A Dangerous Understanding

We: firestorm, flood, hurricane

We: disruption.

It overwhelms us.

In denial            we need.

                          we cost

Fully informed            we contact

                                    we do it

We must do it.

                                31.12.2015

exposed

laid out. dissected

like scalpels and clanging

trays on countertops.

glistening bits on display

and eyes, peering

all the way over,

charging anxious fingers

to stay in their pockets

where they belong.

        14.12. 15

The Legend of Black Ice

Ice is all there was for miles
In every direction
Far enough, though, through squinted eyes,

one could see a tower there
A small city out that way
tufts of smoke hanging over

Buildings and things

Maybe sending signals
Or just doing what they do

Day by day, unaware of her.

Men would come - on journeys
Unworthy - unknowingly unworthy - stay a day

then go, leaving their heavy behind

with her

Black ice, they began to call her
for the elusiveness

the uncertainty and the way

her eyes could chill,
Evaporate salty sweat beads
And pull a frosty puff of
sour breath from their shivering lips

cut their feet out from beneath them, so quickly

And all they could do to keep

from hitting the ground was reach out eager arms,

sink a cool head into her bosom.

  

                              14 Jan '14

Groupies

I’m knock-kneed, in that baseline bumping
your thump thumping
in a musty corner at the café
where I do my morning purge. Steep, sweeten and sip
slow

cinnamon topped foam, hot.
sweet burn on the tongue
like that time when…

I recall your thirsty whiskey eyes, your
fingertips
and the chasm they peeked their toes
over. steel-string rugged and
graze over my johnson&johnson thighs.

I could reach the other side but
I could drop down deep, too deep and far from home. Either way there’s no
landing
upright.

so
jump across, big boy, jump
fast and with purpose.

Somanona

for Francesca

the click click of your wedge heeled boots

percuss the concrete in a rhythm he can’t

bop his head to. your high bun perches where

his too short arms cannot reach. he hangs

from the silver ring in your flared wide open

nostril swaying in the gentle exhales above

your frosted bumptious lips. to kiss those bumptious

lips again he would call like he promised, dedicate

a remix to you. call it ms. brown skin, my chestnut

queen on patchouli street. sample a south African

drum beat and hope it makes you think of Lagos

long enough to need to be held, cuddled, comforted

but not long enough to put you on a flight back

home. the elongation of your vowels stroke his earlobes,

sends a shiver up to his elbow, a twitch in his flour dusted

trousers. he thinks his goods would be better with a sweetener extracted

from your voice. if only he could tap into you. 

Watch and Explore

Excavate my poetry

Dive into my prose

I want to give you more of me;

introduce our souls.

I'll dance on top of tables

You'll watch me from below

I'll strip down to the barest me

Slow, slow, slow

11.11