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I am addicted to skin,
not a particular woman's skin,
all and every woman's skin

(stop here,

If you are uncomfortable,
with this writ, for me then,
it be a consoling poem,
an adoration of skin,
a comfort food,
that I cannot live without)


see what you cannot see,
inside this one's
brain-eyes-tongue-soul-whatever
whatever you name his five sense-sifting-all combination,
I don't care

I drink skin
all textures
all colors
every woman
every woman ageless  
every woman street passing
touched and taken
no fabric but the
fabric of her skin
tween my thumb and forefinger
on my stippled senses
enlivened

I taste skin,
like a good poem,
the cheek, the shoulder bare,
the in between spaces,
the minty hint of décolleté,
the ankle chain,
turning my breath heated,
tips of red noses,
I take and
I keep
and no,
no refunds, no returns

I see
your skin, as a gift to myself
created, donated, by you,
and by me,
aggregated

tho you think I am selfish
I thank you always

I hear
you cells splitting,
rejuvenating,
you nourish,
I flourish

I smell your
skin-scented au naturel aroma,
and inward smile,
a parfume
named after me,
who knew?

you knew

stop enough!

softly, no, softly never enough...

every wrinkle, every blemish
every tablecloth of skin so
lovely set, so smooth glowing,
I weep,
I seep
inside
and
touch me touching you
and
for every cell of mine dying,
two of you,
two for you,
so you may live longer,
one of mine,
lingers
within you
evermore

you nourish,
I flourish
Sunday afternoon
March 23rd, 2014
 Mar 2014 Maman Screams
TigerEyes
In my life I have known betrayal
It's been delivered to me in every way
placed in my mailbox
delivered express mail.
It's like a knife ****** into my heart
cutting slowly sadistically it says--
"Oh, baby -- this is just the start
this is gonna hurt...
"you're gonna **** down blood -- along with dirt"
It's put me on my knee's..
begging God/Whatever -- to rescue me
And,  I know that everyone's the same
we've all experienced hurt, and pain
It just seems like I've had more
it's shake'n me down to my core
There must be a lesson in all this
I just know I pray for bliss
to understand the reason I am here
to end my pain/to end my fear.
© 2014
the other day
seated in his office
I asked my stubborn, mean-looking
bushy-eyebrows editor
if he’d consider two books:
“Short Stories for Real Short People”
and “Truly Tall Tales for Tall People”

and he sat back with that air
(actually, made you think he wanted to release air)
and he said:
“You’ll get shot for titles like that…
'Short Stories for Real Short People'
will directly offend people
who are vertically challenged
And the same people would shoot you
for excluding them by implication
in the epithet 'Tall' –
They’ll sure shoot you for that…
They’re both just politically incorrect”


And I leaned forward
(releasing air myself –
anything he can do, I can do better!)
and I said:
“Sure, it’s not politically correct – but it sure
ain’t psychologically correct, given our times,
to speak of shooting while we are in an office”


I hear the Editor no longer works there
and is now in some publishing house
who are specialists  in books on Accounting
and Engineering
where he knows, for sure, I’m never likely to go
My straight back is broken
I can hardly keep an upright posture now
as I once used to
but my spirit is not broken,  Sirs
And though I lean on a walking stick
which is my devoted companion -
more useful to me than a daughter or son
(my wife passed on , Sirs
poor woman she went three years ago) -
I still have my dignity, a sense of my worth, Sirs
O you who enquire where I come from -
where I come from is the past, Sirs, truly
(I do not mean to be insolent in that)
for truly time has eaten much of my memory
and all that was mine or familiar
or what was worth holding on to
The streets here are my home, Sirs
so I know my present
what corner I can find
when the bones are weary;
but otherwise I wander the streets
where my legs will carry me
and where the city police will let me;
and where there are no street urchins, I tarry
And I have naught to do but observe
the energetic world go by
(a world wearied in its own drive)
with which I am disconnected
And that has no personal meaning for me
except for its occasional kindness
But that Sirs, if I may go now, is my beginning and end
and all that which is mine…as my wife might say,
and she said, as the good woman died:
*Well, if it pleases you or not, I must go now
*poem based on "Portrait of an Old Man", c. 1624-1650,  painting by Georges de La Tour (March 13, 1593 – January 30, 1652)  De Young Museum, San Francisco.
* Well, time for me to take a break - I mean, to take care of paper work which I have been putting off...back at end of March.
they all turn up as friends at first
our friendly and warm-hug super powers
with their supercilious smiles and handouts
they come with nice words and packages
and promise of development and infrastructure
and bearing gifts and loans
and remarking on affinities
and history and culture
and they throw in aid and money
and promise of riches and wealth
but they all turn bad guys
all these friendly super powers
they want  a presence first
and then
you are theirs, time present and future
they turn up with new-year fireworks and promises
and then they want to invade your country
and they want to make you theirs
they all turn up bad guys
don't they
these friendly super powers -
and their warm hugs turn into bear hugs
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