If your voice were rain,
it would fall on my ready lips
so I could taste your drawling syllables,
and press my hot breath against
the mirror of your easy vowels.

If your eyes were two street lights
In the pregnant sleep of midnight.
They would be practically unchanged.
Though I would miss
the fringe of butterfly lashes
and the steady planes of your face.

If your legs were two rolling mountains,
I would climb up,
to sit safely in the valley of your thighs.
And with curls of your beard
and old, earthen magic
I could build a cozy mountain home.
Preferably with a wrap around porch
to admire the view.

If you were mine,
I would read you this poem.

We are both quite majestic
- if you think about it.
if you think about arrows mid-flight
and pretty white windmills
and the smell of biscuits.

Can I tell your fortune?
let pearls roll over your love line,
and sweat fill your upper mars.
-The hanged man
with one inverted eye
amid the tall grass,
amid hissing black beetles,
and a strange green glow -  

We are both quite beautiful,
and perhaps mysterious.


We become half human
(if we were ever whole)
Below us the forest grows
dewy and so new Gaia forgot the price tag
but we are old souls.

He is from the land of old souls,
from the land of the willows and ****** beer
that spills over
in manifold growths like old men's beards
or the **** that covers my living room -
a damp jungle for nightmares
and someday the final battle.

He is from the land of disclaimers,
and disbelievers,
and organic fruits.
Haikus they called pop
and he calls my eyes his muse.  

The wine is self preservation
for he is from the land of do little, very little, wrong.
Where they grow the hot clarity I breath in
and weave the milky wanderings
through everything at once.

And I think of the orange lace,
like a 70s ******* bunny.
The crystal goblet that caught the light
and my lips -
but mostly the lace.

Nothing but hands and feet escape the ****.
where bodies are ****** in,
limbs are free of this pagan romanticism.

He would destroy it all:
The mucus pearls and thickening **** of tassels,
the mounting of cymbals through temples.
he would cast aside his wide-eyed diamonds
to **** the ripe flesh of the girls at his mercy.
He has time to hear their wails and harden his heart
to watch the contortion: a circus of sorts.
His rubenesque pony riders and acrobats
twirl fitfully to their deaths among the common throw pillows
and marble foot paths.


Reclining in zeal and pink lips,
the silken king.

Porcelain astronauts waltz across the cosmos
they gather stars in their skirts
and twirl to the beat of heady pagan drums.
Filmy petals unfold beneath their pastel feet
and chanting begins as the heavenly cords quiver,
with manifold breaths.

The respirators hum
surrounding engines that putter along
with the crashing of wagon wheels,
who carry these fragile seraphs,
these willowy cherubs  
- no longer cherubs but voyeurs -
along stardust trails and porous bone bridges.

Enormous broken knuckles swell to cages,
dust marbles the starry effigies,
and a slightly hallucinatory green glow pervades it all.

licking orange juice off fingers
like lizards
like primeval and primal beast
who hunt the roaring raw oily rind
and slaves to the lonely sweet elixir.

the slaves sit ready
trenched in greenish mossy muck
and ****** doorway-banging repetition
among the peachy stupors and the ill-humors
sat the two.

a swing and a time
for circles of hands held and secrets sold
and I have none
and you are mute
but tell me everything
among the biscuits and the stale cookies of the young
among the blood and the bleach and the smoke.

we are fertile and ripe for the picking
we are irresponcible, irresponsible
there is no authority in the world that we would emulate.
they are the young the banged and bruised and trial-tested
they are the heirs to her secrets, they are we, and we are idiots of the first order.

words are trite
nothing is new