those afternoons
And she combs your hair with her fingers
And when you fall into that muddle of sleepiness and excitement
Her eyes would lock it”

“Arre, Sir, they get to see it…
When she comes from the back as on paws of a cat
Hugs and hold you tight with her hands
And press her face on your shoulder
Her eyes would lock it”

“Arre, Sir, they get to see it…
When those drenched lips move away from your lips
And the craving teeth leave a hickey on that earlobe,
Her eyes would lock it”

Suhail finished the haircut and I left tipping him as usual
The drive back home searched through the labyrinths of memories
Of caressing fingers, tight hugs and hickeys
Why didn’t she mention that mole, ever?

“Honey, you never told about that Mole,
Come on, let me see and let’s go to a Dermatologist quickly
We can’t take these things lightly; the doctor may even suggest a biopsy
Biopsy is fully covered in your mediclaim, isn’t it?”

Time apart makes all things
New - a nervousness
An excitement
Needy and naive
The memory of your touch
Fades - but not the intensity
Of my love

Checking like clockwork
The departures and arrivals
Heart thumping
My poor vision
A true handicap
Scanning the masses
For the most familiar face
In the world
Of whom I know
The span between my thumb and index
Is the same as your chin to earlobe
And my finger could trace the shape of your lips
From memory alone.

When my eyes
Settle upon your face
My hard heart beat
Hits slow motion
And stops -
Everything runs through my mind
But I think nothing at all
Reach out.
Kiss.

Mozart,
deaf,
died, eventually.

Picasso, pervert, died; Whitney, Winehouse, drugs, dead; Elvis, Methamphetamine, died

(on the toilet).

Van Gogh,
missing an earlobe,
died.

Plath,
head in an oven,
in front of her kids,
Woolf
Patron saint of insanity, I guess
waded into a river and-

River. River Phoenix. Drugs.

Natalie Merchant wrote that song about him in 1995.

Flash forward.
Me, twenty-one, drunk.
Proprietor of a collection of lackluster poems.
Sold their small, nonbinary soul to the Devil
in exchange for a fortune,
gone.

Last night, I was exploring sensuality
******* an inkling at the basis of reality
Nibbling the earlobe of the next global catastrophe
Can you smell the Earth as she moans in total ecstasy?
The Universe reciprocates and ******* a galaxy
We're all in this together
And not inconsequentially

