Demimonde

Pale skin under the shock

            of silver moonlight

            halts my wandering eye.

In night's day, its breath

            blows chill off the sea

            while other souls sleep.

She smokes by the window,

            moon-gilt. Sable hair

            falls over bare skin—

clouds cast shade on snow white sand.

            I rise, extending arms,

            touch the smoothness there

at her waist, and feel the soft

            panties cling to curves

            like skin. She shivers.

The arch of her back accents

            soft, boyish breasts which

            steadily rise and fall

and catch the ghostly rays

            pouring from heaven

            on her and the town.

Wind on rooftops and treetops

            laughs coyly at our

            tryst and dishabille,

and none hear but us two, wrapped

            in wane wisps from her

            cigarette ember

that glows all red as it fades.

            Then we fall away,

            back through smoke tendrils,

bare, innocent as First man.

            Here, in this half-world,

            I inhale her all.

This is Not a Poem

I had that recurring dream again last night;
the one where I find myself in the dimlit
streets of some seedy, shadowy metropolis,
where unremarkable phantoms float past
on bike, and on foot, looking on in passing
as if they know me, as if I've been there.

Only this time it was different. I knew it.
Never were the streets so dark, shadows
so long that they smothered the city blocks.
Two girls rode past on bike, staring back
momentarily with hollow eyes, faces
expressionless as they drifted onward.

 And this time I felt different. I recalled
the scene to come, as I began walking
down a long, empty avenue. No cars.
No lights. Just alleyways on either side
stretching into infinity. I'd seen it before.

And so I began to run. I felt labored
breaths and the pound of my heart rate.
I could feel the cold night air and smell
the stale city musk surround my body.
And as I knew they would, out came
the muggers who had repeatedly caught
me unaware in my thoughtless reverie.

But I was prepared. The phantoms
chased me down, as they had a hundred
nights before. But my feet ran some
path they already knew and I leapt over
a low wall, escaping my pursuers,
landing on the lawn of a house.
It was Her house. My approach
was measured, slow, hesitant.
But I felt a certain calmness knowing
that She was there, inside, and so I knocked.

J. answered and I stuttered out three words,
then three more, and I cried because the welling
of emotion took over, within and without the dream.
She kissed me. I kissed her back. I felt complete.

And then I woke up into the pressing night,
stared at my cell phone, the time reading 3:14.
Loneliness crept in. The poorly mended heart
ripped jagged, jagged, jagged.

I want to tell Her. I can't. She won't accept it.

Do not dream. 

Big Eyes

Not big alone. Not by a longshot.
Limitless depth that I would stare
down for an epoch, unto infinity.
Wrap me in yeux until there's no me.

You probably thought me crazy
the time I recorded you, silent,
with some haunting, melodic hum
in the the background and blazing
white sunlight pouring from the
cracked drapes behind, limning
an angel apropos. You smirked devilishly.

There won't be words written against
you. I couldn't. I can not.
Requiems and eulogies alone suffice.
But they offer no solace.
I'm bitter, worn, tired.

Eyes in which I might have incubated,
been reborn--eyes big and deep
enough for such things--are not
looking at me with hunger, ready
to swallow my entirety.

I can't even delete phone pics,
toss out clothes you left,
and I stare at the same bloody
wall with discontinuous pain.
What good are substitutes?
How could Her eyes ever deign
to see what your orbs keenly reveal?

This is no pity party before dawn
and after dusk, when I should be
parlaying with the relentless
cousin of Death:

It's a celebration that you even looked.

To Helen Cameron, October 2012

Dancing, vociferating,
demagoguing, boasting,
hosting, toasting,
oscillating wildly,
leading, following,
fighting, showing,
proving, domineering,
warring, quitting,
are not my nature.

Rather...

I've not a stitch to wear
as I stare madly into
irises of palling teal.

Praising what I see,
feeling where others fail,
fantasizing over
us comingling--
a sweaty, passionate,
versicolor coitus;
making that fecund
gaze and those obscene
pink lips more than
passing niceties, instead
reserved for some late,
intense evening when
I recall the things I
actually do so well.

And then, perhaps,
my nature blooms from
latent potential.

Speak Low

We are

two ships

adrift.

I pray

to find

you--there

amidst

the waves

--again.

Dashed

upon

the rocks.

Embrace of the Sea

Relationships change you like a river.
Rivulets, springs, and streams pour into melt
and headwaters rush onward through obstacles.
Things upstream build the meandering course
as it flows through craggy valleys and caverns
where the passing time is lost in darkness.
At times waters still, placid or stagnant,
while just beyond a bend rapids roil reckless,
unchecked, carrying flotsam from the past.
Debris, deadwood, trash, dirt, refuse and tears
are born from glacial headwaters down, down.
But for all the waterfalls and white water
the river knows nothing of its destination.

Only when it reaches the wide embrace
of the salty sea is it complete,
able to disperse into one at last.

Fat Ones, Skinny Ones

I want to
know you intimately
smell your fragrance
strip off your jacket
expose your physique
stroke your spine
lay you down flat
spread you open
finger your insides
contort your body
fray your edges
leave indelible marks
toss you aside
forget you for days
use you at leisure
devour you entirely

and replace you
with another book.