Poem #10/30: Valentine (In Haiku!)



Delta in-between

My thighs are two continents

Grip them and lay claim


While time stops and starts

Bodies entangled and bare 

We are hurricane


Gut me burgundy

Aubergine not rose; bruise, welt

Blood-thick and heavy


Slice down the middle 

I am the most vehement

I am slow velvet


Reach inside the maw 

Feast if you are not afraid

Of the bite back. Feast. 

Poem #7/30: Snuggling is the New Sex

I am tired of the place where soul meets body where my bones mean anything other than my bones. Why not a body, just a body with no consequence? No thoughts to over/under think no mouth to say too much. Why not a body with no want other than to feel the same of another - two fleshy forms coiled for warmth? 

Cats seem to have it figured out. My sense is that they don't even like each other all the time yet are willing to capitalize on a mutual benefit. This is practicality more than feline love or affection. Notice they make no eye contact - back to back, their half lids, gazing elsewhere; merely basking in the comfort of the immediate other. Notice the patch of sun shared readily by two who understand the logical advantage - warm outside / warm inside-out - of sharing bodies, the comfort. 

Listen, we don't have to talk or even look at one another - like the cats, if you want. And no, sex would overheat then cool us to alone again; and who needs that when coiling up with one another is just enough? Why not just body - blood flowing heart machine warmth making whole shebang of body. No question of worth or power or other stupid constructs to complicate (so human). I'm not asking that we make love. I'm not sure I even know how anymore. Love lives in my past tense. I'm not asking for sex at all, not even a quick fuck. I'm asking, possibly, that we link arms and legs and interlock our supine forms as worship and simply bask in that glory - being bodies, using them as they were meant to be: warm, safe, most softly. Isn't this what we're after, anyway? 

Poem #6/30: At Last


I have a proud streak
and a mean one
the latter armors the former
emanates from a broken heart
I tow with pride because who
is going to ask if you kept your heart
in tact at the end of it; when you’ve outlived all your friends and not a single story to prove you were there, in person. 
When it hurts I tell myself: that’s what I’ll have, a worn heart
and all those stories. When it hurts too much, at last - I tell myself thank god for the at least. Thank god.