First, I would like to introduce Grayasety. She was a young girl, had soft strands of medium-short caramel hair, and she had green-blue eyes that looked like miniature earths. She was indeed a pretty girl and she was of average height, and had a healthy body. She also had a slight southern drawl; her mother was from Texas. She loved going on boat voyages as her father was the captain of a ship named Gray Asety, named after Grayesty, so she was often training to go on voyages.
                  One morning, just like any other ordinary morning, Grayasety left her house for the next-door stable with her baby sitter, Kinberly, which was part of her father’s crew.  Today was the big day, the day when Grayasety was going to go on a voyage with her father as an official crewmember. Today was Grayasety’s 13th birthday; today was the day when she was old enough to work on her father’s ship! Therefore, she gaily whistled and skipped along the road. It had always been her dream to work on her father’s ship, and today, finally, her dream was coming true. When she got to the stable she blew her small, pink whistle that, to human ears would make no sound, and like every morning her best friend, (which had the ability to morph into animals) trotted tiredly out of the stable in the form of a beautiful brown mare. The huge animal yawned and said, “Morning Kin!” And then addressing Grayasety she said, “ Well, well, little missy what do you want me to be today?” Today Grayasety wanted Mila to be a green parrot, Grayasety was obsessed in the color green, and Mila had reluctantly obeyed, the trio set off for the fresh smelling bay.
Kinberly, and Mila worked on the Gray Asety. Mann Forumest, or Captain Daddy as Grayasety called him had met Grayasety’s mom working as a crewmember on the Majesty, a steamboat. Grayasety’s mother, Magnolia Scott Forumest was the assistant cook. They married, but kept their jobs until one day when Grayasety was about five, the Sea Bandits, a notorious group of pretty woman stealers, kidnapped Her mother.
                        While on sea, Grayasety shared a rather large suite in the ship with her father. In the Bedroom were two desks, one big and one small, and in the corner was a bunk bed, the top bunk badly painted in green and the bottom bunk still bearing its natural mahogany color. Grayasety was sitting in her little green desk, scribbling madly in her deep green diary. Grayasety *** a liking of scribbling and those who have know her long enough could read her scribbles like one would writing. She could read and write although she was nowhere near a strait A student.
                   After a while Grayasety decided to bother her father and, forgetting to switch into her lime green boots, shinnyed up the main stairs to the deck in her faded fluffy mint green slippers. Mila, perched comfortably on Grayasety’s shoulder, started telling her that she was wearing her slippers when Grayasety shoved a faded green pacifier in Mila’s mouth; Grayasety often did this to keep Mila quiet.
Mila, not enjoying the dusty, stale taste of the pacifier unhappily decided to keep her mouth shut until Grayasty got in a better mood. In truth Grayasety was in a marvelous mood and rather liked shoving pacifiers in Mila’s mouth. As the girl got closer to the deck, she started to hear chanting from the kind crew. She especially heard Kinberly’s familiar raspy voice chanting,” Laaa dee daaa, the Gray A rolls along,” and as she emerged to the *****, wet deck she noticed that her father was talking to someone else already. “Botherin’ will have to wait some,” she whispered to Mila. Then she took the pacifier out of Mila’s mouth and scolded,” why didn’t you tell me that I was still wearin’ my slippers eh? Wanted to make me look like an idiot?” Mila simply rolled her eyes.
                    Right then, Captain Daddy, apparently finishing his conversation, came over to the pair and said affectionately, “How are my darlings doin’ today?” Mila especially enjoyed this for Captain Daddy always gave a loving stoke on her back and a whole chocolate chip cookie if he had one. Although Grayasety always stole some of the cookie Mila was happy enough with half. Grayasety, on the other hand was happy with a whole cookie so she begged Captain Daddy to give her another one. Captain Daddy gave her another cookie but chided her not to steal any more from Mila.
                    After the lecture on not stealing other people’s food, Grayasety clambered up the crow’s nest and almost knocked over Franz, a tall, but gaunt boy a couple years older then Grayasty getting in. ”Anythin’ unusual yet?” asked Grayasety hopefully. “Nope,” answered the calm boy quietly. ”Hi Franz. Do you have any cookies?” asked Mila mockingly, Franz just laughed and said,” If I had any I would of eaten it by now! Gray, can you get me somethin’ from the kitchen?”.
                   Grayasety got Franz a basket of food and got her self the same amount; Grayasety was basically always hungry, and had a little picnic on the roomy crow’s nest. After they finished their meal Grayasety decided to let Franz rest and did lookout. Franz had a small room to himself, which was about the size of a normal bathroom with all the stuff taken out. In the corner was an old, squeaky army cot and next to it was a rotund desk with a stack of blank paper, a jar of Indian ink, and a fountain pen laid precariously on it.
                    Franz was quite a writer and he spent his free time eating, sleeping, or writing and unlike Grayasety he actually wrote not scribbled. He was working on a story about gargoyles that came to life at night. It was an interesting story, really. He would of loved to stop working on the Gray Asety and go get his books published but he stayed for his family was a poor one and needed his help to make a living and also, Captain Forumest provided free paper. And, his daughter was the first friend he ever had; Franz was convinced that she was the best one.
                   Grayasety enjoyed being on ships. She liked feeling the cold air rush through her hair and she enjoyed the great view of the vast sea that surrounded her. She even liked the feeling of being so small compared to the humpbacks that swam by. She thought that the ship food was good, and she felt that the sea was truly where she belonged. Grayasety was very cranky when she was not at sea, (though she did like their big, ocean green house), so her father tried to include her on as many voyages as he could.
                     Captain Daddy, or Mann as I will call him spent most of day in a booth on the deck. He often worried about his daughter’s mental health (even though it was completely unnecessary). He talked to Grayasety’s doctor about this and Dr.Metalos, Grayasety’s doctor, gave them a list of mental deceases she could have, but none of them seemed like some thing she would have. Mann was sure that his daughter did not have one sickness; Much Too Much Time At The Sea Syndrome. If any one knew where Grayasety belonged it was Mann and he knew perfectly well that his daughter would go insane if she wasn’t at sea for too long. For one thing she preferred to sleep on her uncomfortable bunk at sea rather then on her fluffy green bed as soft as a feather at home.
                        Right then the ship did a tummy- flopping lurch and knocked off the map and compass from Mann’s desk, which interrupted his thoughts for a while. Below deck Franz’s desk toppled over, and Franz accidentally made a long and ugly scribble across his writing and on the crow’s nest Grayasety was having trouble standing up and she almost vomited right onto Kinberly’s hair. This was rare for Grayasety for she lived on the sea and was used to lurches; she had once survived a shipwreck, which explains her golden earring on her right earlobe.
                   That night as Grayasety lay in bed Mann quietly crept out of his bunk and scurried up the stairs to the deck. He wanted some time to himself. Ahead was Cape Horn; a very dangerous place where so many ships had sunk it could fill the biggest port in the world, but more personally, this was near the Sea Bandits main head quarters, 8 years ago the beautiful Magnolia Scott Forumest was captured here. Even though it was impossible in the foggy mist, Mann tried to make out the cave that marked the entrance to the headquarters. Only few people knew this entrance, and publicity stated that it was a “mere mystery” why most captives were capture near Cape Horn. Mann felt a chill run down his spine and then he thought he felt someone’s hand grab his shoulder. He looked down and saw what he dreaded most; a hand tinged with brown firmly held his shoulder.
                      Grayasety woke up feeling wonderful but apparently Mila didn’t. She kept screeching something about Captain Daddy being kidnapped and soon she found that what Mila had just screeched in her ear was true. She stormed into Franz’s cabin and told him what she discovered and they soon agreed to do what no one else wanted them to do; steer the boat right into the Sea Bandits’ headquarters and take back what, and who was theirs no matter how hard it could be.
                      Grayasety had Franz steer the boat and she herself navigated, Kin was lookout and the rest of the crew helped out. Franz dropped the passengers off at Puerto, and Mila morphed back into a human; what she really is, and helped out. Separated from the frenzy, Grayastey was quietly thinking to herself. She wondered why the Sea Bandits captured her father. They were well known for capturing pretty woman but not average looking men. Just then she heard a knock on the door. “Grayasety?” said the raspy voice of Kin. “There ya are. I just thought ya might wanna know why ya daddy was captured.” “Can you please tell me,” asked Grayasety, trying not to sound too eager. “Well rememba when ya daddy would be gone when ya woke up at mid night an’ I told ya that he had gone to the store to get some groceries? Well if you had thought some you woulda noticed that the store was closed.” Grayasety interrupted Kin in mid-sentence and said irritably, “Of course I rememba. Just get to the point Kin!” Kin flinched at Grayasety’s frustration and mumbled,” Well ya daddy was a spy. One of the best ones at that. He did all he could to stop organized crime, an’ he specialized in the Sea Bandit’s. They captured him ‘cause one less police the better for them.” Grayasety sat with her mouth hanging wide open. She never imagined that her father was a spy. But now every thing made sense. “ Sorry I didn’t tell ya before. Ya fatha simply wouldn’t allow it.” Kin apologized. Grayasety managed a squeak and then Kin left her.
                      After she repeated this to Franz and then Mila, Grayasety went down to her bedroom, she hated having to be near Her father’s belongings but she hated having people see her crying much more and cry she did, leaving her father’s mattress a soggy mess. Then she decided to clean that mess up for if they rescued her father she was sure he did not want to sleep in a soggy bed. Noticing it, she picked up her dad’s picture of her dad and mom’s wedding and became suddenly aware of how much she looked like her dad. The hair, the eyes, the quirky grin, every thing. Her mother had soft blonde hair and violet eyes that almost made you smell the pungent smell of lavenders and had a beautiful smile with bright red lips. All in all she was the most beautiful woman Grayasety had ever seen. She almost made Grayasety feel jealous.
                     “Hey! Gray. So are we gonna bring any weapons? Kin was a whole chest full of ‘em!” Said the distinctively low voice of Franz. “Well, I dunno. I suppose we should bring a couple guns. Always nice to be well prepared.” Replied Grayasety.

                     Franz was on lookout when the carrier pigeon came. The note it had on its leg was from Mann. It said:

Dear Grayasety and friends,

Do not come to save me. I’m with my wife in their dungeon but they want you guys to come too. You see, I’m like a bait. You’re the fishies. They want to erase all traces of the Forumest family. That means they have to dispose of those who would remember them. I will manage okay. Kin, Please take Grayasety and Franz home and forget about me for you and the children’s sake. Grayasety, I love you. Dispose all of my belongings and try to tell yourself that Kin is your mother. Believe me. It’s all for the better. Franz, I meant to tell you but your parents caught tuberculosis and died the other day. Your sister committed suicide soon after. Please take care of Grayasety.

