reBound

I do not welcome
your tiptoe into curious territories.

This is about release
and recovery

solely a thing
of reparation;

making amends for giving
up

immunity
from sly and charming impurities,

prerogative
to be preserved and set apart.

                                    12.16.14

Swamp Music

                      for that boy, in that band

There’s a tingling riff
somewhere in that second verse
and suddenly I’m

knock-kneed, in that base
line bumping your thump thumping
here, in the corner at the café

where I do my morning steep,
sweeten and sip oh         so         slow

still, a burn on my
tongue – unsassuageable like
that night in the swamplands…

thirsty whiskey eyes,
your fingertips, the chasm
they just wouldn’t jump

steel-string rugged – graze over
these honey-rubbed, dark-rum thighs

for as long as your
conscience allows you to endulge

you could reach the other side
or drop down deep, far from home

Either way there’s no
chance of you landing up right

you ought to just jump
across fast and with purpose.

                 2013 ("Groupies" revised)

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.