a tribute

I yield to my temple,
placing mental maps of the places you liked visiting.
From my neck to my abdomen
en route to my tiny earth
a delicate place,
warm enough.

I stretched my legs across like a bridge
accompanying your trek.
A cool November wind rolled
off your back
and my leg hairs,
like grass blades tickled your chin.

Some days you decided to take the high road,
causing a head on collision
with our fumbling tongues
and your hands, aimlessly
riding up my thighs
on the freeway to vastness.

Each night I would lie in wait for a new excursion,
thinking of the next place you would take me next.
the Midwest,
a quaint garden in Perugia,
where an old woman delicately picks strawberries
from a wild bush.
Maybe to Aruba, where I would reach my peak.

With no luggage and no trinkets
from a gift shop of previous places
we’ve experienced,
instead we inherited a summery glow,
as if we spent the week in Kauai,
or a peculiar accent as if our love-making
wasn’t misunderstood enough.

The terrible baggage of reality is
gone with the high noon tide.

We traveled for our salvation.
Here and there,
with our love in mind.

Thirteen Commandments

  1. You can’t set me in a corner
    and summon me when you please
  2. You can’t place our love in a mason jar
    and watch it grow greens and yellow fungi
  3. You can’t force feed me intimacy,
    and leave my feet un-rubbed
  4. You can’t bring me the orange beauty of the sun
    and don’t provide a shade
  5. You can’t leave for long
    and expect me to still be there
  6. You can’t nail me down
    and use what you want
  7. You can’t seek me out,
    and don’t indulge in me only
  8. You can’t send me out into space
    and speak of gravity
  9. You can’t plant petunia seeds in my mind
    and not tend to the flowering buds
  10. You can’t tag my wall with “I was here”,
    and then deny it
  11. You can’t allow your home as my resting place
    and then shoo me away when you want
  12. You can’t call me Baby,
    and forget my name.
  13. You damn sure can’t have any of my wine.

moth to a flame

A luminescent aura pulsates on through the lazy days, and the calling nights
of clashing tongues and mocking vagueness.
The room, an impractical haven with ghost colored walls and buzzing sounds
from the whirling fan are nearly deafening.
This is a special place however. Here is where he explodes me
into glittery matter. Here I lay my existence on the line
for the beard, the hands, the naked chest, and the easy limbs.
I am a moth to his flame.
He flashes, then there’s smoke and then I die.
I’m left there on this bed and in this room with no form,
no structure. Just a pheromone, of stinking woman in love.

summer: an interlude

the iced coffee sitting beside me
sweats in the heat of the sun,
i grab for it
the sharpness of the emerald grass
tickles my backside of my hand,
it sends me back to a faint memoir of
being planted
in your embrace,
back kisses and warm skin,
my libido red hot,
my labia minora, a coveter
for his tongue.
my body goes hot from the thought
or from the mild rays above.
in fact, he reminds me of the sun,
leaving me in infatuation with
unconditional warmth
and a dry wind

he’s like summer


He is my tranquility

He is rash

He is worthier

He is subjective

He is untamed

He is the one

He is

Moments of silence, that are loud in affection

Interaction with one another seem more deja vu than new

and I love every minute of it

I marvel at his existence


Who knew he would be the perfect neophyte

in my Universe





Giving in

The mid-afternoon light peeks through
like peeping toms
Exposing goose bumps on bodies
nude was their comfortable
she spoke words in whispers
just to make them sacred
like a secret
and he accepted the soft spell
wanting to be lost
wanting to be distraught,
be whatever he made her,
a product of him
neverminding the madness
that might come along with it.
Like glowing bugs in a jar,
they face the chance to burn out
but they don’t care