             Mann

                    The trio stood silent for a long moment and then without warning Franz burst into tears, and scrambled to his cabin. Kin and Grayasety looked at each other sadly and went to their cabins themselves. Grayasety tried to sleep that night but images of Mann and her mother strapped up in chains kept her staring into the darkness with wide eyes. She reached over and got her personal music player, trying to distract herself but after a few seconds she turned it off again, for she could not bear listening to the lyrics; “It’s past midnight and something evil’s lurking 'round the dark” of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller”.
            The next morning, Mila and Kin steered the boat near the cave that marked the entrance to the Sea Bandits secret headquarters. Mila then morphed into a seagull and flew into the old, damp cave. From a safe distance Grayasety and her crew awaited Mila to return with some news. After swooping into the creepy cave Mila found the opening to the headquarters and perched on a ledge near it. There, she morphed into a rat, and scurried up into the opening.

                 After crawling along several hallways, Mila came across a steel door bolted very firmly marked “CELLS”. Luckily Mila was small enough to crawl under it. Scurrying along the bureau of prisons, Mila finally saw a cell with Mann and a stunningly beautiful woman captured in it. Mila slipped between the bars and trying not to gain the woman’s attention for fear that she would scream, climbed the steep hill of Mann’s arm to try to reach his ear. “Mann?? Don’t make any sound OK?? I’m Mila. I’m the rat on your shoulder. Kin, Grayasety, and Franz say they miss you a lot.” Whispered Mila. Then she saw a humongou

There’s a god in this space computer
There’s a person in this space cocoon
There’s a spirit in red defeating the holy
There’s a trio of sailors flying past the moon
There’s a left-handed man drifting in a probe
There’s an astronaut gliding in an earlobe
There’s a malfunctioned leader stuck on Mars
There’s a determined machinist amidst the stars
There’s a sacred yellow Judas in the jaws of life
There’s a bloated bellow shooting from the tree of strife
There’s a solitary soldier among the aliens
There’s a black slab of faith between here and then
There’s an eight-pointed star of architectural riddles
There’s a cow, a spoon, a dog and a fiddle
There’s a god at number two, a bird at number three
And there’s always Jupiter to seem higher than thee
There’s an eye full of molecules
There’s an eye full of stars
There’s a blind man full of loneliness
There’s an empty void at large

i'm 9 in nairobi
playing foosball with a masai man
whose lip and earlobe
(both well-stretched)
bounce against his face,
he hangs lip over nose,
ears over ears,
we play on

funny, those kinds of scars
began with young women,
east african, who
fearing ****
and kidnap
from the north,
cut holes
in lip, in earlobe,
lifted skin of stomach
to slice smooth turtleshell shapes,
rubbed camel dung in wounds for better

scars,
which meant:
resistance, meant:
freedom, meant:
don't take me away,
don't steal my life.
funny
those scars
mean beauty now.
funny, these scars
on my wrist, funny how
much i love life now.
funny scars

Weaken by the breeze
he settles  like the grumbling of burning embers,
he dreads the color gray.
A freckle in the upper right of his earlobe,
he sighs so close to a cry, for minute in the ice of morning
he holds on to his ears,
to keep what he heard inside as if the
dying flutters of a butterfly.

Today he hides inside,
inside deep pockets rattling with the lost things he found,
faster and faster he walks across
the streets  as if it would get him closer
closer to himself, as if late for a bad day,
he goes no where but feels with each step the pain
in the soles of his feet.

The pain makes the day real,
the pain makes the day real

the steep hills mimic  the thought sky of his heart and how his
mind struggles not to fall backwards but to reach the top.

He never does but instead he spins burning in circles.
The day isn't real anymore,  he walks faster.

The pain  makes the day real
The pain  makes the day real
The pain  makes him real.

He dreads the gray, the color pervades today.
weaken by the breeze
he circles again returning to where he began
In his mind he counts the shavings of  wings
He fell back and his heart closed up the shop early.
In his mind the stone cease to be cast out, cease to ripple
yet the residual  still echo faintly, as his ears burn.

The pain makes the day real.
The pain makes the day real
The pain makes him real

Weaken by the breeze
he settles  like the grumbling of burning embers,
he dreads the color gray.
A freckle in the upper right of his earlobe,
he sighs so close to a cry, for minute in the ice of morning
he holds on to his ears,
to keep what he heard inside as if the
dying flutters of a butterfly.

Today he hides inside,
inside deep pockets rattling with the lost things he found,
faster and faster he walks across
the streets  as if it would get him closer
closer to himself, as if late for a bad day,
he goes no where but feels with each step the pain
in the soles of his feet.

The pain makes the day real,
the pain makes the day real

the steep hills mimic  the thought sky of his heart and how his
mind struggles not to fall backwards but to reach the top.

He never does but instead he spins burning in circles.
The day isn't real anymore,  he walks faster.

The pain  makes the day real
The pain  makes the day real
The pain  makes him real.

He dreads the gray, the color pervades today.
weaken by the breeze
he circles again returning to where he began
In his mind he counts the shavings of  wings
He fell back and his heart closed up the shop early.
In his mind the stone cease to be cast out, cease to ripple
yet the residual  still echo faintly, as his ears burn.

The pain makes the day real.
The real makes the day feel.
The pain makes the day real

The lost cry of a male butterfly..

You were in a Donatella Versaci masterpiece
I was in a Bottega Veneta custom
Diana Krall was in the stereo
Lemon lobster baking in the oven
And you and I
You and I were slow dancing like eighth graders
In the living room
With the coffee table pushed to the wall
And the T.V. cabinet cupboard shut
So we could have a little more room for our evening waltz
I guess that's what I get
For watching a romantic comedy and the Emmy's
On the same night
And even though that dream may be twenty years from ever coming true,
Because both you and I were in our forties
Trying to impress each other with how interesting
We could keep our relationship
Even though we both knew all we had to do
Was wake up in the morning and smile at each other
To fall in love again,
It was worth it because in that dream
I could actually dance
And the lobster was amazing
Say what you will
I have very sensory dreams
And things feel, taste, and smell like they do in real life
And it may have had something to do
With how beautiful you looked in that dress
Or the scent you were wearing
But that lobster was amazing
And your hands on my shoulders
Was a massage you weren't giving
As we two stepped through the room
And my lips mouthing every line
That danced through the air
Directly onto you earlobe
Was just an excuse for my cheek to touch yours
And as Veneta and Versace got comfortable on the floor
And my sensory dreams turned into a little bit more
My fleeting thoughts were of your smile in the morning
And I know you don't see yourself there yet
Taking pleasure in slow dancing
And waking up next to each other
But I see myself there just as clear
As I see myself right here
And I'll to drop the Veneta for jeans
Your Versace for pajamas
Lobster for KFC
If I'm slow dancing with you to Diana Krall in our living room
I don't give a **** if
We own the coffee table to push out of the way
I want to spend my life with you
I want to spend my life slow dancing with you
I want to spend my life whisper-humming
Standards into your ear slow dancing
In the living room of our house with you
Duplex with you
Apartment with you
Trailer with you
I don't care
I want to spend my life slow dancing with you
I want to spend my life with you
And I'm not being too sweet
I'm being too honest
And I know grand romantic gestures aren't your thing
Girl, flowers on Valentine's Day aren't your thing
But I hope someday soon you make a hobby out of slow dancing
Because I had a dream last night
I'd love to come true

