Sushi

Fleshy white and pink,
soft but firm, dipped in liquid salt
and perhaps some wasabi
my mouth full of wonder,
I close my eyes to savor,
ummmm, nearly inaudible purr.

Your mouth clean with pickled ginger.
We drank green tea.
Fresh, beguiling.

I thought of you as I took a bite
hardly able to close my lips
on this extravagant burst.
I could not nibble, I take it whole.

Memories of this mingle
with passion's touch,
my skin will not forget.

 

Stream through Time Fleeting

Water flows following the path of hairs
beads on skin, graces fingers
kisses toes, drops on porcelain.

Stand together. The water flows,
greets two bodies, moves on.
Hot pure life essence.

Washing the past away,
water takes the future with it,
gives as it can now. In this moment.

She hardly breathes. Water,
not air, over her nose, wetness
flows over her, courses through her.

She devours him. This she knows.
Skin, water, bodies in motion
stream through time fleeting.

Improvisation

Warm summer night, jazz and here
Al Capone was but is no more.
Rhythmic whir of a southbound train.
Musical drumming on lulling tracks.
Pre-dawn. Improvisation.

The gracelessness of alcohol
Has her weaving and leaning on him.
Goodbye in the darkness, missed with a kiss.
One stop, two stops, three stops, four,
Go back. Not in time now, but space.

There is no turning back this clock.
A single moment begins a different journey.
Impatience and impropriety in the streetlights.
Wet, soft, long, rough, gentle, smooth.
Train. Station. Wall. Anywhere at all.

Finally in a room upstairs, window open east.
Door closed. The past is gone. Outside, not in.
Lost to a new emergence of skin, water, breath.
A liquid merging across oceans and deserts,
This moment extending into the rising sun.

Enough. Not enough. More. Enough. Not enough.
Again. No rush for her but this urgency of now.
There can be no amnesia of this vodka dream.
She could have taken the time. Freckles and hairs,
Eyes and mouth. Deep soul searching contact.

She doesn't know him. She does.
But not this way. Not at this angle
Of light on flesh and whispers. A trace
remains of lips, tongue, hand, and belly.
Do the sheets remember? No. Does he?

She can't know. She can't pass
Into the depths of his consciousness.
It was what it was and can't be enough.
Ever. Time doesn't move around her.
She moves around time. Improvisation.

Single Moment

Your blue eyes linger on me
that beautiful blue, cooler
than the sun warmed sky,
slightly stormy, but
more tranquil that the sea
unrippled.

Your lips part as if to speak
and I long for my whole body
to pass through them, into you
where I could live forever
with your gentle breathing
rhythmic beating.

Z Story -- Episode 1

They met at a café that claimed that the objects on the walls were art. Y worked in an art museum. Z was an artist. Neither Y nor Z thought that this was art. Artifice, perhaps. Y and Z met because X was a friend. Y needed a place, and X was a landlord. Y and Z started talking. Y listened to Z. Y continued to listen to Z. Y still wants to listen to Z, but the café is gone. Now the storefront acts as a political center. Y is not political. Y is not the center. Y listened to Z. The words, butterfly kisses, took flight across the mindways.

Z asked Y over for sherry and art. Y, innocent, accepted.

Y was not innocent. Perversity was not alien to Y, who had been whipped until bruised on the cross at a private club somewhere in Chicago. Signed at the door. Members and their guests only. Y knew the world, knew its secrets and pleasures. But this would prove to be a sophisticated move for Y: to entice Z who was seducing Y already.

Z would not have invited Y without reason. Y, cocky, thought the world more simple than it is. This would be new.

Do not sleep, but listen to the words string together in poetry. Let the chocolates rest on the tongue and the sherry warm the mouth. Feast the eyes on the landscape of a private dwelling. Alone, Z and Y. Alone, Y and Z. Words flowed. Glasses emptied.

Z Story -- Episode 2

Y met Z in a hotel on the fringe of the international airport. Planes flew overhead. Y was naked under the fall clothes with a book in hand and no predictions of the evening or the future at all. Shaking, Y took the elevator to the fourth floor, walked down the corridor, and avoided anyone's eyes. Z waited for Y. They ordered room service. It was delicious. Y did not taste a bite. Y listened to Z. Y opened the book, read to Z. Y and Z folded between white sheets. Black and white hairs on white sheets. It was not enough. They slept. They did not sleep. They slept only a wink. You decide.

Y left in the morning. Y left and drove into the city. Y drove down the wide expanse of gray road with electric colors dancing throughout the skin and belly. Some random hotel room. Never revisited. Y tingled with excitement. 

Letters

The shape of these letters
Should wrap around
To tell of body sensations--
touch, urge, yearning, caress.
Y, like a body open and waiting
E, fingers splayed out, a pinnacle moment
S, a soft winding skin desire.

Belly

Her unscarred hands fade into threads
He weaves into a curl, all child smiles.
Hours elide minutes of breath.
In the red seconds before the day,
His eyes know the movement
Of her belly in rhythms of sleep.

Amnesia

In her amnesia,
she mistook
erections for affections
and promptly swallowed you.

