Down one hundred nameless streets
I walked, past curtains drawn,
facades impassive, dogs at random
intervals barking asynchronously,
one clacking rhythm upon another,
my shadow shorter, longer, shorter,
longer lamp to lamp until I came to you.
I spied your eyes behind your hair
through Venetian blinds
you deflected on my approach.
You were not afraid.
I was drawn to your window
after such a walk on such a night.
You turned and showed me
the curve of your back
and waist and hips — a cello –
and the delicate scrolling of your neck.
I entered your house for the first time
and discovered everything
as it had been dreamed the day before.
I rested my left hand on your bare
shoulder and tipped you back easy
between my legs and played you
with my horsehair bow.
These are my strings you sound,
you whispered, this is the song
of my heart. I know, I replied,
it was written on my skin,
it pulses in my wrists,
it echoes in my hollow chest,
it is the rattling
of my very bones.
Archive for hip tattoo
One Night
Snowflake
Write your poem — she told me –
not about a snow storm
but rather a snow flake.
That is how she came to me,
not with blizz and bluster,
fizz and fluster, but soft
and Seleney, floaty, flirty,
melt on my shirty,
crystallined, one of a kind.
Black Friday
The feast of Thanksgiving —
partaken by the souls who did not starve —
has become a rite of gluttony and football,
prelude to the national day of consumerism.
Black Friday, they call it, a celebration
of corporate profit and home electronics.
They can tell me the greatest freedom
is the freedom from want, but with
such food and comforts and diversions,
I want to be free of the freedom of want —
to be hungry, to face danger, survival
uncertain, to live or die by my wits.
Expiration
Breathe in and you are one with the universe.
Breathe out and you are the wind
that stirs tiny worlds.
Breathe.
