Your topography.
Your body and its geography.
Lavish to lick,
Sensual, slick,
Fantastic.
I indulge with my hands and my mouth
As our hips, caught in a dance
Lift me into a trance,
And all I see is you,
And the star-speckled black.
Our aura outshines them all.
I tip-tap finger tips on your back,
And your breath,
And sighs
Whisper sweet-nothings to the skies
And all the gods watch in awe
As we crumble temples in our path,
And reach levels higher than Olympus
Decibels higher than the thunderous clap,
Anchored down by nothing
But a metal clasp
And hidden by nothing but a mask.
But these are no obstructions
To our naked odyssey,
We wander in wanderlust.
In lust, in love.
In you,
In me.

My soul alight,
When the sweet melody
Of kindred spirit’s song
Fills my fingers and toes.
When the divine,
Connects me with another,
When I find my brothers.
When Mother Earth
Collides me with my like-minded,
And we travel
To parallels and spirit realms.
I love them,
Those of my soul pods,
And born of stars,
And those with scars like mine,
And deep, other-worldly minds
And chosen-kin,
Who are more than our bones,
And our skin.
We are home when within,
And when together again.
We are cosmos.
We are love.
We are one.

Our graveyard;
It beckons,
It bellows.
The crows call.
The raindrops crawl down our coffins.

But I believe in you and me.
Our funeral is a mockery.

They’ll pick up the debris
Of our bones.
But little do they know,
Our devotion is feisty.
Our love is indelible; undying.

So I’ll ask politely.

While you’re clenching cloth napkins
And sighing in strife,
Ready your eyes
For a death
That can come back to life.

Caricature of a truth.
I lay down my wheat and fire iron.
In smoky mirrors, I spread my tail feathers
Alongside the peacock.

When will time be fated to wrist restraints;
When will the Milky Way dance?

If we pick the leaves of the blueberry bush,
Should we ask how she feels of it?
I will dress her in new garb
Before the rooster crows,
If she so wishes.

Why must we play riddles with the unknown?
We poke fun at the things we should practice.
We don’t know the invisible barricade
Unless we paint it.
If we paint it.
Will we paint it?

And when eyes fall,
Of royal silk red,
And swords collide,
Will all be sought?
Have we learned already as people?
Have we forgotten?

Sharpened knife,
And quarterstaff.
The dermis artist before you,
Decorticating all who disobey.
All who fall astray,
Or choose a better tree to climb.
How do we not see?
How do we not see that we are blind?

And when will we learn?
When will we be taught?
Will we ever know,
Will we ever know of what is true and right?
Will we ever know,
The things that we should change,
The things that we should fight,
The things that don’t belong?

The rooster crows.
The rooster’s song is sad,
Because the rooster knows what’s wrong.

Friend.
Until clouds part and world’s end.
I know this.
I know you.
Friend.

Pick-pocket.
And you pick the troubles you pocket.
You thieve me.
You thieve you.
Pick-pocket.

The stench of struggle smells nice to low standards,
But I lack those,
So I take it through the nose
While I wait for a lightbulb moment.
Because a block is a block is a block.
But what lies beneath the rock?

What do you do when the door is locked?
You get in another way.

But if you yell,
And you smash,
And you cry,
And you wail.
And you blame,
And you shame,
And you dread,
And you bail,
The other way doesn’t come.

When you stop,
And you listen,
And you breathe,
And you wait.
When you gather,
And you solve,
And you trust
In your fate,
That’s when the other way comes.

And sometimes through this stillness, through the wait,
The locked door clicks, unlocks and swings open,
And we realize we don’t want to walk through.
Because a door is a door is a door,
But what lies beyond the shore?

"What is beautiful about a woman?"
I asked history.
And he said:
Juno Lucina
The miracle of birth.

"What is beautiful about a woman?"
I asked language.
And he said:
Mami, Morsa,
White flower, white dress.

"What is beautiful about a woman?"
I asked society.
And he said:
She is the good little mother
That I ask her to be.

When they say beauty is on the inside,
Did they mean in the ovaries?
Why is there beauty where babies are made,
But not in the woman that made them?
If she behaves like the perfect, practiced wife
The world cheers along.
But what about her,
Is she beauty alone?

"What is beautiful about a woman?"
I asked art.
"She is beauty,
She is beauty,
She is beauty", she said.