makingloveintheafternoon
To walk and pass our long love’s day. / Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side / Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide / Of Humber would complain. I would / Love you ten years before the Flood, / And you should, if you please, refuse / Till the conversion of the Jews.
Benjy Franklin famously replied,
so the story goes
to a street inquirer,
what sort of a government have we created
from one so primarily involved in its
creation,
so
I ask you,
have your queried
your passing alter ego,
your shadow's wavy non-de scripted outline,
your brain,
Oct 23, 2025
Oct 23, 2025 at 6:41 PM UTC
the flesh goes familiar, those “things “ that manufactured
desire frequent, hacked by time, weakness of spirit, no blame,
just the same, the not so vague re-collections, not insane, we-
we’re crazy desirous in ways only humans can rationalize
naked crazy desire, mating for life, the eroticism of certain letters,
e, k, s, t & y
and unbefitting, un-bewitting:
accident incredible incredulous,
you have spelled ecstasy,
not reality for ecstasy
is a state of trying to
make memories so crazed
that they become
lore
factual,
actual,
but beyond
belief,
singed with
grief, at their
disappearance
from current
history.
we play Prince, Michael Jackson,
The Commodores,
like the way
we tasted,
eclectic,
eclectic,
********
direction,
the wordle
of interconnected
devolvement
fluidity
she states you write differently,
what’s the differential that been inserted?
are you pregnant or just elder?
her head shaking, possible sighting
of tears, fall into teacups, poured into
the aquarium, where the species
remind us we don’t cross breed,
and when we don’t, we master
the creation of rationalizations
and know, no, that it is a far worse
than the then of naked, pure, unlimited
desire.
ah.
we agree,
that changing my name
would be gracious,
efficacious,
hazardous, potentially
noxious and go back
to our laptops to
shed verbal tears.
Aug 18, 2024
Aug 18, 2024 at 2:57 PM UTC
he rises with words in his unwashed mouth,
mouth, is unwashed, tongue tastes dregs, bits
of morsels of his past, some good, some bad,
some tastes of places, of women he has loved,
sweetness of sorrow, dregs of regret, and all a
jumbled, tumbled, intertwined, clinging combo
of nations, his~stories …a mashup of a mashup’s
smashup
he tries to separate them, this admixture, to better
recall, but the sacrificial fire lit, the ember-members
are too burnt, indistinguishable and can’t find the
vive entre les differences…
South of france, tahiti, the one he loved in cities,
Toronto, L.A., and Portland, and the communes
in Asia, but tries harder but it’s no longer possible
to separate the essences and the similarities same,
and a great sadness is what he recovers when runs
his tongue across the roof of his mouth, the roof of
his memory, the roots of his…being…his unbecoming
he rises to a glorious day, where he is can’t be sure,
who he is with, certainly not, the why, but he recovers
some pants and the idea of a fresh start seeps creepy in,
but by the time both legs dressed, his mind’s eye wanders
to a new sunrise and old template of temptations. . .
Jul 28, 2024
Jul 28, 2024 at 7:30 AM UTC
The Tenderness
My hand slow motion falls, with the soft of the gentlest rain,
sensed,
but not disturbing, nay reassuring,
by the quality of the sensation, rolling caresses over
the hillocks of her body, outlined beneath the
Sea of Coverlets
My arm rotates and reverses, back forth, up down,
as if it were a well oiled engine, the hand strokes with
a smooth four cylinder stroke, gentle coating the panorama of
her body on the surface of our Planet-of-the-Bed.
The woman does not stir, meaning the dewey doux
intensity of my touch, there sufficient to please but
not disturb, is a perfect ten, for I intuit, that she attends
to my comforting attentions, with pleasure
by the
absence of objection.
This will not be the first poem I have written on this day,
but though not premiered, the experience is newly born
with each escapade of tenderness delivered, and steel hard
iron of ironies, it please. me as much if not more, for fully
awake and alert, am receiving by the giving and though
she stirs not, my heart does, for the electrical pulses of my
soothing her, soothe me in much the same way.
