Summer’s Salts

There was nothing but summer there,
daydreams and miracles in ragged hills strewn like teddy bears 
with seams ripped open wide, thunderhead cotton exploding out
thistle in the sky, songs in our mouths.
Every inch of river new as I
carving curves in banks like exercise
The sun hid behind the moon
bashful it’s radiance could not compete
with eclipse-red lips, sundresses
breeze brought kisses and big sunglasses…
And hitting high in the afternoon, there
were we, strings, vibrating
and still,
nothing could touch what was
so full; 
humidity so thick
and bosoms
and souls, how we beamed
in the half light of the interrupted sun
we came undone and back again
and saw ellipses in holes by pins
the friends,
they know 
how slow summer feels,
with drips beading and falling from behind knees
and bits of cotton that drifts from tree to tree
and me, I was completely taken, and given back
so I could do it all again with similar results:
riding green sloping hills on river’s edge
and sweating summer’s salts.
Published in: on June 11, 2012 at 1:21 am  Comments (6)  
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I’d swim right down in
to your inky den
and let every writhing tentacle in
nevermind the oxygen
It’s time to get literal
The lighthouse lit the littoral
and aquatic path for clittoral
lapping octet limbs so visceral
Knots I’ve swam for that naughty, nautical nymph
and sank below the dismal depths
He takes me and each lack of breath 
ravages me with enzymes till nothing’s left
It’s getting graphic, oceanographic
preferring the aquatic over plastic
pleasures derived from drastic
measures steeped in superficial tactics
So, I want to squirm with serpentine squid
them putting in and pulling out again
squeezing air, not there, and then
assimilating my flesh until I meet my end.
Published in: on June 11, 2012 at 12:47 am  Comments (3)  
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Lunar Target Practice

Lunar target practice
master the tactics
that gravity won’t defy
Aim high
nail that laughing man
between the eyes
And let the debris
rain meteor showers
on me
Give the oceans
a moment
of stand still silence 
That cold heartless stone,
unthrobbing, distant
and so damned alone,
is fixed
in the scope
of those with nothing to lose 
Scatter craters,
Apollo-getic haters,
I’m shooting the moon.


Published in: on June 10, 2012 at 12:57 am  Comments (1)  
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Purpose wrecks me,

Bends me into a fascist general

Dictating masochistic commands

Disguised as goals

when I would rather be aimless

letting inevitable genius come to me

spontaneous as thought.


A lack of plans,

is freedom.


Fate will come regardless,

even without giving oneself

a chance to fail.


So I drift,

when I am able to just let go

of the rope called purpose

that winds around my neck.


My life needs no reason.

I am.

Anything more

is just too much.

Published in: on June 5, 2012 at 10:49 pm  Comments (1)  
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