The Only Way to Travel

I gave you distance between
her neck
and her navel
to make you recount
the distance
between stars

the only way to travel
even such unfathomable distances
is to slow down
and savor
the journey

Before the Dawn

You like it best

in the morning

when the world first opens

its sleepy eyes

fumbles its way

out of bed

down the hallway

into the shower

where we christen the new day

half asleep

half awake

yet fully,

Realized.

Canyon

You pressed a groove into my heart
the depth of a canyon

so much so,

every woman’s name

i speak

returns an echo

of you

Haven (re-post)

I do my crackfiend dance

get on my knees and beg

you got the thunder
you got the thunder

my storm within
a storm
my refuge
from the norm
my haven away from everything decent
in this world

you are chaotic
neurotic
and nasty as you wanna be

volatile like
skulls and crossbones
deeper than baritones

your love is like
like riding the rapids
like walking a tightrope with no
safety net
like russian roulette
and yet
submissive like
take me if you dare
if you dare

Haven was previously published in ‘A Goddess Discovered and Other Erotic Tales, and featured at the 2010 Seattle Erotic Art Festival

Explorer

Mornings like this
i dive into you

fingers probing
your ebony hair

pausing along the sexy winding
curves of your ear

winding the sacred trail
down along your shoulder

As you lie sleeping
I am magellan

&
You are new country

Love Letter #9

You said
write me a love letter

I spread you eagle
across my desk

as my tongue became
a pen

 
 

And Then, There Were Two

What other woman would be haunted by

the ‘L’ in Drake’s equation?

How many civilizations

have come and gone

leaving behind nothing more

than cosmic dust & vibrations

to say we were here —

we loved,

we mattered

 

And when my finger slides gently underneath

the silk strap on your shoulder

and you drop your inhibitions to the floor

like the useless things they are

we will turn on the lights this last time

make love like a supernova

 

and every living creature

in the universe

will know my name

 

What I’m Reading-July 24

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I just finished reading Jill Alexander Essbaum’s book of poetry, ‘Harlot‘.  It is full of delicious wicked poems, and If you’ve ever read her poetry, you know just what I mean…this is definitely a book to be savored. She has a way with words–with language that is beautiful, surprising, profane and profound all at the same time.

Here is her poem Whoreheart, reprinted with her kind permission:

——————————————

I am the bridge you dare not cross.
An ice-floe that won’t be defrosted.
A signpost in your dense, damp woods.
The serrated flower of the snakeroot.
A doe amid the beeweed.
And the rocks in the field hurt my feelings.

And I’m the spendthrift wench in debtor’s jail.
The wound that won’t quite heal.
That little Judas sitting on your shoulder.
The irregular bread of a mendicant’s supper.
A disastrous truth told in candor.
I’m the milksap of the oleander.
And mine are the cyanide sockets of almonds.

I’m the kink in the appleworm, the dolmen

that entombs you. I am not safe nor sorry.

Swollen Moses, am I your darling? I shall part

like a red and willing sea. And do I simile?

Take of your metaphor and face me.

And I am the ocean in which you’ll drown.

Abundantly black, I yawn and I drawl.

I’m calm but for aggregate, gathering storms.

And I swarm your bed like a charm

of fiend finches. And last night I rained inches,
and hours. And I am the pitcher

plant’s practical talent. The flytrap, the pie plate,
the oblate, the shrew. The mistake you made
too late to undo. The jackscrew to your threaded rod.
A fraud. I’m the pussycat of need. Your defeat. Your pall.
And I loom for you like a terrible end.
And I am not your friend.

Rebirth

We take this
vile, vulgar
temporal existence
and somehow make it
beautiful

we make
bodily fluids
into summer rain
sloppy wet kisses
into vintage wine
pressure & pain
into screams
of passion

and as time’s illusion
bends and breaks
us all
into a million little pieces

with each stroke
i serenade the universe
in praise
of this gift

Untitled 6-4-13

Everything that ever was,
Is.

So despite the 3am
crying babies

the 5 am train
that rattles the window sill
and shakes our dreams
to dust

Somewhere
in a parallel universe
you are here
and I am there
pulling those sexy pink panties
off
with my teeth.

We are seven-
teen
all over again
with tongues
and libidos
like a thunderstorm

we are time travelers
living
loving
dying

fucking our way
across the universe