how Eye make love,
this popped into my head
tho questioning this quest,
what purpose served, unknown...

lacking the infatuation to poetry write,
the mind retreats to the basics,
eye write with no destination,
wondering at the wonderment
of this basic actionable accolade...

sometimes,
be the
operative word,
sometimes
cooperative,
is the operative...
sometimes,
is but a
it just depends
who
is the initiate
and who possesses the initiative...

every story has a different
author, ending...

sometimes slow,
sometimes muy rapido
in foreign tongues
in foreign places,
the only commonality be that
wonderment

eye wish this not to be explanation,
eye wish this to be an explication
of the texts of sensual visionaries,
imagining the helping to happening,
the passageway to and from
where the mind begins,
the body completes its origination

oft I close my Eyes,
listening to hers,
her eye voices directing me,
what will be the course of our
course,
miss no Michelin starred landscapes,
through hers, mine Eyes triumphant...
tour guide excellente

cannot explain
why the temp sometimes
solar flares,
why the temp sometimes
is a glacial expedition,
tongue led,
from toes to eyelids...
always buy tickets for a
round trip flight...

how
is a titillation, begging you to read & expose,
there is no how, only sometimes  better,
sometimes different...

why
is a question needs no asking...

when

when the shape of her profiled neck,
reflects shadows of further inquiry,
when her décolletage collects me
as she and her designer intended...

when
she laughs uproariously at my piquant,
suave and debonair one liners,
requiring kissing tickling calming

when
tears spill when reading
a new takeaway poem mine,
needy for a tongue to collect that spillway...
just being friendly appreciative and thanking

where

is when
the how and
the why
intersect

the intemperate weather of
being alone
subtle suggests
auto recollections
now know
the how, when, where and the
why,
my Eyes compose this elegy
of memories of past and present...

I know a girl, everyone does.
All she wants is fun.
She won't be having cereal today,
she'll have everything under the sun.

She don't read the paper.
She don't watch no news.
Why would she care about someone elses troubles
if they will never buy her shoes?

She don't need no man.
She don't need no gun.
So many rides to take her there,
she don't walk, much less run.

She's got no time to cry.
She's won't listen to the Blues.
Nothing in the world matters to her,
unless it's something she can use.

She has lots of friends.
She'll dance with them all night.
But she cares not that they ain't real,
cuz she's forever high as a kite.

She don't care about no art,
unless it's something she can wear.
The thing she loves to look at most
is in the mirror there.

She's just loves making trouble.
She's always causing a stir.
But she don't bother about anything in the world,
cuz it revolves around her.

It's almost sad to watch her live her life,
always seeking to ring her own bell.
A living, breathing, ******* a mission
to fill a vacant, soulless shell.

She stares down into her pond, from her big ivory tower.
She'll never be happy and even less so,
as a helpless little flower.

when a poet falls in love with you
you can never die
they will notice the way
you rub your palms and look down
when someone is angry at you
and the way you smirk
as you pull away from a kiss

they will notice how you can't sleep
without your body touching someone else's
how you never crease any pages of books
and how you close your eyes when you dance in your kitchen
with your record player on

they will find all of the words
that they see you as
and turn them into something beautiful

people say you die twice
once when you stop breathing
and when someone says your name
for the last time

if you fall in love with a poet
they will never stop
mentioning your name
you will be alive
for eternity