It was Friday evening
the time for being weighed
before bath in the nursing home
and Anne was standing

behind you in the queue of kids
leaning on her crutch
the stump of her leg
just visible beneath

her short red skirt
and she whispered to you
how much do you weigh Skinny Kid?
I don’t know

you replied
maybe 84lbs
she snorted 84lbs?
my ***** weighs more than that

she whispered
her warm breath
on your ear
the kids in front of you

moved up and Monica
the girl with burn scars
climbed off
the weighing scales

what do you weigh Scarface?
Anne called out
don’t be cruel Anne
the nurse near the scales said

oops sorry nurse
it just slipped out
Anne said
(so the bishop said

to the actress
Anne whispered
in your ear)
after a few more kids

got on and off
the scales after
being weighed
it was your turn

and you climbed on the scales
and the red line
showed 77lbs
and the nurse said

what it showed
and you got off
and Anne crutched herself
onto the scales

and you stood
and watched
as the red line showed 112lbs
now that

said Anne looking at you
is real poundage
and as she got off the scales
she ushered you outside

into the passageway
and said
here feel my thigh
go on

have a feel
and she grabbed
your hand
and made you

touch her thigh
it was smooth
and warm
you’re such a thin *******

Skinny Kid
you need to fatten yourself up
she released your hand
and you followed her

along to the lounge
where others waited
for bath time
she nibbled

your earlobe affectionately
and crutched herself
over to the armchair
in the corner

and pinched Monica
on her way
giving out
a snort of laughter

as Monica uttered
loud moans
and you sensed
the dampness

on your earlobe
like a loving memento
which you hoped
would last

but knew
it would
like passing time
soon go.

Women are so beautiful

take a woman down to her skin
and you can trace the lines of her back
like tracing the curves of silken cloth
every dimple
every curve

the crease of the neck
the elegance of the shoulder blades
the rolling divot of the spinal cord
the curve of her sides
the dimples at the bottom of her spine
her hips
that dint that curves around to her inner thighs
her thighs
her knees
her ankles

the feeling of pressing your naked body up to her naked body
your hands on her hips
your palms in her dimples
your chest on her back
chin in her collar
fingers in her pelvic crease
your lips on her neck
her **** fit into your pelvis
your tongue at her jaw line
hands in between her thighs
teeth pulling at her earlobe
fingers on her ****
her *** on your fingers
your leg wrapped around hers
your hand tracing her outline
like rolling hills
soft
and smooth

she's so beautiful
and it's all so perfect

the night of the fake dead has become eternal
(i will wear Susan Lucci's face for it)

staggering through excesses unknown
and the uncertainty of this ranking system,
you tried to eat my earlobe
but lost interest in it quickly.
your scent safe in this butterfly net,
i am surrounded by the
murderous howls of your perennial
buttercups, determined to tempt
my animal ******* instincts.

     (enuma elish la nabu shamamu)
     (shapiltu ammatum shuma la zakrat)

i have tripped in the garden of Eve's desire
and felt torrents across my cheeks
of alternating salt and sugar-sweet nectar.
i have held the red locks of wort
and danced on the blossom-littered ground
in remembrance of wandered attention.

     (When in the heights heaven had not been named)
     (and below, firm ground had not been called...)

i have wept in the shadow of Adam's twin towers
and seen the rift between the continents
ebb and fall under silence's blanket.
i have leathered my skin under this star
to defend my eyes and tongue from
the bite of the turtle goddess.

i have seen the feast of the water,
devouring the naked soil of Pangea,
and tasted its salt with my eyes.
i have undertaken the toil of the shaduf,
churning mud and planting seeds for
the return of the floral messiah.

     (Amaru baur rata)
     (Shagane Ir Imshi)

i have borne the yoke of the oxen
and reaped stalks of wheat
in the summer's first harvest
i have broken bread with companions
under starlight mixed embers
glowing log light orange dynamo

     (The Flood swept thereover)
     (His heart was filled with tears)

Will you scream for me?
Can you profess the holiness
of my mission?
My name, my motif, echoes
across the ages...

Siaynoq!
Siaynoq!
Siaynoq!

In the end we are called upon by
stronger forces, blank expressions, glassy eyes

Siaynoq!
Siaynoq!
Siaynoq!

the cold of the world's knife,
pressed against the flesh of our selves,
unconscious rhythm heartbeat pounding
twisted sense rhumba of a thousand tiny shards

Siaynoq!
Call me to a greater purpose
Siaynoq!
Spill my blood across the sand

Let's spend a week forgetting to be lonely.
I'll fly into Knoxville, drive east
until the roads run out. No one goes
to Harlan County unless they have to.
The mountains are giants, here, they almost
disguise the desolation-- the pieces
of people that got caught
when the mines collapsed.
You tell me to be careful, as if
this isn't my country, too.
As if I wasn't born with dirt beneath my fingernails.

I like how you treat me delicate.
I like to pretend I'm a flower.
You touch me like I'm breakable.
I want to protest that I'm not, but I'd be lying.
Look at me like you mean it, like I'm
the only clean water
you've drunk in weeks. The wells
have been choked with weeds.
So leave bite marks on my back as you
burn the brush.
There is a sweetness in me if you can find it.

Let's drink like teenagers; make sloppy love.
I want to *** at the same time and then lie around
giggling and smoking cigarettes.
Pull the blankets off the bed and trail them
through the house until we've ****** in every room, twice.
Let's build a pillow fort, drink cheap
wine out of mason jars, and then **** so hard
it falls down around us.
I want you to lose hours in me, whole days,
come up for air next Tuesday and we'll
cook breakfast at midnight. You make me so hungry.

