when you are old
I hope you
                     remember those
holy
moments
       on my window-bed
between
our hip-bones
     and
eyes,
          minds, torsos twisting
             skin never close enough to the other’s
laughter.
                               and cascading
                                      hair-curtains
            ­                                      lips
                                                  breathing
                                                           other’s
                                                                ­breath
                                                                ­      sweet and
                                   longing
                                                     words words
                                                        no words
                                                       one word:

                                                      now – here.

I speak to thee, and thee is her; and she is thee,
And to whom I refer.
Could she be as much into me as
I am into her?

And if so, then this plea from me
With woeful tear, will not
Go too long unanswered here,

For her silence hurts
But is rare.

So far away!      Yet so near!

But I wish you were
Nearer, Dear!

Because each dominion
On such occasion
Must unwind, so as to be
Reborn in the morning shine,

Returning as glorious and as
Fresh as the new day sky;

And thereupon shouldst carry on
Without imperfect moan
Or sigh.

I plead with thee to manumit
Your tightened clasp that
Binds.

Rest your weary head a bit
On mine;
And ease into pleasant
Reveries.

After all, the dusk has come
To give rest to thee;

And I am yours
And yours am I

            -I am Restlful Sleep.

Be careful when you overly masticate
On what a fukmast is. I am a widdler;
And invagination is far too straight
Away a kumbang for the riddlefiddler.

So I use wordplay, as a, oh, *******,
Does that make me truly a clatterfart?
Does that make me some, oh, cockapert?
Maybe, but it is not really a badder Art.


Not a gem, but a beryl.
Beryl of laughs, that is.            
Ah, there's my assapanick now.
Kinda my little secret squirrel.

Noone really understood why (Duba ya)
Heard from the upset waitress...Geesh!
Until his advisor told him quietly,  Uh,
Mr. President, it's pronounced Quiche.

I awakened early, dark of morn.
I aten my Kellogg flakes of corn.

I was thinking of how it rained
Literally last night on my parade.

But hey, upon us all
A lil rain
                  Must fall.

                          Today is another day.