i declaim, even bellow,
as she turn the a/c to below
the below, to sleep deep,
but then the chillers
invade like an army of Orcs,
now that my body fat now
three Yules gone bye bye
(and twenty yrs too late)

N.B. (FYI: she’s typically the one with
frequently freezing appendages!)

She mocks my screaming,
you are declaring decidedly,
me to be the hottest man-nequin,
with whom
she has ever slept~in,
has bed shared, for a consistent
statiscally valid time of period,
and the proofs
she offers is by
climbing aboard
my chiller self
,
to steal my entire inner warmth,
she being a skinny shapeshifting,
luscious figure whose body temp
barely registers 98 degrees
(per Ouro device!)

i scream out loud,
     the neighbors knock,
hearing me utter in agony
“your cold body is burning me,”
which with practice
SHE~IT
has learned to ignore for i
am  but the fly to
be engorged in her
Venus fly trap,
suiting  her purposes  
happily unwittingly

She tells me once again,
baby, baby
“you’re  my heart’s desire,
set me on fire,
once is
never enough
of a man like you,
do it again,
one more time!”

and believing
she suckeredme again
wiley giggles
loudly in my
blueish ear

for E. M. A.

<•>

a conglomeration, a pastiche,
two  Italian words affixed,
without hyphen, space, signaling
unity, a merger of a perfect sensory
morsel,

every language unicorn unique with
overlapping skin cells, entangling roots,
so do not be surprised when you,
who speaks not Italian, yet the brain
reverses the words in your eyesight
and is instantaneously understood

I love this letteral literal littoral
literacy
connective tissue that is a humans binding, and oneof my greatest lessenings, is that never
achieved real fluency in my cousined
romance languages, though oft inserted
in my scribbled poesy, for the emphasis
of satisfaction when saying
certain words in a related language carries
a style, a tune, that elevates its conceptually


so friend, multi lingual,
aware of my affection for
mixing, mining words of
multiplicity, makes, creates
a new word just for me:

which deserves a plain old perfect
WOW!
poetfriend
friendpoet
will never sound
as rich, inherently
musical, poetic
as saying:

Amicopoeta

early after-noon, she quizzes,
“would I be ok with
skinless boneless roasted
chicken breast, with sautéed
mushrooms for our dinner,
ce soir?”

so smile I,
for it is a favored menu
of pleasure,
from one who has never
presented us a meal
that is less than perfect

later, she shyly inquires,
“would be ok if we to eat
a little early, I have a salon,
followed by an
Argentine Tango dance milonga
tonight and one starts early (and
tango parties
end typically
the next  day?
(no|si, me, don’t dance)

of course, respondez in
the affirmative, thus
confirming our love with the
consideration that veins
out affection mutual

and then I add:

“instead of an hours food prep,
which distracts you from the hour
deeded for dressing
for dancing  motivation proper,
and add a little kick-her:

I love you so much,
would happily consume
your tuna fish salad sandwich,
every night, for the rest of our
lives together, it’s fast
and simple, a dis-less-stressing
concoction, that we both enjoy

she (s)miles a sweetened thanks,
after numerous reassurances,
that our love only grows
stronger with acts of smart
sensitivity to each others needs,
no standard of care breached,
au contraire, meant sincerely,
earning me a secondary
whiling smiling

and this true story is a poem,
has been writ a thousand times,
in a million different tiny gestures,
of which, I am proud

she exhales a breath elongated,
a release of an admixture of differing
pleasures released, and goes into the
night to dance in the arms of strangers,
which concerns me
not at all,
after all,
these  many years,
aware she moves exquisitely
in a dance that demands years
of practice, for it requires
intangible silent of the merest
slight finger  pressures to guide
the dancer what next steps
are coy coming,
and I have stolen this
knot of knowledge,
for mine own purposes,
secretly & selfishly,
employing these techniques,
for most of the time we’ve
been together

this poem of
tuna fish sandwiches,
becomes a dance of words
which is
my specialty, which she will
read in the morning l, maybe,
if I send it to her,
though obviously,
that is unnecessary 😉
as she returns to our bed,
me asleeping, she,
exhaustingly satisfied,
sleeeps deeper
secured by the knowing
that we, are both,
the beneficiaries of:
my learned dancing
practices
for such is

*the ways of the poet!