Tell me about your childhood, tell me
the one thing you asked for every Christmas
and never got. I wanted
an Easy-Bake Oven. I wanted to play normal.
Tell me all the things you got but didn't ask for,
never wanted, didn't deserve.
I'll run my teeth across your earlobe
and let my hips listen to all the words
your tongue never learned to say.
We are both still just babies.

I like how you scare me.
How sometimes you hold my wrists together
when you tell me I'm beautiful
so I can't wriggle away, because you know
I've never been good at accepting compliments.
I can count the number of nights
we've spent together on one hand, but the months
of distance take more than just digits.
I used to think you hated me.
I used to hate myself for it.

I know the darkness in you. Three days down
in the mine with no canary and me just waiting
for you to reemerge.
You always seem to find your ways out of it.
I like to think of myself as a lodestone; you tell me
not to get arrogant, that being wounded and beautiful
aren't interchangeable, but I believe
they both can make us strong.
I want to write poems with my fingers
on the small of your back,
leave scratch marks as a reminder of
how far I've come. You make me forget to be sad.
You teach me not to take myself too seriously.
I want to be your canary.
Follow my voice out when it gets dangerous.
I'll only scream when I mean it.

Get a little lost in me. Undress until
I can feel the heartbeat in your **** reverberating up my spine.
So run your tongue down
my torso; forget to breathe, while you
Tell me the things that scare you.
Show me your seams. Somewhere beneath
all this rock there is a gold mine, so trace my veins
like a treasure map. Maybe someday
they will lead you home.

Rance looked at the speedometer. Set  at 65 and on cruise control ,which he was fully aware of - at least he should have been. He kept looking anyway.
   Every time he glanced at the speedometer , he had to lift the fingers of his right hand to see, as it was draped across the 12 to 1 o'clock Zone of the steering wheel in the most casual way ,causing his fingers, in drooping repose- to resemble an enormous back scratcher.
   His left arm rested on the window sill at the elbow as he was experiencing a slightly manic episode  of nerves,  therefore he was doing his best to stretch his left ear lobe  all the way down to his shoulder . Okay, maybe not that radical, but he was firmly  in danger of removing the inner layer of skin from his earlobe with his rubbing thumb.
    Quick glances to his right with darting eyes confirmed his fear .  He  also saw the absence of Largo's large grey head., so a quick backward glance into the rear of the camper- unintentional but habitual -allowed him to see that Largo was asleep beside stormy in the approximate territory each  had staked out
  It was as he was pulling his head back forward , that Piney glanced up from The Notebook to smile.  There in the co-pilot seat , she sat gracing him with a  warm smile , and as far as Rance could tell , those lips that  smiled at him- so friendly -/were totally natural and uncolored, and if she were wearing any makeup at all ,it wasn't enough to cover the four or five little freckles just above the tip of her nose.  The natural look  gave her face that timeless look.   She could have been anywhere from 18 to 25 or 30 he didn't really know and....he really didn't care .
    It was noticing  those walnut colored flecks, just outside the iris of her light ,hazel colored eyes that  started causing him such personal turmoil.  As it seemed - to his astonishment- that he seemed unable to detatch  his own vision from  those eyes.,  Until she looked back - that is.
    First happening to him when she had  accepted his offered ride and as she wss climbing into the copilot's seat. If it hadn't been for largo, who had instantly attached his chin onto her  thigh ,she might have noticed how he was staring .  Fortunately  he was able to break it off but he was still self conscious of that effect she was having on him.
   After he'd done the initial stumble in the parking lot , he had actually carried on with - amazingly enough  -surprising clarity. It was in those 10 minutes that he had learned of her hometown and  all of the time she had been on the road up to now. Which had been all of 30 miles.
    It was that nagging voice that  kept repeating - in the back of Rances mind- the thing that she had said. " I wasn't really planning to be stopping at that restaurant , but I had to get out of that car.   Although the rest of what she said mattered , it was that part that kept resonating .
  " Oh that guy ! "/She grumbled "was just getting creepier and creepier.  The farther we went down the road , the bolder he got ,as he began to get handsy.
First , puting his hand on my knee and then a little bit later a little higher up my thigh." She shuttered  as she spoke  , in a pantomime inspired gesture before continuing. "It was after he pulled out that bottle and then started taking swigs that things got really bad.   When we started coming around that long curve, just before we got to the restaurant he was unable to bother me and ,adjust  for the curve,  so he kept driving over into the other lanes. Then he over-corrected ,almost getting  us killed  by a semi that came barreling through in the slow lane.   Laying on the horn as it swerved away to miss us, and then I knew I had to get the hell out of that car. Anyway possible.
  " So right then I saw the restaurant sign and I tried to get the best lilt into my voice and the most calm that I could muster as I said  "Hey! there's the place  I'm supposed to play tonight. Pull over ..right here! RIGHT HERE!!!"
    But in his slow, befuddled ,drunk and almost run over  brain he stopped right in the middle of the slow lane . " Where we at?"
  "We're at the place I'm playing guitar music tonight " She said -that she told him this - to keep his attention so she could wrestle the guitar case out of the back seat ,over the seat back and out the doorway of the car.  Then just as she had it ready to pull through the open doorway she reluctantly said " Thanks for the ride." Then with a little thought and ****** attitude " yeah ...I'll be playing here tonight at 8 o'clock , so why don't you come by and listen" she lied
  A bit perturbed and confused but he was still able to find his inner creep as he spoke.... muttered .....gutterally.... whatever  "Yeah I'll do that and then me and you can have a drink and I got a little Coke " then he did that drunken kind of wink where they end up opening their mouth in  such a crooked fashion that it looks like a stroke victims Visage
  " Where is a fly when you need one ". Piney  said that then she pulled  the guitar case on through  the doorway , wrestling it the 10 feet over to the grassy apron of the road . Returning to close the door as  he asked "what did ja say?
   "Oh . I said I've always wanted to give Coke a try " and with that she closed the door -/just short of a slam.
 " You got it ba "...as he pointed his right forefinger like a pistol, but if it went off Piney never heard as she trundled her case across the grass area  in the most direct route towards the building and the safety of people.
  At this moment she was still in the process of confirming the abject fear that had Rances heart doing flip-flops, as he was aware that she was still sitting there ,reading his poetry.
    As soon as she had settled into the copilots seat, allowed Storm and Largo to introduce themselves and as they happily filed her smells away. Storm returned to his spot after just a half of a minute while Largo, on the other hand gently lay his head on her leg and for all appearances seemed to go into a trance.
     She confidently rubbed his head as she spoke in a slight cooing sound then looking up at Rance as he was guiding them out the parking lot and did the cruelist thing possible . As polite as a butterfly landing on the petal of a flower she asked if she might read some.
  To which Rance had said "Sure , go ahead " and then began trying to do damage to his left earlobe. After 30 miles he was beginning to catch up with his runaway thoughts.
   Any remnants of sua da vi that he had mustered up in the parking lot , now long gone -evaporated. Unfortunately now it was being  replaced by a carrousel of thoughts in poor Rances mind that spun to the cacophony of music from the most  sinister sounding Calliope.
   Though the music blasted a torrential sound wave throughout his mind it was not enough to silence the voice that kept repeating " oh man oh man oh man" - with annoying and echoing  persistance - from an obscure region--, somewhere beyond the Swirling carrousel.
   Then suddenly the crazy carnival and the voice came to a sudden mind shuttering stop.as piney's soft velvety voice interceded. " you wrote these...i mean ...all of them ?"
  A quick glance towards Piney was enough to.see this fresh faced girl with those magnetic eyes- now filled to overflowing  with tears -  was looking at him in a wonderfilled  way as she held the open notebook in right hand and with the other she stroked largos head.,Which had rematerialized.on her lap , just as soon as her voice had broken the relative silence.
    " He really likes you" remarked the reemerging Rance ,as he indicated Largo with his head. 'And yes I did ...write .....yeah all of them." Not really smooth he said to himself ..but okay.
    " This one " Piney pointed to a page that Rance could not take time to recognize " Somber Sunset. Its killing me....my grandmother just went ...and went through Alzheimer's before she passed. "
    Rance was still staring out the windshield, in silent astonishment - at her perception- when Piney gathered herself to the point of unbroken speech. " that is what its about ...right ?"
      Rance turned a full face ..straight on and confident gaze into her tear glissening eyes ( sua DA vi having returned full force) "Yes " he softly acknowledged her perceptivity" as I read it ...yes"
      Thats  when that annoying voice decided to reassert itself . "  There is always something about a damsel in distress that always brings  out even the most quivering coward ...." SHUT THE HELL UP!! Lance barked out at the voice as he stared out the windshield while making a slight adjustment to avoid.a small box in the road.
   At that very moment the sleeping Storm opened his eyes to stare forward with both ears and eyes , as if he had heard his masters voice call out in angry distress. With no danger detected as he scanned the area, he was about to resume his squirrel watching -which had just gotten good before the interruption -/Storm let his eyes scan around and land on Largo ." Humans "he spoke to himself " good thing they're smart enough to befriend dogs. Now that Largo...that's a dog that poor Rance could learn a thing or two from." Then he closed down his eyes and calling out "squorrely come on squirrel where'd ya go"  as his slight snore began and his right rear leg began twitching.