This is how I make love in the morning.
This is why this Poems is well titled and entitled as
“The Tenderness”
Jul 25, 2023
Jul 25, 2023 at 6:54 AM UTC
“teach your children well, their father father’s hell,
will slowly go by”
but not with patronizing
or speechifying,
let the lesson be not a
lecture but an admission
of things parents did not understand
till the experience stained their fingers
in a manner such,
couldn’t be erased
show them the marks
that is all you got,
slow to be thought about,
the moralizing inherent,
the punchline
requires not
a
summation, title,
in the telling
is the selling
Jul 14, 2023
Jul 14, 2023 at 12:01 PM UTC
i love poetry
unto
death or till
the watch
stops ticking
which ever comes
last.
Jun 20, 2020
Jun 20, 2020 at 9:49 AM UTC
in the south,
the drawl is just one
of many a
sad love song
sad?
aye,
a trickery,
it’s a
rhythm rustler,
rhythm hustler,
a vipers innocuous,
a woman’s poem
poisonous spoken
this fool northern boy,
lay on the grass,
at her feet,
attentive
smiling
cause he loves listening
to the drip drip,
of the warming venom
seeping in to his cold,
codified northern veins
and his fooling ways
Jun 20, 2020
Jun 20, 2020 at 9:41 AM UTC
i’m the man who’s gonna wake up next to you
slipping away, a non-starter, her leg crosses over mine,
a right sided shakedown shackle, adhesion flesh as
tough as old yellowed scotch tape sticking stuck
no escaping, a known 6:00am risk when you sleep with
a pre-advertised holy roller, twist and turner woman,
making you into an unofficial woe-man (too)
left hand grabs the lamenting instrument, the beat up iPad,
to record your enslavement, a distraction from the bladder’s
faint morn winking at you with a Cheshire grin, muffling a
chuckle, at a predicament wonderful familiar, but unresolvable
this situation, a category of life’s small measure of annoyances,
invokes the wordy title, and a write-down list of pluses and minuses,
which I’ll spare which o’witch be the longer list
poems are where you find them, under your nose,
looking out a city bus window, but sometimes like flypaper,
they just come unasked and stick to you, the separating of the skin,
like a too tight bandaid, ain’t worth the pain and freedom gained
later, share this missive and her suggestion, she will prepare an
NDA (a non-disclosure agreement) or adopt other strategies like
pushing me out of the bed without warning when i am typing ,
to witch and to wit, reply,
ah!
another poem commissioned, and
*perhaps, name change too, needed,
making love in the morning*
12/14/19
Dec 14, 2019
Dec 14, 2019 at 1:40 PM UTC
been awhile, since kept my named promise,
but here I am writing about planting, love making,
one of which I’ve got a small amount of almost expired experience
that still asks to be shared & sharing, whom am I to say nooooo
late August, and the hush all over the place,
in the sad notes of chilling & distilling the seasons fantasy,
summer will be forever here, escape to the sea sunroom visionary,
the ceiling fan whirring low and slow, should the heat increase,
onerous march of dimes times suspended here, almost,
hoping the heat will increase, and those negative
dropped acorn hints, early falling leaves, crumbs of nooooo
when we make love in the afternoon
will pour a little sugar on you honey, it will be a viscous wall
to hold back change, sticking everything in its place, “as is”
just as it exists at this precise second, wearing manly summer pink,
every day and no one thinks it strange, everything’s green
though rain is forbidden here like in Camelot + the sound of noooo
more is swallowed up in ooooohs and ahs, and if making love
in the morning, afternoon and all evening is what it takes to
stop time, to seize this day as a permanent forever day,
no sacrifice to great, no none, no nope, yes to nooooo...
Aug 24, 2019
Aug 24, 2019 at 10:02 AM UTC