You relish the way I caress your flesh,
Kneading into your deep tissue,
Exfoliating with grit and ground remedies,
And brushing the cool, slick oils up and down your curves.

You share stories of saunas,
Describing how you enjoy the steamy sensation
As I lay you upon the rack, closing the hatch-
Infused with the aroma of oak and red cherry.

The enticing scent of your sweat fills the air
Creating a potpourri of aromas.
The sizzling of your songs tingle in my soul like a reverie,
captivating my senses.

Hours pass, and I, like a tempting man,
Brush your bronzed body to a tease,
Kissing with my nostrils to your sear marks.
As I feel your heat envelop my follicles, 
I’m consumed by a lustful desire.

Finally, I remove you from the iron-hot bed
And place you on the cleanest marble.
I stare at you, awestruck by your perfect brown and moist skin,
Dripping with juices succinctly.
You radiate such radiance, beauty, and temptation
That I can’t resist the urge to devour you.

“You’re smoking!” I exclaim, my hunger palpable.

Tonight, I lie in bed and
scribble in a black spiral
notebook.
Why is cruelty easy for
some? Like laying down
a card.

One of my three cats,
Mojo
sits sleepily on
my old maple desk.
She is all black.
The computer screen is
black.
So are the speakers,
microphone,
and a coffee cup that
sits on the desk.

Above my dresser is a
quote by Hemingway.

"There is nothing to writing.
All you have to do is sit down
at a typewriter and bleed."

It's on black paper.

I've had the room set up
this way for over a year.
I'm just noticing all the
blackness.
Midnight in Nod.
It could be because I miss
my daughter.  She's seven.
All the black fades away when
I think about her smile
and those eyes that laugh at the
rain.

I notice that my shirt
is emerald green, with a
few drops of red.

Plop
Plop

Plop.

No one mourns the wicked,
Not a single lachrymose face in the crowd,
No rainfall from the heavens,
No priest to eulogize or ask forgiveness.

Even the monotone wreaths seem brighter,
The sun shines proudly with its radiant warmth
There is no chill in the zephyrs,
Not even a murmur this morning,
They’re not even wearing black or a shawl.

No, no one mourns the wicked,
There is candor among the many,
Huddled ‘round the casket,
Casting their stones instead of roses
Take into the earth with fleeting retribution.

No one mourns the wicked -
As the ground trembles and trees shake
From the effusive cheers create percussion
A symphony of lost sympathy
As the tombstone reads.

“No one mourns the wicked”