I want a poet
between my thighs,
wicked tongue wrapped
in verse,
drive and provoke,
serenade
this dancing knot
of prose hidden here,
a hungry mound
saturated beneath a soft
cocoon of sweltering flesh,
suspended in expectation
inspired to spill forth
steaming compositions
sticky on his epic lips,
grinning.

And he’ll rise then
breathing a new stanza
onto my fragrant neck
“Sandalwood,” he’ll whisper
as he fills me with a new
refrain
emphatically taunts
my music
to sing down onto
his tightened fuse,
running rivulets spiraling
along his determined thighs,
crying out into his
listening ear,
a requiem so potent it
drips off the page
and becomes some reality.

car exhaust exhausting me
cannot be healthy for the tree
who offers us a breath of life
sweet oxygen which we breathe in
but she breathes in what we breathe out
so why not from our muffler spout?
and if emissions alter synthesis
then who's to say what we breathe is?

song and *dance,
                             a lovely combination.
whiskey and women,
                                      a deadly intoxication.

put two and two together,
                                                                          elation*.
                                                             higher
                                                       no
                                              ain't

We are like roses that have never bothered to
bloom when we should have bloomed and
it is as if
the sun has become disgusted with
waiting