I find comfort in the static of the record player humming,
the crackling of vinyl against its holding
your arms tucked tight around the curve of my spine
and waking up to the corners of your lips widening

this is a sunday morning
that I could relive
7 days a week

this is a feeling
I am near terrified of
but in a way that I need to be

see,
I have never been one for writing love poems
and when it comes to writing love
good endings aren't my specialty

I'm not one for spilling vulnerability
to then have to clean up the mess
after it goes without catching

I'm not the best at predicting future
and letting go
is an art form I am still mastering

I have never been one for writing love poems
especially not for those
who don't stick around
long enough to hear them
but for you
I am willing
to take the risk
to set aside hesitation
for the chance of lasting
to sacrifice my fear of heights
for the possibility of a smooth landing

I don't know you well
but I know you enough
to know you're exactly what I want

so I'll talk about your smile
how your dimples have quickly become
my favorite half moon to stare at
or the way you look at me
like a single star
in the middle of a busy Los Angeles sky

being enfolded in your grasp
feels like sun peeking through grey
how lightness makes itself known
even in the midst of rain

I want my skin
to find a home in your palms
and my laugh
an echo in the crook of your neck

for routine
to settle on the map of your body
from collarbone to knuckle to wrist
making a transparent dent in each earlobe
to be missed by my lips
to crave the caress of my hands
when they have other obligations

and I'll hope
that I can waste
as much time with you
as I intend to
although I'm sure
that any time we spent together
would be anything but wasted
I hope
that we can stretch these two nights into two hundred
weaving a weekend into something we can wrap ourselves in

this is me saying a prayer
the only way I know how to

I have never been one for writing love poems
but for you
it is all I want to do
to listen to the silence
and from it
form a symphony
to take this coincidence
and call it fate
to give out all of my honesty
and hope that you stay

The ear is an amazing tool. Subtle invitation,
subtle beauty, and the jewelry that decorates it!

I saw your ears before the gauges, and even then
they were small, delicate, and open to me.

If I could be any object, knowing what little purpose
I would serve, I would be the decorations, hanging,

from your earlobe: I would be satisfied being worn
on your body, your bright body, your beautiful face

sparkling from the lights you liked to daydream in,
placed near the delicate halls you’d always embraced me in.

like an earring in your earlobe,
my thoughts hung,
Pendulating back and forth,
Trying to whisper in your ears
"Come-hither my love"

but ah too fierce was your walk,
And my thoughts,
Pendulated back and forth timidly,,
That I just hung
Like that earring in your earlobe.

Whispers and tangled limbs have never felt this electric.
You pull me in, and I feel your lips brushing my earlobe
I tell you I know what you're going to say,
expecting the same joke you usually make
You ask me if I'm positive I know what you're going to say
I assure you I am, and feel your arm wrap around my shoulder,
letting your warmth envelope me
Then I feel the unexpected words
Slip from your lips and collide with my emotions
Brushing against my ear in harmony with your lips
"I'm not sure you realize how beautiful you really are."

Sometimes the feeling of loneliness becomes so tangible that the void seems to swallow you from the inside out, emanating from the stomach and reaching out, engulfing the body like a fist closing around a tumbler of whiskey.
This void takes on a weight; light at first, bearable. The tumbler of whiskey with a resting hand around it. Then the fist begins to close so forcefully and the cylindrical glass of the tumbler has no choice but to shatter from it. The glass shards scatter and the whiskey flows and the fist still keeps closing. Always closing. Never resting.
Never resting.
Sometimes when I miss you, when I feel like a tumbler of whiskey enclosed in your fist, I imagine your voice inside my head singing along to your favourite song. I imagine your arms around me, your hand spreading warmth up my thigh, your tongue dancing along my collarbones, up my neck, and tracing the bottom of my earlobe. I am not beautiful but your mouth has me almost convinced that I could be.
Sometimes when your arms are around me, I feel like that tumbler of whiskey encased in a fist. When you kiss me, I feel myself shatter and I feel the whiskey run. But it's not whiskey, it's love. It pours out of me whenever you sing the wrong lyrics to your favourite song.