First Glance

At first glance, I only read a few passages:
these hairs, in code, suggest a nibbling purpose,
those crevices imply a delicate foreign tongue,
a curve--articulated frenzied biting.
But between the verse was cold prose:
it can't be touched.
it won't be said.

Palimpsest of Kisses

Lips pressed into skin,
marring its smooth surface,
leaving an evaporating wetness
sweet water of life.
Skin rippling from a tongue disturbance
Shiver, shudder, and delight.
Can I wash away these kisses?
A residue remains—
A memory of touch
Memory in mind.
Memory in flesh.

Impressions

Irregular lines deform the fragile surface
(a strange map by a deranged cartographer)
Sheets embedded in skin.
Impressions ephemeral
Lovers, spent, sleep.
Rapture passes into memory.

Child

Touch, touch, and touch again
Passionate caress
Fleeting orgasms and minutes of strong desire
Explosions all too brief
Till this joy takes hold,
Creates its own permanence.
Dividing, bursting, swelling…
With heaving breath born
One great moment of bliss
now personified.

Grace

Words filled the gaps on her skin
where he hadn't thought to touch her,
but language went wild--
swirling regions of his circling caress,
nails down into breath-sensitive-skin.

She wondered if grace was a woman,
harboring all the delights of past loves
for her to swim through in moonlight.

This she understood--
water made love to her in ways no other had,
touching her all over at once,
submerging her in the liquid of dreams
with the soft pressure of a womb in orgasm--
rhythmic bursting, shifting, turning madness.

Water-words on flesh.
Ecstasy.

Astronomy and the Academic Body

Celestial metaphors transited the thoughts Trouble had of Pewter. The idea of a nebula might have described Trouble's emotions--a creation of elemental force, diaphanous, swirling with indigo and magenta--crimson and cream effervescence. Trouble meditated but could not formulate the phrases to convey the impression. Pewter's body--Apollo recreated; it sounded to trite for Trouble to write. The image persisted. A blueness of the eyes, an indeterminable shade, defying the descriptions using colors, instead they lent themselves to cosmic references--the tone, perhaps of an imagined moon. No, they were more intense--more scorching--a hallucination oasis after a Saturn sand storm. No, Trouble responded to the metaphor; it had gone too far, the wind of words had taken romantic flight. The eyes were merely eyes, not vortexing currents of stellar dust, just a set of eyes like any others. But the hair, Pewter had hair that bent signs into forms of burnished galaxies. But the cosmology was miniaturized--strands no longer than one of Pewter's fingers and thinner than the marks upon the page. The denseness accosted speech and inscribed itself--weaving earth threads upon the forefinger of Trouble's mind.

Even as the letters fell into order, dissatisfaction rose within Trouble--the arc and angle of the alphabet being too crude and familiar in this arrangement. Another language was needed for Trouble, another signifying system--Arabic or Chinese--pictorial slashes of exotic darkness, which was foreign and therefore more beautiful, more capable of bending into the strangeness of Pewter. This disturbs Trouble--the need to articulate in another tongue the flesh of a lover--using references to that place. A space which was not a page but reached from horizon to horizon: a vision which could not be perceived in a single moment, but, instead, it required patience and memory to discern its entirety. Pewter grinned, did not require of Trouble the delimiting of their connection with inadequate symbology; rather, inaudible shared reflections transmogrified Pewter. Besides, analogies of the concrete immediate realm gained reverent positions in Pewter's lexicon, who compared Trouble to tea instead of astronomical movement. Pewter diminished the abstraction of emotion, earthing it in a pragmatic metaphysics. Trouble calculated interplanetary energy to connote signs of Pewter--astrological projections of a personality.

Struggling with the fragmented intention of thought into a meaningful conveyance--language being a disintegrating raft bound by salt crystals of tears and semen. Trouble leapt into the page, screamed at the ink to conform to the lines of the body--to the form of Pewter. Primordial force was not an apt description for the way their flesh met; the birth of a Red Giant might suffice.

The geometry of the face--Pewter's jaw, cheek, brow, and nose formed a mystical formation which Trouble believed had been forgotten, but it must be pivotal to universal mathematics--a Pythagorean solution whose premises were coded and re-coded in the linear relation of chin and forehead, inscribed and then circumscribed in the face of Pewter. This numerical relation restated itself in the geology of peaks and plateaus of Pewter's physique--to be discovered in the muscled edges visible under the vibrant shadowy light of the night--never to be translated into this language.

Lady Godiva

Lady Godiva, I want to delve into you
revel in your sweetness,
cry over your bitterness,
devour you whole.

I am a gentle lover.
I take you in,
one nibble at a time.
Your creamy darkness, divine,
I run my fingers over your surface
lips wet with anticipation.

I take you into me, flesh of flesh,
my tongue out, the blood and the body,
raspberry or strawberry.
you are always a delight, a pleasure.
I entreat you to be mine
again and again.

Dogma-amgoD

I am screwing God
God lies between my strong legs
and my ass is slapping his thighs
his cock is not enough to fill me;
so I take another lover: the word
I am fucking the word God,
straddled on the G, I am not penetrated,
so I slip lower to the d in God
while tonguing the orifice, the o of God,
the wet womanliness of God,
and my face is stuck between the curvature
of the capital G and my own body on the d,
and I fall into the o of God: a little death with God.