Remember the Christmas
we rolled our own chipatis,
Indus whole wheat,
like fine beach sand,
an equal measure
of all purpose white,
water, oil, salt as needed,
then rolled thinner
than unemployed hope,
stove top baked on high temp,
topped with fresh tomato red,
and green pepper salsa?
Now, that was bread!

On the mirror
in lipstick
was
written "solipsism"

We were cavorting Orca
in a warm Baja sea,
while you dove,
then rose to breath,
I met you at the surface
in a tangle of sweaty sheets.

(insert  complaint here)
You cut me off ,
but you'll not steal my day.
Were it to happen,
I would be both thief,
and the one stolen from.

Insouciance**

If I could get into your insouciance,
I'd be aplomb,
Without a care,
Unconcerned.
I'd be a veritable dancer
Of nonchalance,
Cool,
Collected,
Harmoniously tempered,
A picture of self control.
Perhaps calm contentment
Would measure my equanimity,
If I could keep my equilibrium
After getting into your insouciance.
I propose to repose like a rose.

Round and round and round,
the spin, the rotation of it all.
Once I believed the prayer wheel
was an instrument for kinetic dopes.
I was western yoked,
and blind behind my dark wisdom glasses,
to see the wise homage made
by an intentional turn
to the way of all things.

There is
  an interlude
      within silence,

a white on white chimera,

that anoints the thee and thou

in transubstantiation

  that wafers us.

Reading between between the lines,
the shadow zone of interstitial spaces,
the quiet and rhythm
    separating sentences,
        I senced that your yesterday's day
was one,
      that given a choice,
  you would not choose to repeat.
I repeat this feeling guilty
   that I failed you
by knowingly remaining silent.

In that whisper thin
between sigh and tears
save the moment,
think of me, my dear.

In the privacy of your lavorium,
in the glowing candles,
in the sensually scented air,
in the rising moisture,
in the warm embrace of your bath,
in these pleasures,
I am.

In the time it takes to write this
fate will have selected thousands
in every time zone,
issuing there last earthly number,
"Recorded death 1:17 p.m. UT..."
For some this will be no surprise,
but to the scions
that are always looking forward,
the nudge from behind
will be jolting.

In the way that sugar
desiccates fresh ginger,
pucker for me dear,
and receive my good knight kiss

========
Footnote:  Try this at home.  Ingredients; a seal-able jar, thin (1/16th") slices of fresh ginger root, white to medium granular sugar.  Place sliced ginger in the jar,  pour sugar to cover ginger by half to full inch.  Seal jar and vigorously shake.  Let stand 48 hours.  Stir liquid and add a very small amount of hot water if liquid is granular.  Use liquid syrup like Vermont maple syrup.  Honest.

Were you a foreign land,
and in someways you are,
I would mount my trustiest steed,
cross your channel banks,
Marshall my invading column
Into your fruited plaines.
And there encamped under stars
Our two houses would negotiate
Terms of mutual respect and pleasure.
Upon which we would survey our lands
Entwined in milk and honey,
And give promise of protection and eternal fidelity.

My love,
my sweet delirium,
my dopamine flower,
my nocturnal obsession,
my daylight thought procession,
how do I bare a split second of your truancy?
Your hair, your skin, your eyes, your spike heels, your leggy fluency,
are but a little tittle tally of your unnerving inventory :-)

I only have you for a minute,
two at best.
Here, it would be silly of me
to stand on my head,
you there,
wherever you are,
reading this.

Concinnitas,
The convergence
of a perfected material form and function
that aesthetically focuses
ones perceptive senses
that resonates
an appreciation that hints
of a collective soul.

I pray,
I pray that prayers are heard,
I pray that prayers are heard
though I expect, nor want an act or answer,

I pray for myself,
I pray for myself to be a better instrument
to navigate beyond myself

to explore the vastness of creation,
to scout, at least in thought

beyond the planets,
beyond the galaxy,
beyond the milky way

to entertain even thoughts beyond the universe itself,

and I pray to know the small
that lies within and outside my walls,

I pray to be worthy of self love,
so I can love you purely,
this I pray.

Back in the 6th grade,
your name was Morrisette.
It must have been 11:00 A.M.
sunlight rayed into the class south-south-east,
klegging through your white blouse.
My eyes could only see your brassiered back.
I prayed to God the nun wouldn't call on me
and make me stand.

I propose a painting,
on a ground of white,
a band of your favorite color,
a band of mine.
Should we arrange our stripes parallel,
or should we direct them to intersect?
Would the colors compliment or clash the other?

I remember a childhood warning
that cautioned against "impure thoughts"
as though the mind were a tidy bowl
and it could be cleansed with a johnny mop!

i reread your poems today,
as a way of torment,
i'm swelled with you,
now fill my arms.

I send you a white dove, my love,
in bits 'n bytes, not very romantic,
though when carefully reconstructed
a key to liberate thy chastity, I'm unrepentant.

I should not be writing.
I have nothing much to say.
I told my fingers
to do whatever talking
that will be coming from my frame,
but it's clear to me
that my digits are
as doltish  as my brain.

Is it stalking to drive by a summoned apparition?
Imagining you in the back yard
playing with your old dog,
or walking through the apple orchard
reading a book of my love poems,
or my lifting a phantom shovel to dig you out from under that last storm.

