We are done with what we wanted ( Read more... )

except in poetry, of course,
where we share experiences,
expressing the inexpressible,
filling another blank
in this sprawling, gaping, formless universe of ours
which is our hearts, which is why I write.

His hand on her hip
curled into the alcove of his effervescing,

her sylphlike breath -

Like this they lie, past and future
commensurate, time naked

like a human being,
pregnable at last.

Every poet must write a poem titled Kiss,
or The Kiss, or A Kiss, or Kisses, as it were,
staring in the mind's eye at a lover's eye,
and how he (or she) does so determines
whether his (or her) name appears on Google searches
or canonized on Geocities and MySpace, if he (or she) is so lucky.
I suppose, then, this is my poem
about the kiss.
It better not
( Read more... )

The king’s subjects would suck out his grief, die for him
if he asked. The question,
never articulated, hangs
in the void between dreams
and shakes those who wake with an unspeakable terror,
causing them to live fitfully or fruitfully, whatever difference
tilling fields and copulating behind the haystacks makes, church-
going, swimming through heat, ( Read more... )

is not sexy as we understand it, preferring petite, which is manageable, not rondure, the sight of Gertrude in Alice's arms, but he would

fuck a goat right now if a goat were willing, so the fairy with her large hands molding desire out of skin (and perhaps sinew) and her doughy skin which reminds him of Mother's fouace

which his hungry fingers like ( Read more... )