Come to me woman
as creatures of light often do
float into my arms,
dig your talons into my chest
exposing what lie beneath
my muscle bound flesh.
Lay kisses upon me;
in such succession
that they burn my skin
like lightening
and make my heart pound
like thunder.

Undo these buttons
with nimble fingers,
remove from my body
this disguise I wear for others
and see me,
I ask that you see me
as I refuse to see myself.
Touch me with soft hands
until I am a statue in your grasp,
bite my neck, as your palms caress.
Each stroke shortening
my every breath.

I will take you like this,
disrobe you, see through you
and your eyes will come alive
shinning upon me like great stars.
I bury myself so deep
that the lines between
what is yours and mine
become one in the same.
Now my darling
as my hands clinch your hips
And you ****** your body upon me
like Cato Minor  upon the sword;
call out to me, cry my name.

Fingers are frozen, face is cold.
You press your lips against my nose,
You put my hands under your clothes.
Whispering, “I’ll keep you warm,”

Yet, I’m standing here while the wind blows.
And you wrap you arms around her waist,
While my tears freeze.

Time stopped, and they were freed.

It began, it occurred, it ended.

We met, we danced, I left.

He did not st-st-stutter that day.

We craved, raved, craved more.

Born numb, pure; died filthy, happy.

"Its been an ugly day," she said.
"Tell me something beautiful?"

And he said her name.

he knows
which fork is meant for salad.
and
he knows
the difference
between 'good scotch'
and 'swill.'
he knows
mother dearest
frequently naps
and he knows
daddy dearest
hasn't yet had his fill.
he knows
what its feels like
to look down from above.
but baby boy dearest
knows not
what it is
to be loved.

there are worse things than
being alone
but it often takes decades
to realize this
and most often
when you do
it's too late
and there's nothing worse
than
too late.

the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.

there's no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.

nobody ever finds
the one.

the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill

nothing else
fills.

That tree said
    I don't like that white car under me,
                    it smells gasoline
That other tree next to it said
    O you're always complaining
             you're a neurotic
        you can see by the way you're bent over.

                                        July 6, 1981, 8 p.m.