Is it wanton?
That my eye should drift
upon thy cleavage
while we speak
in Notes of Cliff,
when I pull you down
upon my broad bed
where we studiously study rapture
in the very hour before our test.

Is love a selfish thing
serving but one master,
each of those coupled merely daffed
believing it is theirs to keep?
But love is its own master,
comes and goes, or does a fickle dance,
though from time to time
may be prodded - poked, cajoled
to do one's narrow bidding.
In the end romantic love will depart,
then best to hope that in its place
it leaves friends that go on caring.

Is there a there a secret room
where, like missing socks,
unsaid words sneak off to rest?

I think of you
crocheting words,
quietly,
unobserved
by your husband,
watching TV,
in **** gray socks.

I think of you
at the oddest times,
and the strangest places,
as if I were an air show pilot
with the stick pulled back
and the rudders set in place,
and within that ******, roar, and airframe shake
I notice that in my chest there beats a heart that aches.

I tried and tried
to write a poem today
but
all my efforts
came to naughts,
so all I have to show for that
is simply
this

.

It's a tough life for a street girl
when the winter mercury's dips,
and back home it's all shakes 'n sweats
for the old man without his fix.

It will be morning when you read this.
You will be at work,
perhaps drinking your second cup of coffee.
Do you take it with cream, one or two sugars?
Funny to think I don't know,
though I puzzle with these love words
arranged specially for you.

I only have you for a minute,
two at best.
Therefore it would be silly of me
to stand here on my head,
you there,
wherever you are,
reading this.

When I went away to school,
I lived in a town with an upper and lower main street,
on one of the slanted connector streets
there was a storefront church
with a white cross sign above the shop
that said, "Jesus Saves".
Just beyond, and next door,
hung a lower sign reading "Green Stamps".
Not sure whether anyone else ever noticed,
but tickled me near death each time I saw it.
And I've been juxtaposing ever since.

I've enjoyed our  bacchanal,
thus far verbal,
in the same way let's take a walk,
you pick the route,
down along the river
where we can compete skipping rocks,
or through a sylvan path
where I could show you that I'm gallant,
perhaps saving you from a low hanging branch,
then there's that orchard where I've heard your kiss 'n tell.
You pick the route so we can hold hands and talk.

I was late,
I missed you,
I waited under the lamp light,
watching my shadow
look up and down the street,
listening,
                 but
                       the
                              barely
                                         audible
                                                        footsteps
                                                  ­                         were yesterday's.

This evening,
when you are reading
in front of your fire hearth,
I will be the flames warming you.

Adrift in dark water
on a moonless night
when time is light and there is none
I turned and you were gone.
You're a better swimmer than I
so I've asked the wind to deliver these words,
knowing somehow you will get them.
When the storm's over and you've reached land,
build a bright fire, use dry words if you must.
I will find you by this light.
I will come to you there.

January,
rare
cross hatched
jet
conrtrails
inseminate
this receptive Carolina sun,
Emblazing this mountain azure sky,
framming Appalachian
repeat
peaks ,
terrace stone floors,
and hardwood grandeur.

In time
twenty years
will no longer be a lifetime,
but an imperfectly remembered fraction
'less you've been the rare one
journaling the everyday
that seemed so very unimportant way back then.

Joy in desire and my sole desire toy
Is my mad passion, I lute from on far
My love an unknown woman like a star;
built in dreams no waking will destroy
A placid place far from life's deploy;

By spirit breathless to store the silver bar
Of twilight beyond dawn-gates stood ajar,
And raised on Paradise, a dazzled boy;
To look first upon the sea's inlet foam
In the first beginning; in star stud night
Chiffon the mistress musk on high;
Tho no celibate a two ball groom, nor Greece, nor Rome,
Hero to misdeed, the heads of state incant;
I adore thee, my love, 'tis my inflamed chant.

Though you deny it
I'll bet you're beautiful,
did you say 36, or 38,
no matter
and eyes not blue,
nor blood I hear
not arabesque, not a dancer?
Can you cook,
published articles in the "Lancer"?
Nonetheless, I'll bet you're beautiful,
Just my guess.

Stop with the daydreams
Of wet ******* unicorns.
Stop with the dam spillway
Of "undeserved tears."
Stop looking in the rear view mirror
And start looking at your **** rear.
Stop the inverted visions,
Need help?
Walk the streets of Calcutta,
Better yet,
Pitch a tent with the homeless.
Stop the mindlog.
Stop the driveling outlog,  
Just stop.

Next to the iPad,
horn rim readers,
a book of postage stamps,
and a rubber eraser.

One stone,
One placid lake,
One toss,
Ripple, ripple, ripple ...

Imagine looking at a brick building
And intimately knowing
Everything about each brick.
Deep, deep knowing,
Every particle and grit knowing,
Back to the big bang knowing,
Personal with each atom knowing,
Intimate with each electron knowing,
Down to the limits of infinity knowing,
A total embrace knowing,
A bent knee and weep knowing,
Imagine there is but one knowing,
Imagine knowing this!

Languid lapping waves,
Here a mud stuck pier,
The distant hills have failed again
To halt a falling flare.

Lean poem,
Rib caged heart,
Xylophone bleaching under a paper sun,
Casting scorpion shadows across rocky lots,
Resilient, though shattered,
By misread lines or slipshod thought.

A bit luni,
or so it would appear,
to add an extra day
every fourth year,
though leap we must,
Feb adjust,
for a near annum would get lost
over the next fourteen-hundred years.