there's a dimly lit carving

station--eleven silver blazes

shy of a disciple.

too abstract for a fine cut of

meat, till a line strands a

dance floor.

it's the sound of birds drowning

in pockets of water--the gossip

of music.

something continues the rise of

an occasion, a reception area of

body languages too angular for

bones.

those that have shown up, resolve

in very private ways--when & how

it is they will make their exit.

before they know it.

the wind in my hair on the drive to you
replaced by your fingers at night

( d e e p   s i g h   v o o d o o )

summer sunlight caught
in the mesh

i can’t cut the
u  n  c  u  t
silhouette

from my eyes
from my flesh

the same shape
along my arm

sink slowly
my treasure

milk down
the drain
             no harm

Writhing sea of dancing faces
Roiled by electric currents
From a storm that I can’t see-
No high, no low, no ebbing
Just tumaltism from
One Sean cut to another.
In the middle is a wooden box
Painted big and black and square.
On it is a Nereid
Arms out flung, long red hair flying
Turning in the basting of the spotlights
So willow-thin above the starfish in the tide pools.
Powered by the lack of sun
She floats her rhythms
On the breakers
And becomes a beacon
For lost eyes and hopeless dreams.

How I wish I was her sister
Cousin or best friend.
How I’d love to fusion with her
Show her where she got her licks.
But I hold back- I don’t dare it
My time was yesterday
Today is hers alone
I must be jetsam on the shore
So sad that my tide’s moving out as
Hers is rolling in.

If I could only be her peer
Instead of Sea Waif’s mother.
ljm

Flowers that blossom at night:
those who open in the dark,
those who open to the dark.

I sit in my ***-bottomed boat,
thinking about the turns
& branches of my life.

No: my boat is dry-docked.
Let's be honest:
it's just a lonely bed, no oars.

But I am open, at last:
I am ready for someone
to come and turn their key

in this reddened lock.
Behind this door are rewards.
Behind this door I am waiting.

But let's be still more honest:
no one is racing down the hall
with a key in hand to try their luck.

I am a night-blooming cereus:
open in the dark, scented,
waiting for something in the black

to land and spread pollen.
I will breathe it - I will inhale
the sweetness, the gesture...