The pierce on his left earlobe wasn't something that anyone would just notice. After all it was purposely concealed by his brown locks. She asked him why he had it.

"It was a thing of the past." he said.

"Does it still hurts?"

"The bleeding had stopped. The wound was long gone. It took some time to heal. Still, there was a gaping hole that's left."

Somehow she knew that it wasn't just the piercing he was talking about.

He whispers sweet nothings into my ear
His quiet musings that lull me to sleep
His teeth gently graze my earlobe, pulling at my earring
He's almost like a raven, always fixating on the shiny parts of me
Except instead of repeating never more, he screams forever from the rooftops
He's taught me how to fly
How to leave the ground
How to soar above the earth, into the clouds
He's given me hope and serenity and peace
And for this I will forever be grateful

Extraordinary eggs eat elephants' empanadas  
exact erasers enlist every eagle
earlobe extract exit each elf entrance
Evil envelopes e-mail England
Easy eccentrics etcetera etcetera
exiting end!

"I kissed a feminist once",
he says, face flushed blotchy, something heavy resting on his shoulders
maybe
“I kissed a feminist once,”
and everybody laughs
“she was cold as ice,” he says
and he doesn’t mention how I turned
warm beneath his fingers,
heated up like embers
and reduced his bed to flame and ashes
“God was she mean,” he says
but he hasn’t forgotten the time
I told him to be kind to himself, to
purge the poison from his veins and
scrape the smoke from his lungs
“I love you I love you I love you”
I said,
“please love yourself too”
“I kissed a feminist once,”
he says, to loud guffaws,
an elbow in his side
and he doesn’t say “her lips
were the softest thing to ever brush
my collar bone”
he doesn’t say “she made playlists in my mind”
or “she covered me like a blanket”
or “her teeth on my earlobe ripped me open and scattered me across the sheets of her twin bed”
he doesn’t say “I loved that
storm of a girl,
I loved her heavy at 4am I loved
her like pennies
at the bottom of a fountain
like memorized freckles
I loved her like depth perception
like opposable thumbs
I loved her I loved her I loved her”
and instead he shrugs
that heavy thing off his shoulders
and shrugs the feel of my lips
off his chest and he says,
“she was a crazy ***** anyway”
- Lily Cigale

Yes, kiss my neck.
No, don't go back to my lips.

Give me more of your warm, wet air against my goosebump covered neck.
Bury your face into me.
More!
let me show you
just how much.

Yes!
right at the base of my neck where it meets my chest

Don't be shy,
I don't care if the world can see this tomorrow.
Actually, bruise me,
make sure
they all can see
it feels so
much better with that
assertion.  

I don't need to see anymore, just let me relish the bright blindness of eyes shut tight
I'll figure you out with my hands.

Yes! press your tongue against me in that seal you made with your lips.

And yes, the only time I want you to stop laying those kisses is for
an audible breath.

Better yet a small moan
when my hands slide under your rough denim and past your soft jagged ridges of lace,
a strong grip and squeeze of your ***.

That's it..
Now you're setting me off.
Yes, I want flesh on flesh.
No, I'm done with this hesitation
and your shirt.
I don't need mine either.
Actually, you can stop making my blood rush
through my neck.
Better only be for a moment though
while our hands grasp
for whatever part of our shirts to pull them off.

Yes, crawl further up me
let me feel your heating skin
against my blood boiled body.

No, don't just crawl-
straddle me
like this.

Actually, that sly lick against my earlobe made me groan.
Better yet
move your hips like- yes! just like that.

And Yes, we're still wearing too many clothes.
And yes, exactly, fix that problem.

No! I'm not done with those lips quite yet.
Exactly. That's the spot and don't you stop.

Actually-no-yes!-what was I saying?

Oh- that's right,
better yet,
turn around-but don't let go of me with your tongue and kiss-
my tongue also wants a taste. Y-yes..!

They say the world will end in peaceful chaos,
and nonsense will reign
all because of one split earlobe.
And in all anxiety of separateness,
there is, and will be found, something,
someone subdued.
A vague calm, awaiting the fury
when all is cold, lingering by the light
with four screeching magpies
talk, talk, talk.
A noisy chatter
that somehow is subdued-- Not subdued!
But fades away
into a constant hum
of static.
And that is the answer, always received.

The last word.  
"I have won!" They will say.
And to be conquered, oh, to be
something subdued.

And one morning, you will rise,
drowning in an ocean of light, always
reminding you
of  that daunting, waking presence
of degradation and evolution--
of the devils squawking from shoulder to shoulder,
fighting for a constant ear, pierced by all that noise--
That was always you.

They don't exist, but the boredom of living,
and the tedium of anxiety over one
healed earlobe, still split, of course, does.
But all is well.
It doesn't need to be apathy, this spinning
contradiction of existence and thought:

We need answers for everything,
so we make them, and we find them.
Never there,
and yet, always there too.
They say everything can be broken down
into smaller pieces and that makes for easy examination.
Easy observation.
They say everything exists at once, times one-thousand,
maybe more, neither here nor there.
Something simultaneous, someone everywhere.
The omnipotent mind, twisting himself
in and around, infinitely and  constantly,
and that makes all the difference.

It is meaningless.  And what will you do with all these
actions of resurrected futility?
Create a codependency, no doubt, on the magic of science and the ease
of technological advancements.  Continuing this evasive circle of modern life
and meaningless distraction-- Who can afford to live
and who cannot?
Surely, there is no winner.

We all get to the same place in the end, and knowledge,
unlike currency, through meaningless chatter,
may perhaps outlive you.

It's been a time and a half
And I finally understand
The reason you've gone
With the shaman so long.
The spirit is free.
I'm a color
Splintered in three.
Crystalline
Crystal eyes
Well spoken with diction.
Many a words I've spoken
Have been in ode
Romancing you with every breath

In the desert
The door is ajar
We trace the steps of Aztec gods
1/3 becomes 2/4
The sands gleam emerald
Our bodies elongate to equine form
We blended the horizon line

Quetzalcoatl stands before me
Serpent in feathers
Glows like the spectrum all together.

