A milk udder lure between her thigh
though her chanty where bin nigh
as day her ungulate would stack
their jugs full in this wooden shack
while shop worn gloves did amount
a shine must replete but always count
only first total inside their raw clement.

Every gesture,
From every glance to every touch.
Was thoroughly apart of her.
A celebration of confetti scattered about her eyes.
A ****** of adoration.
Her toes bare, gripping the bottom of her shoes through her socks.
An extension of what's felt inside still unseen.
The glow of her skin.
The mess made in her eyes without need for a dust pan nor push broom.
The fluid and grace of being alive without restriction.
She made love outside for all to see.
The wisp of cold air made warm by her sigh.
The door to her now open, doorstop wedged in the crease beneath the door.
In a look exchanged between the thousands of days between her eyelids.
She uttered please don't make slam the door
This is what makes it sacred

Smalls hands,
Cold feet,
Passion  every time we meet.
Blind? Maybe.
Dumb? ,probably
Wrong?  Never
Fingers  twisted like pretzels  in our palms
Tearing  out the psalms.
Because  it was sacred  once doesnt mean it is now,
But because  ive been  here  before makes it mean so much more,
My heart has  been broken  battered and bruised.
But still ill hold it up,
For you to use once more x

I perused through the catacombs
gliding my fingers along your innumerate spines,
picked you up where you blossomed in my palm
and breathed archaic mysteries into my face.

I felt myself trembling
as I dared enter the hallowed corridors,
opening doors and peeking inside
in hopes to catch a semblance of your touch,
your taste,
your voice.

A fingerprint,
a coffee stain,
clues and the origins of bricolage
that left me breathless
and teary-eyed
as the weight of this sacred place
bore itself entirely upon me.

A part of your soul
encased within each one of your treasures:

I heard your stereo in a jazz history,
heard you ponder within Dostoyevsky,
saw your wry smile and charm within Fleming,
and your humor within Vaudeville--

and as I perused onward,
and the archetype bore itself naked in a holy privilege,
I closed myself within that impalpable bubble
and wept at the gates of Eden.

As I removed my hands from your ribcage,
and withdrew the breath from your nostrils,
walking away with your words and fragments of your soul
I soon realized--

You Are What You Read.

after Yona Wallach (1944-1985)


Let's have it!
I came for the show!
Strip the Torah
to its essence
where not one word can hide
caress it with your Yad
singing in a lovers voice
an ancient burlesque
and when it's done and dressed again
parade it dancing through the congregation
a fitting encore
to a fine performance
as we almost fall over each other
to touch it
slipping spiritual dollars into its belt
the temperatures rising
like a finished prayer
that even makes the Malachim sweat
in their heavenly heights.

I'm so tired of fighting....

When is screaming going to heal?
When will the cold keep us warm?
Using words like needles
though your heart is plush with love;
why do you push
and then ask me to pull?

This love is ripe.
This love is sweet -
just like the fruits of our latest nights -
and yet we are so sour.
You can throw quarrels and daggers
laced with spite and cyanide,
but then what can be done
when your fruits shrivel
and die?

When your mind clear,
as too is your path,
and I'm always there
waiting on the other side.

I'm so tired of fighting,
but I'd only sleep with you.
So keep this room sacred,
and let the only noise heard
be the sounds that lips make
when they dance with each other.