Like the rounded tip
of God's clipped big toenail
     is late August's moon.

When I am over the moon
feels of a mo reaching for the stars.
The very moment I feel it the most
my toes are dipped in the dust.

Body is thy art for centuries.
Body is thy art from form and bone, to flesh and blood.
Body is thy art for the private genitals of ****** function.
Body is thy art to own a kiss of each lip.
Body is thy art...
Each connecting bone, head to toe...body is thy art.
Our vocal cords that tighten as we speak...body is thy art.
Body is thy art because of it's natural form unknown to human yet known to soul as our eyes meet each stranger.
Body is thy art when we touch and connect.
We are art.
Sexuality is not an embarrassment, because body is thy art that we share everywhere.
Every ****** made from touch and *******, body is thy art throughout all humanity.

If her trousers were any
                                          tighter,
I'd have to get the clippers out

  As that toe, was in need of a trim..

She took a hesitant first step
Closer to bay.
Sand crunched under her toes,
And cold slapped her ankles,
As a wave broke upon the shore.
Receding waters,
Left her tilting like creaking post,
Overburdened with laundry.
Surprised, she jumped backwards
Retreating to the sane solid ground.
But sanity lost,
To the wild, tempestuous sea.

head to toe kissing


I   the mundane

moonlight madnesses, a possessive noun,
commissions gravitational pulls that disobey and obey
laws of interstellar loving. The antique modalities once and forever, forever laying still, stilled in places of antiquities and historical need, are thundershower and hail rudely reawakened, the undertow of
pull and push, the yanking hands  of need for others, for others,
it’s the explosive-knowledge, the opening of the old kitbag of perpetual principles, that crazy head to toe kissing is no less necessary, more so, than the computation of the total breaths mundane, unnoticed even now as I write of them, that we will count from that very first, in deed, they are one and the same, like the same
kisses given from head to toe

II   the profane

at the first, the body insists, I am but a long haul trailer, no taxi me,
cargo and passengers, are my quatrain accompaniments,
traveling companions boon, my own toons, too soon disembarked,
songs of parents and lovers, children and others, your visage passed
without your permission, but with your happy encouragement,
to generations that will see things that futurists dare not
even mention, but the profane urge to warn them all, kisses from head to toe, elevates, and overcomes...so when most of my names dusted with forgetfulness, lost in the waves, my scorching soft lips will be recalled just as an airy flight of light brushing upon a newborn’s eyelids just at the moment of birth.  A rustling more felt than heard, the ****** and bruised carrying body will sensate and instantly forget, but nonetheless transmit genetically, that the profane of birth and life renewing can be only washed away, when past and future, recalled and recreated, kisses from head to toes, dripping with softening saltwater tears, a chemical organic reagent of creation,
inside the histories of head to toe kissing

III  the insane

so when, somewhere, some place, a man’s body prepares  
tous ses adieux, his memory foolishly sane and strong,
his wasted paper bag container ship, rust bucketed,
crinkled and wrinkled, skin folding in on itself, hanging to bones
by stretched sinews and tendons that no longer tend to business,
loosened and gangly, they hang on barely to the bare nakedness of
evolutionary processes, mostly not, offset, by the tenderizing effects of kisses, from invisible attendees,  unconscious they,
willingly and unwillingly, offering farewells in actuality...
head to toes, noses to belly buttons, tatted, tattered, and still tasted by dying cells.  It’s insane to think it’s even possible  one retains each and all, but he does, those few given, those few  millions he gave away for cheap belly laughs and poems, decade upon decade accumulated are the totality of him, all of them free and sealed in kisses from head to toes

I sit here.

Viewing a blank slate.

The black blinking line mocks me.

I've been here for hours.

Where are the thoughts?

The words?

Where are the rhymes to save the world?

The language to disintegrate the pillars of inequality?

The stanzas to make me rich so I can quit my day job?

I should be making as much as an engineer.

They don't contribute as much to society as I do.

I rhyme, I'm a sentence builderd.

I build societal commentary with words.

Me me, I'm a word boy.

Do you have any idea how much student loan debt I'm drowning in?

It's low tide in my mind's sea.

All I can imagine --

and picture

-- is myself placing a toothpick under my big toenail and kicking the wall in front of me as hard as I can.

Or maybe I can use a flat-head screwdriver to pry off the nail from the bed.

I could use a tack hammer to tap and slide that under.

A serrated sickle perhaps?

Move it maybe.

Liberate it from being on a toe.

It wants to be on a thumb;

a much better class of nail.

Toenails of the world unite; you have nothing to lose but your jam job!