my love life with words
has a hidden side,
at times i even think:
"is it the curse of the witch
in a dream called me ' poet'
to carry this along, all life long?"

a never ending itch,
that only exhilarates,
and makes me *****
more than ever.
                        as a poet,
words of certain nature,
winged birds, that fly high
to a higher level few reach,
enrapture me more than others.

so much passion gush out,
at the very first sight,
like when i was deeply involved
with a girl, first.

but here is the secret
that leads to a long love affair:
             i make love like a libertine,
pulling out all the stops,
but later the true color
of  the relationship emerges,

i can't put up with post ****** hatred,
it's a poison that kills all  lust for life,

when i embrace a word
i have this fervent wish in mind:
"oh! word, that binds me with
such  fragrance, color and mood,
embrace me, let me feel your pulse,
permeate your warmth in to my heart
color my mind with your brush"

i love to relish each word,
like a fresh, ripe, pulpy fruit,
let there be no seed to spit.
O

There is a concept in religious circles here

(and other shapes;

rectangles, rhombuses,

rorschach blots freckled with faith)

that the way to get closest to a person

is to not touch them.

So

they laid in your car side by side,

her elbow holding her head up like

an exhibit on falling, on disbelief

and you puffed up your unshaven cheeks

and blew in her face.

It blew her eyelashes back and they

bowed their blonde-headed arms at you,

They heard you tell her a

bedtime story with your eyes closed

and they laid down to sleep too, lacquered down with

air conditioning fluid brushed wet through the desert nighttime air.

At dawn,

you promised you wouldn't touch her
as you

lit a cigarette and held it to her mouth,

her lips an inch from your knuckles

and she breathed you in and blew

the smoke out the car window where it

hung suspended like a ghost.