He hands me a seed.
And his
Eyes smother like lightning.
And I
Speak in codexed volition.
And we
Blur the horizon line once more.

I stand on the Pacific
20,000 leagues
Equine force
Carries me to the beach.
Sand once more.

I feel a twitch in my jaw.
Each hand holds a mandible
And pulls.
Roots emerge
And a tree not soon after.

Is this what the seed was for?
I trot the beach,
Jaw no longer in tact.
My pallor flesh caked in coagulate
Almost recreates my tan skin
A gift from the god.

I've been on this beach for miles,
And
Miles
And
Two whiles.
My architecture meanders
The brevity of sanity.
One eye sees black,
The other sees fine.
My hair has become matted
It knots behind each earlobe
And drags on below my knees.

Is this what Quetzalcoatl wanted?
To see me sifted with the grains of sand
In the palm of a child's hand
At the beach
While on vacation
With mom and dad?

20,000 years have passed.

Coral evening sky casting a warm glow, in this lightening claimed dusky sky
Your shy smile bursting into a fit of giggles as I tickle you, my fingertips pressed to your belly, lingering
Starry eyes mirroring this evident desire,
                                                         ­            A melancholy lullaby crackling into a fire laced ballad
My lips meet yours, and here we are lost in this fragile moment, like a flitting darting bird
Savoring it, tongues dancing across the shorelines of my molars, like this is the first and the last time
You pull the curtain, unbuttoning, yanking the shirt off my body; solace is your only quest
Your lips licking my earlobe, whispering verses of ******* addicted musicians, but you prefer ecstasy
Your fingers tracing the raven tattooed on the nape of neck, trailing down needy kisses along my spine
Your trying to blur it all out, I’m trying to save you darling, from yourself,
                                                       ­        I need this too more than you know, but I love you more
Disasters have a tendency to reside in your ribs for a longtime, striking often-
                 Causing violent tremors
                   Leading to noxious EARTHQUAKES.
Your cat stopped breathing 6 months ago, she had punctured her lungs
I remember you screaming, trashing all the memories so that it stops hurting,you repressed it all.
You loved that furry little brat more than you hate fate.
Your grandfather expired last month, his led zeppelin, bon jovi records drown in loneliness now
Wrinkly smiles told stories of cosmos, aliens, he was a crazy man. The best nonetheless.
Chemotherapy drained out all the money and smiles, leaving your brittle heart suffering from paroxysm.
When he died, you kept shouting for hours straight, they had to sedate you.  You blanked out.                 I know you are sinking in the abyss of hopelessness and you’re trying to escape, escape this AMNESIA,
                                                        ­                                                                 ­         that is running after you.
But love, let me in, I know you’re afraid, but I vow, I’ll prove to be sempiternal.
And I swear I’ll be there cupping these rare innocent moments and preserving, holding you close, kissing you even when the rainfall doesn’t seem to stop.

It creeps in through the windows
and through the vents. Through the eyes,
and through the tongues, and through
the ears, perhaps, but always
through the eyes and always the tongues.

It creeps in through the words and
the mouths they arise from,
—always in whisper,
right below the earlobe,
with warm, tickled breath—

It creeps in through you and the
death is cruel and the death is
fair and the death is always eternal.
The death is cold and it is calculated
but it is always full of passion,
pulsing in the veins till the very moment
the heart comes to a stop.

It is love in the bathroom stalls.
It is love in the beat-down bars where the
beat-down people drink their lukewarm beer.
It is love in the truck bed on the side of
some unnamed, midnight mile down I-95.
It is love in the worst way.
It creeps in and it kills you,
and it kills you, and it kills you.
Each death a little different, but
death all the same.

In the morning there she is.
She’s making coffee, or in the shower,
or headed to work.
You’re looking for your pants,
or your shirt, or your wallet,
perhaps some combination of the three,

The whole time wondering
how the hell you’ll ever make it
out of this alive.

It's the way you laugh, the way your eyes light up and your lips part into a smile.

It's the way you randomly squeeze me tighter for just a second, whether it be my hand or my frame is a hug.

It's the way you tense up and exhale when my lips find your earlobe.

It's the way you look before you kiss me.

It's the way you trace circles along my skin in quiet moments.

It's the way you fall asleep next to me, spooning me from behind.

It's the way you wake up on the other side of the bed, with messy hair and quick arms to pull me back into you.

It's the way you focus on the television, even if my lips are all over you.

It's the way you randomly bring me chocolate, or when I had flowers on my doorstep when my best friend left.

It's the way you don't read what I write, because now I can make a gift out of it.

It's the way you leave me writing about you nearly every day regardless.

It's the way you're practical and level headed, though you can be silly and goofy too.

It the way you squirm when I lightly roll my fingers along your sides, across your abdomen.

It's the way you pin my hands above my head when you kiss me.

It's the way you kiss my neck, my chest, my hands and my lips. It's very much just the way you kiss me.

It's the way you told me you loved me when you were drunk.

It's the way you use your wits- I expect nothing less than a sarcastic or cryptic comment from you.

It's the way you're bright, you're naturally smart and inclined to succeed.

It's the way you involve me in your passions.

It's the way you don't involve me in our own plans- I usually don't know what's going on.

It's the way you keep busy, how well-rounded you are.

It's the way you leave me wanting more.

It's the way you show me you love me more than you tell me.

It's the way you listen to my stories, even if I'm telling you the story twice.

It's the way you make this easy- I don't have doubts, I don't have to question how you feel.

It's the way you let me move at my own pace, the way you were always so patient.

It's the way you gave me a second chance, and I can't thank you enough for it.

It's always been the way you say good night.

It's the way you are with me, and I love that.

ink of sky inhabits her eyes
  essence of serenity almondine
so spanish in silvern adornment
  though her soul is hafnium pierced

a haven for both life and death
  embodiment of artistic expression
openly hooded in earlobe spirituality
  nominally patrician by disposition

my source stirs in futile disarray
  kindred energy infusing the moment
a tree appears on a barren landscape
  devoid of foliage, vivaciously rooting

Unspoken syllables still saying the story
that I can't comprehend with an earlobe
and an ear-drum,
with a bass-drop, ego sum, meticulous amour.

Hand dancing
Prancing like Bambi as she creates
assorted laughter and the stars control.

How beautiful,
with a bass-drop, ego sum, meticulous amour,
the language is a mountain of another planet Earth
all spoken in

Sign language
Poetry.