like the

Rialto, the Grand Canal flows underneath me.
Even as I hold my back

in my hands, I can no longer support my discretions.
Sixteen.
Twenty-one.
Thirty-three.
How

did I have the space?
You would think it would be engraved across my pelvis:
“wrap it up”
before you
hold me down

I ran with lit matches as a girl,
waiting until the flame kissed my thumb and forefingers
puckered pink under the surface.
I enjoy the boils left

behind by my recklessness:
every bruise from a fence **** and
every pebble-sized bump from my head
hitting the roof of a Camaro
sat underneath my skin,
just like Lil’ A
       B
       C
and I can lie flat
as the canal rushes over.

Dear,    

If you love a writer, I promise every post will be about you.
I promise a shower of poetry.
I promise different colors and different shades.
I promise the depths of the sea, the vastness of the sky.      
I promise nights of endless talking and days of cuddling and staying in bed.
I promise you complexity of everything else.
I promise view from all windows.
I promise a new world.

–  A writer

Here I am again, just this paper and a pen.
So many thoughts to write out but everything goes blank once again..... Writers block, is every poets friend, ask them...

The End.

i'm so used
to the bittersweet feeling
of love unreciprocated
i've grown tired
but
what am i
without this longing?

She looses her mind on a daily basis
Leaving it behind in a formation of scribbles.
She carries stories woven in the dark
Like uncoordinated patterns of light.
Sounds that move as graceful figures
Simple symbols, nothing but scribbles.

Endorsed across these hollow lines
All you interpret are scribbles.

But these "scribbles" are her aim
Her far aspiration; everyday devotion.

Do you not see the avidity, when she takes creation?
Are you that ignorant towards these "scribbles"?

DEAR, THIS IS SOMETHING BEYOND THAT!
You see, words are a weapon against those you resemble.
You see, this ink is her weapon, and how she adores it.
You'll be aghast! When her passion, her "scribbles"
Prevail.

I have never been to the snowy peaks
Of sitting stones that pierce the clouds
Cutting strange patterns in their
White vaporous forms

I have never boated through the muggy swamps
Deep within the borders of our southern states
Dark marshes that seem to be made of moist jungle green
With camouflaged gators lurking just beneath
Ready to gobble you up

I have never seen the center of an ocean or a sea
Never been lost with only water on the horizon
The only life left to see swimming deep beneath me

I have never walked the tundra
Seeing nothing but winter’s frosty sheet
Awestruck with my dumb luck
But becoming snow blind
Alone with my mind
In a vast white wasteland

I have never and perhaps I never will
For lack of opportunity or depths of fear
But in your photos and words
I have seen this world
What a gift you have given me

based on the painting “Loving Bewick” by Paula Rego

He would feed me sardines perched above me
every night before we ****** in the big white lighthouse

I never bled more than I did that summer;
his beak digging into my back as I pulled handfuls

of feathers – but I loved the thrashing of his wings
and the uneven wood beneath my arched back.
He covered me when

we finished and I could smell the oceans he had swam
over on his neck. In the morning, he would open his gull and I

climbed inside as he flew me back to the city.
He would never let me sit atop his back to see
the flush of green or the meeting of mountains. Only inside

his mouth did I belong. I wished more than anything to be
a sardine – to be dangled above others, to have their adoration
proved to me before I slid between their teeth forever.

She was like coffee.
So hot,
So brown.

She was like coffee.
So sweet,
So fresh.

Her coffee was the best,
Her coffee was the best.

She smelled of many things.
Her body like almonds and honey,
Her hair like strawberries and kiwi.
I inhaled it all as i stared at her.
Her shirt kept up by spaghetti straps.
It showed skin although it was nothing to revealing.
All that was exposed was her arms,
Her shoulder,
Her collarbone,
Her neck,
But that was all I needed.
That's all it took to cause the gears to turn and my body to burn.
That's all it took to make me long for the feel of her warm surface.
I wanted her.
So bad and so much,
That I wanted to run my hands up from her fingertips to her shoulders,
Just so they could move down her body.
She had me,
Locked and lost in deep thoughts of lust.
Under her spell I was caught.
Under her spell I was held prisoner to my own carnal desires.
See I dreamt once,
Of hugging her from behind.
My arms around her waist,
Whispering only the sweetest nothing's in her ear,
And now that dream is here.
We finally stand with our bodies demanding to be touched.
Finally extending our connection.
We stimulate each others sense of touch in every way.
We play,
Pulling each other closer to a ****** with each giggling moan.
Her body I own and it is shown,
Through each time my hands lay on her her body shudders.
Her words slurr through partial stutters,
And her back defies gravity as it bends upwards,
But she owns me too.
I will forever cling to her taste,
So sweet and pure I hope there's more in-store.
My taste buds tingle at the thought of her.

She was like coffee.
I became addicted to her caffeine.

She was like coffee.
Simply delicious and delightful.

Her coffee was the best,
Her coffee was the best.